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  1. I followed a feather through a dream across a bridge cloaked in feathers-cascading with false echoes of birdsong, disparate dreams of the population drafted a melody from echoes. The wind shaped wings floating the bridge to correct divisions, returning Hull to it's elusive core. An artist with Alzheimer's, I painted sixty eyes in the sky, the age I was diagnosed. My imagination remains free and memories of the time a wolf running through a forest past trees, passed through sixty eyes to the threshold of vision. I sketch an affectionate stray cat that comes into the garden, he is unconstrained, the claws of time are slowly cutting through my easel. In the night sky, I see sixty eyes closing. I paint myself with the light from stars, two figures facing each other, the first light after leaving the womb and the first exposure to sunlight- both sculpting memories and now the crush of dementia which is like giving a brush to a statue next to children's playground with two ghosts sitting on the see-saw. Hull is a city where the senses will never stagnate, while sailing on its architecture. The incandescence of the light sprayed across Pearson Park is like a candle high above the flames of the four seasons, waxing tears without them falling. Do leaves have ghosts? the ghosts of a tired perception have left Hull as it hosts a new synergy created by the city of culture, The river and sky are like a camera and photographer that will never meet and the waves like words that will never find a page, Hull a clock becoming aware of it's age, I have another dream in which sentences hover close to a blank page without making contact, the page has forgotten which order the words go and the feather returns dipped in ink. Walking through Pearson Park memories of a childhood spent in the park return, ghostly leaves are like tongues echoing children's laughter as winds above blow through empty branches, winds never forget to blow moving freely where they want to. I hold an image in my mind of clutching the moon while sliding down a helter-skelter, just before I go to sleep that night the moon empty's its cache of cascading falling memories. I used to walk my dog through the park, now lost friends are walking my memories through heaven further towards the threshold to a place where my tale will be told and I will be free to move memories through the minds and dreams of friends and relatives. I get deja Vu walking down Hessle Road, I cannot remember the future as tears are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts, time spent here is liberating, like restitching nets to gather visions of the past. Hull is like a needle with two eyes, one of them invisible making visible the allies who have been counter stitching cultivating local culture, the thread has fallen away from the sewers of sorrow. I have been trying to weigh fire before it starts, as Hull's heart becomes aflame with the city of culture art.I use eyes in the sky as stepping stones to bring home the paint brush I have swapped with time, day and night swap tongues, I try and synchronise my strokes with time's brush, I sketch a clock starting with the hands time completes the body cloaked in fire, time holds it's breath and blows on the flames, sixty embers are scattered.
  2. Fishing industry dies, the community mirror went blind, historians tried to pour the Humber into a cup and claimed the winds bled but were unable to find a single drop of blood. My grandfather was a fisherman who claimed his leg was made of wood and told me to wait for the echo from heaven's stair where he is holding the mirror after giving it sight with story's of Hessle road, on a clear a night sight I swear I can see the mirrors many tears.
  3. The cemetery tree overlooking Dominic Kings grave had arms operating on it's heart, on branches hung an angel and King, Caesar Dominic's dog laid across his grave, the dog had been mute since the death of his owner. Street signs beyond the graveyard walked, whispering among themselves, the angel hanging muttered a street name, Dominic was trying to bury the sky. The moon turned into a cat, coughing out moon-balls, placing them in Caesar's eyes, the dog could now see street signs hanging upside down from the sky, his dead master dropped a lead for Caesar, they moved across the sun's mask which had a painting of the earth-a tear and a crimson coloured angel clambering for the tear. The sun was dreaming about it's inevitable collapse, with the king of flames chanting Dominic's name, he and Caesar could could hear the cries of a hungry child left alone for hours. They walked through a meadow to a tree where a young boy with a heart condition was swaying silently, aching for contact, how far had they both travelled?-the dead have no need for mathematics as they pass the ghost of a rose counting it's lost thorns, above it a clock full of cuckoos trying to escape eternal echoes, the cuckoo outside the clock is fixed with Dominic shocked at being unable to reach former selves beckoning him towards paradise. They walk on finding themselves climbing the steps of a lighthouse, reaching the top they see the gigantic figure of Dominic's father painting the glass black, he used to take the light bulb out when Dominic was a child leaving him in the dark. Caesar and Dominic go outside, they see that the father has no eyes, with gravestones instead of nails, Caesars eyes light up the names on the stones.
