Are you my guardian angel,
looking over my shoulder
every now and then,
reading,
watching,
paying close attention,
all in silence?

Are you the wind that blows
round me when I cry,
are those your fingers
rubbing on my skin,
and is that whistling sound
your breathing?

Are you just my frantic mind;
the usual visions
of solitude; ghosts
that come to lie by me
at night, never speaking,
only staring?

Are you reading
as I write?

I am not a poet
just fool around with bits
from my Do-it-Yourself kit
going hammer and tongs
in a fit of fantasy
driving me nuts
till a clap of thunder
bolts through the labyrinths
of grey folds and glitches
screwing up
what I'd thought to be a creation
now clouded in the smoke of absurdity
till I rise from the ashes
like Sphinx
back to my muse
in fool's paradise

Sometimes a dream makes one reflect
the inner conscience one does suspect,
I wonder what dreams want to convey,
we dream in our own way

there is no coherence
nor a foreplay,
dreams only us sway,
if such be the manner of dreams,
why suddenly we awake to scream,

in the darker alleys and crevices of mind
we leave all memories far behind
then as we awake and ponder
what dream was conveying we wonder

That stress felt, as I try to stop,
why is there no end that helps me.
I do not believe in many things,
have I not paid my dues to all?

Does everyone feel this torment,
as they sink into oblivions grip.
I was promised so much by you all
I fear the night of glazed eyes.

You say there is something there,
now you have my attention
Shall I wait until that final gasp,
there in the space after, what if.

Each language comes with set of "sensibilites"foreign to many other cultures,and largely not understood. I wrote the following "poem"in continental Portuguese, the language of the FADO [see below]. I found myself going in a direction I didn't intend.

supine the syrup sizzle
melting sweetly in the pan
la glace

forming rigid trajectories

bore easy you chew gum
i find it everywhere
knowing that you've come
and left a deliverance
like a worn panache

a fan hums
drawing ideas
aloft

we are light years away
yet you never forgive
to place a smooth pale
hand against my chest
and measure the distance
creaturely and careful

tasting concoctions
delightful in forty watt
light bathe

Fascinating is
that momentous turnstile pause
between fore and aft

We hope for the best
Yet must take that extra step
With vigor and zest

Life is a journey
Each day, week, month and year
Milestones to surmount

As part of a whole
Be it a friend or a foe
Trust in tomorrow

May Midnight Angels
Guard everyone from evils
For a welcome dawn

That moment between
The bygone and the new born
Is captivating

There are moments,
when suddenly,
you feel as though
someone in Heaven muted
the roar of the storm,

so all that remains is
a noiseless drama -
the angry sky,
the dancing of the waves;
visions that once made sense.

there's uneasy silence
which doesn't fit the scheme of things,
that makes you wonder
if all those demons were hallucinations
even as you contemplate
the flower blooming
at your feet.

Yesterday lies just beyond my reach,
It may never have been true.

mirror age
awakening
the tap roaring
fan motor purring

drone dreams
capacity rush
wake through layers
the strata flood
emotions feeling
while sunshine
basks beyond
the thick comfort
of sheets tacked
the disarray of sheets
empty and alone

coffee in a dirty cup
and the gathering
of all discarded at
the end day

before

exhaustion drew me
down through its
sharp depths

From space to void
from womb to bed
from thought to soft
mewling cry.

I wait in queues
nuzzling long teats
of soft warm fleshy
motherboard.

site searches
reveal myself to
myself, growing
changing.
Reaching with eyes,
shitting voracious
words into napkin
white pages.

I spoke first words
monosyllables like
Manna and Amma.
Then fell reinvented
cyber-born from the
electronic womb,
cerebral plasticity
remolded.