Butterfly, butterfly

Butterfly, butterfly down on the ground,

Like a flower makes no sound

Butterfly, butterfly up in the air

Butterfly is the flower of the sky

Float away Butterfly

Fly in the breeze

Let the wind carry you over the trees

Or stay down here close to the ground

I’ll keep you with the other flowers I’ve found

Blood of the Land

The greens run out of the fields and

I can’t leave them behind

It is like I have green blood in my body

And it bleeds out in green tears when I cry

Yes, it is in the eye of the beholder

Yes, it is stuck in the throat

Yes, it is one lump of sugar

That you roll in your mouth until it floats

And somewhere between the saccharine spit

And the honey dewed flowers

There is a taste of England’s southern lands

That blooms up in olfactory towers

Is it some manufactured scene?

Some garlanded pound-land?

No, for I have seen it in my dreams

and chased it with the hounds and

Left it there behind the glass

behind the window,

As the train rolls past

It is in these salty tears, these salty dry skies

That never cry

Or look as though they never do

But always change when you don’t want them to

It is in the sound of the voice’s twang

Over the intercom

Onto the land and down the hall

Hearing the dead station’s silent call

From times past

Or perhaps

It is just that I know its history and it is a part of my own

Through osmosis

Adopted, but felt in the body

Like the green blood

Hungarian Woman

Hungarian women with their cigarettes

Leaning out of first story windows, hidden by shutters,

Thinking of their regrets

Hungarian women with their cigarettes

Walking their dogs down the leafy avenue

Spring is lending it a lush green hue

All aboard the yellow white tram,

With the orange seats

The Hungarian woman brings her bull-dog on

With his big white feet

He is like a bull dozer not afraid of anything

Sniffing around like a beagle, standing his ground

Blood hound, blood in his eyes

Hungarian woman cleaning the floor

changing the milk in the coffee machine

Hungarian woman getting up early

Making the sandwiches, chopping tomatoes

Giving us life like Eve with the apple

Giving us something fresh to eat

Then she smokes her cigarette

Hungarian woman with her socks pulled up

In pink

Gawky in the clothes of the charity shop

Walking in the charade

Of the parade

The others wear their Gucci and Armani handbags

And walk on pins down the pavement

I prefer the Hungarian woman

Who smokes her cigarette

To go with the flow

Journey from one place to another
Like a lover of the earth
Journey with the father
With the brother
Go out and see what you're worth
Journey on beyond the climb
Beyond the realms of your known church
To the others - daughters, mothers
Look at life from where they perch
And then see it from the Bird's eye, from the tiger's
From the Rhinoceri of course
Then you'll see its not too much bother
To try and make it worth the flow
To go without force

The Spring time of Mother Earth

All these fugitive pieces, like lists of luck
Fly in the air
The spring is speaking volumes
In her horse's hair
 and her mission brief
Is to cut Dido from her genetic inheritance
The black and white swan of misfortune
Tears at love's corners
robbing sufi, realism in its stride
It curtails anxious apologies for the
weakness inherent like radioactivity after a disaster


Luckless hands, their time is up
Sutured in the robes
In which they're stuck
Felled in the circumstance of the front room back from school
When we watched videos of ghost stories
So we could be cool
And moving soliloquies
Of soothsaying bandits
who hung out in old church pulpits looking
For their congregation of thieves

I needed this message from the stars
After the pool
When she would be there waiting with a towel
When the school bus took off back to school
And we lined up like
Good boys and girls to file out
And Matthew flicking fingers and we all jumped in
And our bodies were new
And not broken or scarred
And nor were our hearts
But that is what life does do to you
If you think you will stay perfect
I've got news for you
You can't

It is like trying to catch a rainbow,
Or to stop the ice from melting in
Your palms
It is a hopeless situation of love and life that is always running out
But for the moments of precious time like
When we are together and we catch the present
Like a sacred fish flashing in a net
Only to put it back again into
The stream of consciousness
We should and must do this always
And without regret

She was there for that
Was how it was meant to be
For a time to know the now
And now to know eternity
In the present moment
When all moments melt into now
Then perhaps she will be at peace

No more indecision, or grasping for what can't be known,
No more fear of the future
Anticipation of catharsis
Like digging up old bones
No more purging of the self through guilty
roleplays
No more negative feed back effects
Just the pure time and self of one
Who is at one with no regrets

I hope for her this beauty,
This peace of mind and body
This oneness and union
With the universe as a whole

Budapest

Thank you for the trains and the planes
And the aches and the pains

Budapest
Thank you for the times and the rhymes
As I walk through your grimes
With your fines for their crimes
When you're near me
And I feel you

In your teeth, in your grip
Underneath, where you rip
Out my heart
But we can't part

For the art, of the part
When you start the apple cart
Down the the hill
But you spill

All the beans, at the seams
And the teams of the queens
When they drag you,
And try to bag you

But don't make out
Like its the end
When you have friends
Who will fend
Off the wolves

Or when you solve
And revolve
All the bowls with their holes
Where the water runs
And I see you when you love
With the kid-glove

Of your youth
But the proof
Of the pudding is in the eating
And no cheating

Roman numerals

For the last time, I stand here
In awe of my exhausted life
Where stolen figures fly like cloud forms
Under the trestles of truth
Where the sea-sick sailors stand
Waving in the ocean of love

Mundane maudeline
Manful manners
Mooring on the moreish dish
Of dishonesty and ruth
Ruddy, runkles, rammifications