Poetry — If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold I’d roll them up into the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes This friendship across species — a Buddhist mantra – Rocks me like my good old boy, befriends me like the wind. Be with me when the gates fly open — love will enter in. Seek out the Majesty, the shaman-spirit that will be: Come with me to the Paiut Wovoka ghost dance Drive away every morsel of this dirty money-grabbing Respectable massacre of everything that be wild, wilful, wondrous. Artfulness creates resistance to the age of the machine To the algorithms that manipulate us behind the scenes in this stinking world of the machine There is no worth in this two-dimensional world Resurrect the unseen perspicacity and prescience that was once the common currency Of the most illiterate, boorish Saxon.

His headstone verses were writ in wine

Wind cuts through this January night Slices like a knife through my meagre clothes. Signs on the road hidden by an iron fog The cry of the wind is all in vain Nothing is the same. I kiss you across this black hole in time. In the old be-jewelled spider-webbed…

Melancholy’s lack of zest written all over his palimpsest: to die at twenty-five to some will hardly seem to have been alive, but for Johnny Keats and the footloose Cavaliers poetry, music, art, tears were eternal. They eschewed self-pity, untold fears. They tried their best to stay alive In a world…

— What should I do? — —

— in Noman Times — —

Poetry —

— swirling skies of fortune — — These fingers point at letters Those letters point at words And then the disturbance - Occurs. My love she was a vixen, She howled in the night, Those feelings they just left me - Despite not being right. This mourning just continues, Throughout decades, in a line, My lover she engages me…

Poetry —