I am ammunition

depleted uranium
manufactured titanium

for the gun

my sweat is yet to be on the
crosshairs in the scope

I am hope without a promise
of being better
of
things to come

I am ammunition
but
It's not me with the gun.

Bang
and we did
but we hid that well.

In the responsibility granted man
as fickle as he is foul
wheeling and dealing with mother earth
he'll take all that he's allowed

****** the land of every grain of sand
and nutrition to serve his purpose
she stands in hope that one day he may know
that none of it was worth it

But when you are the disease
who can you turn to for the cure
remember please wise words such as these
nature never did betray the heart that loved her

So,
so and so was live five minutes ago
but
I find no evidence to support this claim.

Personally I think Facebook's playing a game,  
'Bring out your dead'

I heard no bell nor saw a cart which suggests perversely that there is a heart that beats out there.

It's after six
I wash
the
morning picks a number
but 'tis I who roll the dice.

Sister's fast asleep and my
coffee's on the perc'
just realised it's Sunday and
today there is no work


Back to bed then


Don't believe
the facebook jive,
I was not live
just
pretending.

The Cop stood in the doorway
With his handkerchief held to his nose.
A young white male, the tenant,
had died in this apartment.
This must have happened three days ago at least.
It had taken that long for the smell
To permeate the building;
before someone thought to summon the law.


From the looks of it, another overdose-
Another young victim of a cruel epidemic
That takes the young and leaves the old to grieve.
Those who choose to ride that particular horse
Need rodeo clowns with Nar-Can standing by.


Was it an a accident or a suicide?
Perhaps the M.E. could make the determination;
a fine distinction between blurred lines.
There will be need to notify the next of kin
to claim the corpse and make the final disposition.
Then soon, perhaps next week-

a studio in Williamsburg for rent.

We live
and die
so
others can
do
the same.

(20 minute poetry)

There's a nip in the air
which reminds me of an old pun
however
I'm not in the mood for fun,
too busy trying to keep the heat in.

As cold as brickwork
thin as tin
life only gives what
we put in.

I survey a grey area
a great sea of humanity
trudging endlessly
to who knows where

and I'm at Bethnal Green
between here and like nothing
I've ever seen,

someone has to be.

There's a radio
static, low
don't they know that on
the underground they
impound music
except for songs by
Max Bygraves
which don't count.

I fall oblique
into that which I seek
and miss in the end
the mess of the
West End

no bad thing
but actually I think
Max can sing

Then
the hypodermic needle
of St Paul and his
cathedral
such a busy place.

barring any mishap
or anything like that,
In
nine hours I can repeat
this experience
in reverse.

The rain is of the process…*

Clouds gather in my mind;
rain falls in my brain;
ink flows through veins;
words drip from my fingers
to gather on pages.

What does that make me,
but a puddle of poetry…

I met Lord Byron in the pathless wood
along the lonely shore
pleasure in the rapture
a place I'd never been before
set me free beside the deep blue sea
with music in its roar
holding hands with this gentle man
as nature plays the score
making me love it even more

Let's make a child
From the both of us
One that will exhibit
The very best of our love

One that will grow strong
In the way of right and never wrong
A child that will play out in perfect harmony
The melody to our love song

Let's make a child
That we can call our very own
To always love and cherish
To forever have and to hold

One that will be a blessing
From the folly of youth to the wisdom of old
A child that will stand strong
In the very image of God

Let's make a child
That will fill up our world
A child for all ages
Strong in stature and confidant sure

One that brings out a smile
Be it boy or be it girl
Let's make a child
That will fill up our world

We think we're living game of thrones,
it's
Chinese whispers,
we are fed retirement homes
satisfied with rice and beans,
jelly on a Sunday.

The clock ticks on
and
picks on me,
I should smash its face in

Chinese whispers,
that's a sin
put it in your notebook.

Most will tell you it's a lie
then they try
to disprove the truth

if that is the proof of it
the limit reached
walls breached
then
Citadels fall

believe
nothing at all.