  4. I was sleeping on a mirror, dreaming about my drowned son when the tide came in carrying me out to sea. Finlay woke me knocking on the glass, was it his reflection or the tattoo of his face on my back that he saw?. Finlay appeared again in the glass at the top the tree he used to climb, he held a mirror with his face turned away in which his reflection was drowning, then the tree became wax but the fruit was real and vice-versa. angels climbed branches of frozen lightning placing synthetic tears on leaves helping me to rehearse this senseless grief, angels left a letterbox without a door and on my son's birthday the after-draft of wings flows lifting the letterbox to reveal Finlay's eyes.
  5. Life below the water is drawn towards the suns reflection refusing to drown, waves are like the disparate pages of the city's history unable to create a seam, winds carry the skeleton of a dream towards a tree that grows eyes instead of leaves inside the mind of Lillian Biloca, enough eyes to see through the holes in the nets of fisherman, gathered to form a singular vision; working class forever drowning, bourgeoisie forever climbing. Lillian can hear the waters in a photograph sing for three sunken trawlers, their voices trapped, she ripped up the paradigm and raised them from the sea bed into a photograph. Lillian sailed with the moon and held it's anchor, the night made her captain, she then sailed the sun through Hessle road taking the residents into history to record the ascent on Parliament.
  6. sisters sang a new womb into existence, midwife moon delivers scientists, artists, soldiers,identity's commute to advance a new sensibility in which the tree is borne out of the fruit, you scorn the misogynists salute. A tattoo of Eve adorns the moon's delicate wrist and for those equipped to see in her eyes there is a dreaming tapestry, an inventory of all my sisters dreams bandaging a bloody wrist with the sounds of war echoing in blood.
  7. Brief winter sun of the flashing king streaking waters that are waiting for wings. Ears are tricked by the wind's onomatopeia, kingfisher's colors are streaked across the moon's shining spear. Snow arrives winter is cutting its hair. I wonder if the stream leaves white footprints after walking in a dream to catch the moons blade wearing a tear. There are blue glints, the kingfisher's courtship, the male grips the gift of a fish to his mate. The intimacy of otters as they stitch sharing the chalk's white thread, the needle's eye widens as days lengthen. Somewhere in chalk, there is a cache of each fish taken and every cloud that passes.The night is arguing with itself, the snap of thunder, bolts of lightning are its tears perhaps. Summer clouds are slippers for angels.
  8. why are poetry forums like this one so quiet?
  9. The moon was buried in an unmarked sky wearing my face, soldiers trained ghosts not to haunt those whose identity's had been displaced. Moving through villages winter seemed to lose its sense of self, tasting the cold it's shaking hands held the dead. As soldiers advanced the night walked backwards with holes in its boots, those children saved parachuted through cavities. The day called for commitment, measurement, for the ascent of ideals; and of transfiguration. I heard hungry trees near the desert talking about becoming ladders to the clouds to taste the rain, the desert spoke of raising insurgent sandmen to ride horses to prise the moon from the teeth of the wolf; two lots of blood, dust and sand, ideologies intermingled strand by strand. I was held by an image of a map of this land in the glass of heavens door falling through space, its trajectory corresponds with ours as we move beyond solace.
  10. My son was born without the power of speech, the secret police beat me while he was still in the womb. Hassan's bellybutton disappeared as he grew older and he painted a cave of winds (a reference to his family I believe) on a butterflys wings, when Hassan slept a flower grew where his bellybutton used to be and the butterfly would rest on the flower as he slept. The photographs taken of the bombed village we left slept then blinked woken by desert storms hammering the shack. I saw a gun balanced on the flower as Hassan slept and it began to talk of a butterfly choking on the vapours of war and surviving. My thoughts became formless like the wind. I wrote our names on two sheets of paper throwing them into the night like two abandoned wings.
  11. The sea's hand has a sixth finger, castle holding promontory, pressing against the wind's mouth. An artists's vague appendage, source of inspiration, his tears are launched like lifeboats to rescue thoughts of Dunnottar castle, bar after bar toll castle stone, tallying with story's borne out of an artist's stiff brush standing in a jar, the strive to be authentic, are the constructions on a promontory counterfeit when measured against those of nature?.
  12. yes well done
  13. Tears are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts of Dunnottar Castle, the sea has many windows it cannot climb through, there are many landscapes I can no longer preview. The strange dream I once had is seeking me-in which I was stranded in an ark on top of a promontory overlooking the castle, with the waters below drained and all that remained those drowned painting the sea as I sketched two promontory's.
  14. Their is a ladder of my shadows reaching the moon as I am laid in earth, they lower his heart placing it in my chest and I am allowed to walk amongst the living whose spirits walk on the moon contained within this heart.
  15. we need more members