Over Seasoned by a telegram.

a seasoned dream salted at a blues fair 

Eyes inside the Holland road house 

the silver that read those tea stained hands 

You can always dust Yourself down 

along the straights as these Visions narrow.

names as faces don’t always fit 

When you can’t speak because 

the language is not your own

the pearls framed as paintings 

became set and bound 

Rowing out to the islands To cut keys 

for daisy knotted window.

We can all find ourselves chained 

by our own mindset and fears

Like a porcelain horse.

And you can dress the situation up 

and undress yourself of the

history Of the past hundred years 

remember those that dreamt of this 

and if you make a wish Maybe it will 

make those shoes fit too.


did you ever really leave those Apple grounds 

As all i can see are the cross stitched fish  

cloth and felt ear that pricked your mind 

at the door Seen From under tulip plough.

Caged and muted whilst I watch 

and learn of a couple sparking at the forge 

Over the ideals of youthful love and whether 

Too return to the past as futures already here.

as we watch the bull ring that lays on floor

outside sleeping twinned oversea towns 

a future that cant be made or fortold

Like a conjuring trick.