Plaça de Catalunya

Nocturnal poetry in Barcelona,

dreaming an impossible

lucidity on stone steps

bathed in the neon Gods and

their phosphorous footsoldiers,

lined up to illuminate the word;

so the word can be heard

Above the gentle hum of

steel steeds and the intermittent

rumble of the winds.

Perspectives are changed as

things are put under new sight,

not too bright but dripping

with insight. A gilded night.

A city eternally bathed in Light.

Bass Masters

"Dude they'd be soooo easy to catch from here!"

Surrounded by life, above

and below - dozens of

fish swim freely in the

pier; here life teems

where in other cities

it flounders. They

swim peacefully

amongst themselves,

and all the American

can think is how easy

it would be to kill them.

La Rambla

La Rambla the jugular,

La Rambla the heart,

La Rambla you breath

and tear me apart;

Then put me together,

you're dumb and you're clever;

You hold sway over everything,

except maybe the weather.

You scream Catalunya,

then sell Madrid caps;

You hold the weight of us all,

under strain of collapse;

La Rambla La Rambla,

whatever you do;

Please keep on holding,

and carry us through.

Three Sunsets

I saw the day's dying moments meander over the land leaving

its last remnants of red, amber and gold to the foliage falling about my feet

--

Behold;

A knife is turned

Inward Glances morph stone to ash,

ash to air, engufled in the warm scent

of hopeful despair. Six steps into the slipstream

standing sedentary, sun fading on the horizon, pleasently

mirroring the rising, rallying, revolution against the dark of night.

A half-turn brings all into view; stunned, speechless, surrounded by Light.

--

Twist in the blood, an angry turn of phrase

brewing for years around feet too busy to notice.

Tramped by the slow-moving search for meaning,

hidden in gutters and on walls of plain colour; plain sight

might have obscured life's veracity, drowned it in light,

but Now the search begins in earnest.

Would that I possessed anger, not be possessed by it.

Choking on bile rising with the forgotten force of

hundreds of years of oppression, repression, possession.

An obsession with a righteous cause, stood Fist Raised in

the death of daylight, a hesitant pause breaks the forgotten

beat of the revolutionary drum.

In the darkness, playing dumb has become chic. Not quite

unique but varied enough to appeal to the Culture Vulture

and all its claws, from the hipster school of haughty haircuts

to the barmy army and back again - the problem keeps coming

back again, and so the wheel of woe will turn unabated, turn

unrestricted, turn everything but a corner.

As summer gets warmer, hearts grow colder. Words of

wisdom will wane while a casual response becomes a

full-blown retort. Kid gloves thrown to the ground in this

ideological throw-down. Victory far from guaranteed but

the battle must go down. Raised Fist turned outwards,

relentless rage unleashed on the doubters. Dystopian

fantasy is now a harsh reality. This is it, now is the

time to speak your mind. Let blood run from broken lips

cracked by the harsh air, let eyes swell from tears cooled

by the night fair;

The Night where it was all said and done

and yet nothing was won.

The Night where the same three words

are repeated over and over.

The Night where anger gave birth to an

Idea with the setting of the sun.

The Night where the Idea died - passing

on softly, leaving no mark, nothing to recover.

Nothing to see.