you’re so ****** keen
I’ll do as I’m told
you change what words mean
so scared becomes bold
and movement means still
and captive mean free
and things like free will
what you want them to be
your line stays upheld
by total compliance
and if I rebelled
to Hell for defiance
it is not allowed
to cast any doubt
your voice is so loud
you cancel me out
so I will not say
‘on the other hand’
a different way
you’d not understand
you’re too blind to see
the main cause of stress
adrift in a sea
of self-righteousness
but sleep well tonight
of worry, bereft
since you are so right
you’ve got nothing left.

with a drink in my hand
where the ***** clicked and rolled
from the stool that I manned
I looked out at the cold
to a place on the street
from the warmth of the bar
where the homeless compete
for a jaw at the jar
and their eyes seemed to say
as they stared me right back
it is not a long way
to our side of the track
that it takes very little
to fall on your ***
because people are brittle
and shatter like glass
like the windows at home
or the face of a watch
the screen on a phone
or this tumbler of scotch
from the tiniest chip
and the lightest of scratch
anybody can slip
when there’s no one to catch
I was left in no doubt
that the membrane was thin
between those who were out
and the ones who were in
so said ‘thanks for the tip
but for God could be I’
raised the glass to my lips
and averted my eye.

the *** that was white
is now mostly rust
the lid had stuck tight
the handle is bust
and like something ballistic
had ruptured the tin
all the once optimistic
bright colour within
has bled down the side
and pooled at the base
faded and dried
and stuck it in place
so it’s left on the rack
where the damp and the cold
for a use leaves a lack
and it just gets more old
but not all went to waste
it was once on the wall
although paper and paste
long since covered it all
it’s the wrong side of thin
not much more than stains
but beneath that thick skin
surely some gloss remains?

in a shirt from Call of Duty
that could clothe four average men
in the aisle for hair and beauty
he was shoplifting again

so under shirt the contraband
goes soap and gel and wax
by not exactly sleight of hand
but still he clears the racks

to keep the house in big name brands
of shampoo and hairspray
the store detectives understand
and look the other way

since he's no criminal mastermind
public enemy number one
not the tooled-up, violent kind
not Godfather or Don

and not a man born to be bad
or ****** on the skids
he's just an ordinary dad
placating teenage kids

so dressed in clothes from car boot stalls
and charity shop spoils
he's robbing Peter to pay Paul
so they can live like royals

ignoring all the cheaper types
his kids won’t tolerate
stolen goods in one deft swipe
things just evaporate

and there to make his escape good
his wife is parked outside
engine running under hood
the Bonnie to his Clyde

for three more weeks 'til they get
paid
they’ll live under this gun
victims of the daily raid
on bank of dad and mum.

look at him stand, like he’s in charge
shirt of a band, size extra-large
close to the bar, far from the floor
came in his car, came here to score

used to be trim, doesn’t know that
**** being him, **** being fat

scratching his chin, ******* in gut
tried to blend in, anything but
something to prove, probably won’t
making a move, no one says don’t

out on a limb, one he’ll allow
**** being him, up until now

“fancy a dance? don’t tell the wife”
“*******, fat chance - go get a life!”
back to the bar, put out, put down
permanent scar, permanent frown

sometimes a whim favours the bold
**** being him, out in the cold
back to the bin, thoroughly told
**** being him, **** being old.

this dark night's slight moon
casting empty dead shadows
even wolves go hide