God is old fashioned.  

Grief is old fashioned.  

The world is old fashioned. 

Cosmic laws, whatever they are, 
don't do whatever they want.

disasters happen.  

What we do here matters somewhere else.

Ezra, Eliza & Euclid

Aubrey moos in blind drunk darkness

in violent perambulations

cobblestone reveries

Missed the daily service

attendance by pretty girls hath fallen

maids supply mouldy button 
sponges and 
hot english dirt water

construction sore tea

Puritan long shadows

windfarm nouvelle clutter,

The land of Jute

Beer, gin hophouse distilleries

Gabled farm yawns

whiskyplate famine harmony

One is sure Wycliff 

wanted to be a viking.

the false resurrection of the flesh

(..an ongoing merry dance...)

First world war was only
symbolic death

merely outward corruption

the carnage on the soul

was later

souls stolen 
from death

between and after 

wars
For if identity is 
an illusion
then death is nothing
to be afraid of.

Margaret Mcmillan

The Solemn Oak
handles with
pistol grips

Theres a dirty garage on the river Severn

very near Worcester

Where he keeps his Swans.

Never enmesh the soul
With material things,

and so too,

never imbue materials

with the seat of a soul.

But I don't want to be immortal-
Not here, anyway.
Would rather be away with the wine
in the cellar.

Meditiations on a burning bush

One feels one has 
less time when old,
that it is quite outrun

Whilst in essence
time is always the same. 
There is only ever thus 
a single time, and it's
the ineffable utters here.

deliquesce

The world spins on ridiculous pivots

mired in a myriad hazards 

like saxophone concertos
at Croydon Minster,

some slouching tonic for the soul.

Surety being,
the supposed applause of molten ancestors 

As I stand disintegrating, the

atoms flowing outward into morass
the great equivocal river

like memories, we replicate and thus, dilapidate

flowing down to a great sea of souls

palliatively soothful for 

what remains
enroute to the plummet-gate,

the coil must be rid of,
it is a brittle skin,
the journey of a skeleton.

Just as the genius has his mulch

the rose her manure

the pearls, 

the diamonds

also have their dross

to define them