love on the 65 When I climbed the top deck, the morning sun-lit you, streaked through dirty windows, and you were unabashed; insanely beautiful...

Ownership You say: "ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn" And you claim these words as your own But I've read well, and I've heard them said A hundred times, maybe less, maybe more If you must write prose and #poems The words you use should be your own Don't plagiarise or take "on loans" There's always someone, somewhere With a big nose, who knows And who trips you up and laughs When you fall Who'll trip you up and laugh When you fall 'Cemetery Gates', The Smiths. Please, people, acknowledge when what you submit isn't your own.

confetti There are trite things, minutiae, the real detritus of #life, that existed, unthinkingly, elemental to a full, sophisticated existence, bought with old money in the world of my parents, things handed to small, ungrasping hands, with bare infant comprehension and virgin wonder, things that seem as real now to my conscious as they did to my fingers all of those years ago, procured for a function and cast away, almost like the casting was the function. Things that, provide me today, with scarce clue as to their source.

mode of nocturnal transportation We're all together and we're all alone on the nightbus.

make, do and mend we are testament to our generation, as we will the sun down, we will down the sun, in this era in flux. we are held to the light, but walk in to shadows; hold shadows and walk like we are light. we won't wait for our time. we, savouring the knells of freedom, revelating in the meadows of sprung fecundity, engineers, architects, we, double-time, doubled-over, effort redoubled, double-down, deep-sea divers, astronauts. if we, restless, float out in to the sea of the night, we sink in to the sky. you could maybe hold my hand... we won't wait for our time, there's no time to wait.