You're free don't you know?
free to go free to stay, say, pray be happy and gay.

You'r free to be hungry, free to get the bus to your job and free to spend that money on sustenance.  

Your free. Free to be thrown, owned and have your life postponed.

You're free to sing the songs on the sheet.
You're free to smoke that cig-regret.
You're free to smoke another. Another.

You're free to wear a jacket when its cold.
You're free to go old and act young.

Don't you know?
Your sentence is 80 years of simple repetitions.
Your crime was breathing without asking too.

You can make your choices but you can't choose them.
You can look up down left or right. But for gods sake don't look in.
You might never get out.

You're free. But you don't know. Just another episode on another show. The script was written yesterday, and we watch it with our watch, the seconds go on.

You are free to exist and free to die.

The time in the middle is stuck with you.

If you can't be honest about your flaws I think I can point one out for you.

Brittle blisters plucked his skin, tapped and stubbed, like spent cigarettes,
His fingers setting the typewriter alight. The ink slapped onto the paper by the fragile arms of the machine. L..AM…HERE.

Crunching the three words over and over, poised into this spectacle.

I AM HERE. I AM HERE?
HERE I AM.. AM I HERE?

Until just now these words had not been there and then, punched into existence , pinched from the air in his skull.

From any therapeutic standpoint, he wasn’t quite all there. Nonetheless he wasn’t insane, because he knew he was mad.

I cried for a light, but fell through the floor.
There is no apt description for what I saw.

I had hoped to see the world bend and wilt like dried leaves curling in a brawl with flames.
The green invaded with ash which would take off into the sky.

But I didn’t.

I saw nothing.


Most of the world is empty, and yet we keep ******* it drier.

More food and mass for the black hole which will swallow us whole.

But before all that let me pick up this axe and drain the ****** amber sap,
Let me boil this ancient ones remains so that my tire may roll and my child can have a more sleek-looking doll.

My boots crunch on a shell, the earth is hollowed of life and paved, locked away in a scaly grey crust, tar. Staling the air, cloths and nails too, the air is stuffed with the stuff.


The man locked in the box without any lights knew that there were four walls, a ceiling and a floor.

He knew each step, each corner and crack, but could not say what was written outside, nor how tall or large it truly was. He could not stick his hands in to measure the width of the walls.

He could not see to find the door.


But in the pit the crowd went wild, a fit, ham ****** fight, bodies breathing sparks and singers speaking revolutions into royalties.

Our minds are empty, our fibres are flailing, they’re in the pocket whilst lining them too!

I saw no room for the bribery of interest and the interests of art to cohabitate this mental space.

The music spat out of the drums, and slid off the strings,
The bass drum and high-hat gasping, boom, tick, boom tick.
In-between the breaths, the guitar hovered over the top, whipping the crowd and the bass,
Shaking the earth, already buzzing from the stomps mashing down the dirt.  

I saw no room for silence when the sounds made shapes, and no room for sounds, when silence stole the stage.  

‘We want you’
Cries the buttoned up leatherneck, the premonition of he.
‘There’s room for you still, the war eats boys and ***** out men’
Thats how the get them in.
The next day he called ‘bye ***, ima go fly my flag and wave a gun’. She called ‘Have fun’.
Within three weeks of mud and rot, the boy got shot, face full to flat, wearing a green coat then black. Now there’s an empty place-mat. Just a conversation piece. The sad reminder of an empty chair.


I cried for a light, but fell through the floor
There’s just no justifying what I saw.

‘Don’t let them in, they’re vermin, they sin’
And if you ask what’s the difference between me and him, if you ask why the wall, why the dogs, Why we don’t take steps to emancipate, why anticipate hate when the power of love can overcome the love of power, that is when we reach our golden hour.

Today, I can’t imagine winning tasting so sour.
But I bite the prize and spit it out.

What the hell is everyone really arguing about?

