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Like Clouds

The sound of eternity
Your breath
Your heart
The air
My eyes touch
The dust of those fields
Like clouds
A wave
A kiss
And so
It has begun…

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some of my latest paintwork.

two abstract acrylic on canvas and one portrait of my girlfriend, watercolour…

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the window was a constant reminder of another, more relaxed, time
we searched the pockets of evermore and sighing was our way of reciting ancient Indian rhymes I suppose
we saw a boat setting sail heading for the horizon
‘I would go, if only I could’
her eyes were so beautiful a piece of the space/time continuum was torn apart and categorized as ‘otherness’
we kissed and agreed to beat destiny and run astray…
there were also a seagull and a distant memory passing by

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singing was a way of discussing
I suppose
the cormoran swept by
Maria had a way of looking at things
that made everything beautiful
the waves whispered ceaselessly…

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you are my red and my blue
my yellow and also my green
-my palette without you
would be nothing at all
you are my day and my
my reason to smile and my
you are the magic without which
all things would be pointless and
I thank you for being you to me - and
for allowing me to be me to you

Filed under Love peace light poetry red blue yellow green portrait

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The death of a salesman

Elroy Huntpfeffer, traveling salesman specialising in aluminum garage doors of the brand ‘Tech-O-Matic De Luxe’, a product which, in the words of the company’s A.D Lloyd Grant Ffinkelbanden- a distant relative to the Boston Ffinkelbandens, was ‘designed by the brightest minds in the Garage Door business and produced to make life easier for hard working garage owners across the nation’ wanted a cup of coffee.

Elroy Huntpfeffer smiled the first time he heard the voice of Rod Jenks proclaim those words. Rod Jenks was a person with no education, a heavy smoker of Unicorn Brand cigarettes without filters, a product he also endorsed. some believed it was the smoke from those glowing paper tubes filled with tobacco which Rod Jenks and millions of other ignorant consumers in the world inhaled that gave him that dark, trustworthy voice. It didn’t. The only thing it gave Rod Jenks and millions of others was emphysema and lung cancer. By the time Rod Jenks lent his voice to a campaign for ‘Tech-O-Matic De Luxe’ garage doors, however, his voice was still as dark and trustworthy as ever. Most people who heard his voice in PR connections would not recognise Rod if they met him on the street. Most people would probably expect a nice looking, well fit, man in his mid thirties. The relatively ugly little man with grey hair, a belly as big as a smaller asteroid, and yellow teeth accompanied by a breath making horse flies turn away was a well kept secret at the ‘Filing Cabinet’, the ad bureau on 42nd street where Rod did his voiceovers for anything from low fat milk to instant coffee.

Elroy Huntpfeffer enjoyed his 7th cup of coffee that particular day. His ulcer groaned and complained loudly of the treatment. The pills he took to put all things in order did their job. In fact, whatever pain or ailment people suffered, there was a pill promising to fix it available. Elroy smiled. ‘I’m on the job’ he thought to himself. ‘Aluminum garage doors’ he whispered ‘I know the business. Trust Elroy.’

At the same time, in a doctor’s office two blocks away from work on 42nd street, a hungarian doctor named Szlad Blevko gave Rod Jenks two months to live, at the best. ‘It’s the smoke, you know…’ Szlad didn’t smoke. He had read in books that it was lethal and decided he would not do it. Szlad had lots of education.

Rod’s brain started producing hormones aimed at keeping him alive. Those hormones were remains from the time Homo Sapiens Sapiens was a little hairy and mostly ape-like mammal which had to run from hungry bears and such. Rod didn’t have to run from hungry bears, so his mind (poisoned by a lifetime of consuming dangerous chemicals and coffee) told him he should take his loaded handgun, a machine produced for ending lives, and go to the subway and kill as many persons as possible and then himself. Rod Jenks was a product of his life.

Elroy Huntpfeffer, being a product of quite another life, happened to arrive at the subway station on 42nd street that Rod Jenks walked in to, at 11.45 local time. Szlad Blevko, the hungarian MD who delivered the death sentence to Rod Jenks, sat in his office in his italian leather swivel recliner. He looked almost serene, filled with some sort of inner peace. The only thing contradicting the calmness of the scene was the red pool of blood spreading on his white MD robe. A result of a tiny projectile made from lead having entered his system at very high speed. Rod Jenks was warming up. The poison in his brain told him to empty his gun at a group of people standing at a sign saying ‘Life Shines’ in huge, friendly letters. Rod noticed a man wearing a brown suit, trying to get away from the chaos. It was Elroy. He held on to his briefcase filled with pieces of aluminum. samples to show customers who needed to touch things before buying.Rod shouted at Elroy ‘Hey, you there, stop’. His chemicals were having a party in his brain. he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. A projectile flew through the destiny laden air of a subway station on 42nd street. Elroy’s last action before the projectile abruptly ended his life by exploding in the middle of his neck and cutting off the supply of blood and oxygen to his brain, was throwing the briefcase at Rod Jenks. It didn’t get all the way, though. A middle aged teacher of social science at the Huddington Junior High in Baltimore was hit by the heavy briefcase, and stumbled drowsily onto the tracks as the 11.53 for Brooklyn South entered the platform.People started shouting as the teacher ended his days decorating the front of a Subway train headed for Brooklyn. Rod jenks had wasted all his bullets. He now sat on the platform crying like a child. When the police approached and told him to surrender he stood up waving his empty gun at them shouting ‘yes, yes’. The police took this the wrong way, and Rod Jenks’ life left him through 47 9 mm holes through his body. 

The moral of this little story might be that aluminum garage doors can in fact be lethal. Somehow…

Filed under Short story humour death aluminum garage door subway Brooklyn 42nd street

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The wait to get onto the main road

That left turn…you hate it…

I love your way of shifting gears

Of handling the blinker

The road just disappears behind us

Never look back

Behind doesn’t exist

The red light

The last one before

The office

Oh god

To find a parking space

Near the entrance

There’s one





Filed under poetry free verse love