So when they lower their bodies down, saying that we're dying proud, don’t sing our anthem too loud, keep the rhythm but listen, between the drum rolls and bullet snares, you’ll hear the cries of people outside the box. Perhaps if listened to they'll find a door, and shine a light. Maybe we don't all need to fight.

I didn’t wake up this morning
I didn't die but I don't feel around


Same clothes on my back as that handsome ******* on that digital plaque.

Original thought is for someone else, so let me get it straight instead of beside myself.

Ignorance is only bliss if it’s not *******.

And

Down by the river, he wakes before the flies.

And he’s thinking about oh all those lies,
Brought up by burning bridges, and he thinks about the message, and always about demise.

To surmise would surprise, as ego tends to flow.
But won’t you know, the **** has to go, so please be so bold as to let them out of their choke hold.

To face the fear of being sincere
To recognise it is you who’s wrong, of what’s been said and what's been done the weight it weighs a tonne.

Toxic white teeth and corrosive white rage have caused the uproar spilled on this page.

Down by the river, the bodies float and soon we cannot breathe, for the flies have arrived, the air is thick, and nobody is able to act quick. Despite sharp wit and an inability to quit, we cannot see through this fog or pass through this bog.
There is a blockage, and it is not age, but denial of its mind from its heart.
Down by the river there is no stream.

Only steam and sludge, a stain and pain, that i fear shall remain.

To cover up a genocide, make it murders.

To cover up murders, make them murderers.

Murmur their names, slander their siblings, that is where you have won.

But someday soon,
Perhaps this one
I will be happily proven wrong.
And when I am, I a man, will admit so, and relief of peace must surely ease the troubled minds of this one mind world.

****** bricks leave a stain that
A name does not face.

At the ledge
Standing on the edge
To where he will slip.
A sand stone iceberg, admittedly superb, leans, gawks and disturbs.

It is absurd,
To preserve,
----------------
Imperial fever.

It only leaves us weaker
In a time growing bleaker
We are our own Grim Reaper;

Oil black cloak woven in smoke, tokes on poison and the fickle scythe sharpened with spite and the alt right. Choking out the light.

With each stroke.
But shoulder to shoulder, folk to folk, we are also our chance
at defiance.

A wedge of skin and paper prys open the street.

Drips have become puddles, puddles streams, all feeding the glacier of bodies, humble in size but not in spirit, tight ****** at the pulpit, of such an obnoxious ***.

It is Czar, Tsar, Sir, Emperor

It is them, in the stony carcass, concrete bones.
The attitude, the glare. Somehow warmer in rock than in person.

To humanise beasts is to victimise.
To sympathise with monsters is to despise their targets.
He, it, that, is enemy.
But it is not seen. Though day by day and night by night, it was my plight to stroll on by, not keeping an eye on that man half in the sky, not spitting at his step or flicking a cigarette, at where his legacy does rest.

All Rhodes lead to Rome.
All roads fall when the empire is lost, for they go nowhere.  

What is beneath will be aloft
And what is on top, will be brought down to sleep, for no we are not sheep.

Our pack is strong now and angry.

Though cardboard toothed and picket armed we wolves will shout and tear your name down.
If only you could jump, if only you slip now.

You could have made a very happy crowd.

**** Four a day and they're not on the hit list

They say with open arms but closed palms
Maybe a donation, but with ----------------------------------------------------------
We don't talk about the hate anymore
It doesn’t impress the press.


‘’We are on your side with the wealth of a nation…''

Disappointment is just that  



Vacuous.

Like enemy soldiers wearing your uniform,
Offering to load your rifle.

Profiteer pioneers,
Our Pilate and punishers.
Convenience buys our lenience.
But the paints run thin
rusted , chipped off.
We see you sweating and steaming.

Be or don’t, but the fog must go, it’s down our throats

In our face

Around our eyes.

It makes all the young cry so why?


Democracy is made a mockery when honesty is hollow as is the sorrow.

Do not follow leaders who pull you by the lead.