They cry for Nationalism
and they seek purity
but all they will find
is ****** and pride

We all want our
individuality

We all want our
sense of being

However,
these fanatic imbeciles
do not realise
that in order to achieve
individuality
we need to achieve
understanding
in being
an individual.

Le Tour De France is playing
and this couch has never felt better
I embrace the pillow
much like my brother
he hits up a joint
and I stick with beer
our eyes are sullen
and we are silent
puff puff, drink drink

Like starving locusts
they swarm the streets
looking for instant gratification
they'll never afford

Bodies akimbo
****** shaking from AIDS
old men withered and plain
children starved and bemused
all with their palms out
hoping to catch
a little glimpse
of hope

they are the most beautiful people
on Earth.

A heavy mist
chokes the hills
rolls and unfurls
down to an unsuspecting
tired little town

The beacon that shines
fails to penetrate
through the threatening folds
of the mist that strangles
the solemn chapel

A family sees the peril
and cowers in their home
fearful of this mysterious entity
as it climbs down
their chimney

The fathers seething cries
do nothing to dispel the spirit
for the mist holds no mercy
no prejudice
no opinion
no conviction

The mist
just consumes
in it's hazy
laisex fais way

......

By morning the mist has sunk
into the sewers
the graves
the very soul of the town itself

But it still lives
it's pulse felt
in every petrified heartbeat

The mist can still be seen
through the still eyes
of the villagers

Each tear shed
is symbolic
to emotion dead

And their eyes

Oh! Their sullen eyes

Have become dry.

I'm in Pinte
and I am surrounded
by **** suckers  

I don't think they have
even begun to grasp
the meaning of dignity

I'm sure they walked here
down a road of derision
and cried a little inside

But in an air of comfort
they become arrogant
their flamboyance disdainful

But I suppose that this means
they are still human,
all too human.

Tracksuits and Nike
a pub filled with the lost
**** wet skies
and punctual misery
fill every seat
of the bus that was late.

Cigarette butts
and blood stains
line the outskirts
of every sordid town
hidden in plain sight
of feigned ignorance.

The old are begotten
with fears of their death
and how they took part
in preserving a culture
of barbaric vices and pleasures.

Ambition shot down
and petty dreams
spat on
by Oxford and Cambridge
who wallow in their pride
of a reputation held
in the 1800's
and duly lost
in the face of the East.

I remember the day
when we went out
for a drink

or two

I remember it so vividly
in this old box of mine
that rests wearily
upon my shoulders

I recall taking you back to work
                
                                   "I'll pick you up at eight"
                                                                I said to you

I did

Then of course
we called up the old gang
you and I
and went in search
of mayhem
loose women
and looser talk

Not much on the former, eh, o' buddy o' mine

Oh no, but plenty of the latter
which is usually
the case

You had just been introduced
to a **** cider
that you gulped like a drowning musk rat
then you were sick
and we called out
the
staff
                                    who hurried and hustled
                                    with a bucket of their finest
                                                                          tap water

I watched in hysterics
as I patted your back
and watched the street lights
as they made your innards glisten

                                                     AND THE SHINE!

Oh, that perfect
shine
as the water washed away your remains

Poetic foreshadowing I am afraid, mate
as a bucket called Cadillac
washed up your remains
many years later
over the asphalt

                                                 AND THE SHINE!

Oh, that perfect shine
that a once pure immaculate light that was your enduring spirit
had waned
long before the wax melted.

Not a moment sleeps
when our motion wakes
and perpetuates a new arising

The greatest races ever run
are those without a finish
and the hares become confused
to which it becomes obvious
of why the hero was the tortoise

An anti-hero now
when a Casio watch
measures nano-seconds

The western world is exhausted
and the road stretches
past the horizon
and the East have been running long
for over 4,000 years
and they don't even need an inhaler.

So who is laughing now?
Well the answer is quite clear;
whoever found it funny.

She's the kind of girl
that craves cylindrical pleasure,
a personality void
of intellectual construction

With a wave that is composed
of a wiggle of her fingers
and a smile,
like a putrid smell,
it lingers

Her words are spoken softly
and their meaning is softer,
the intent is plain to see
that she is as lyrical
as the poorly written poem

She is
the product
of poorly written poems

Thank you Shakespeare,
kudos Kleats
you have all created
the foundation
of 21st century women.

The glistening angels
that serve no purpose
other to drain you
physically and mentally

The betrothed
and the smitten
write their horrid songs
about the angels
(They're called hoes now, Bill)

I for one
will stand my ground
against the leeches

But too bad the ground
is made of wet sand.

They all build up
like a slow
rising
flood
infiltrating your
comfort
and replacing air
with water
until
even all the spluttering
all the struggle left in you
is not enough.

He walks around
his mind
a hamster wheel
turning on the same
pivot of thought

His life is monotonous
and it grieves
him deeply

So he talks
and spouts
the same tired verses
and tries to
make amends of his
terrible life
by means of
dealing derision

But try as he may
his words will always
be as sharp
as a month old
regularly used
razor blade.

Much to his
disappointment
he must make recourse
to the natural law

Not that he is
a man of valour
but on the contrary

He is just the lion
Seeking a loose
sense of courage.

Coca cola heart attack
and whiskey blues
beer lines my throat
and I smoke in the dark
with nothing but the light
slowly stroking my face
a soft orange haze
filtered by the heavy smog
which dances around my eyes.

Why do we dream
little yellow bird
of captivating the winsome
just to witness
their slow, rotting demise

Why do we dream
little yellow bird
of sharing our sorrows
our contagious illness
with the well and healthy

It makes our insides
toss and churn
to see pleasure and pride
in the charismatic rover
as they pass and sing

Why do I dream
little yellow bird
of the day you cease
to give me a tune
to allow my axe to rest.

Lost myself again
in this trivial world
of plain facts and knowledge

Bored of my prospects
aspirations and dreams

"You have potential!"
Yeah, and so did Helen Keller
but I bet she was happier
knowing her limitations

The lost conquest
of the inner self
plagues my mind
making ruins
of my achievements

If you truly are
what you have done
then in truth
you will always be
a shadow of your deeds

I am a man
of what I could of done
a procrastinator
with low self esteem

So walk on,
Men of virtue
walk on,
Men of grace
I grow tired
of your idols
I grow tired
of your ideals.

The soup bowl
sits on the table
under a soft glare
of light

It sits there
on the table
unthinking
unloving
unloved

Look, said I to the soup
I understand

And I did
understand
more than that soup bowl will ever know.

And it clicks
much like a phantom
and sizzles through
as it fills the air
with a warm grace
smothering life

They skate
through the streets
in the midst
of dawn
caring for no-one
but each other
and their
forbidden love

One a refugee
the other
a used up tyre

What they have
in common
is their
delinquency

The wheels tear
and shred
the pavement
marking their time
and their place
where all others
had failed
to even recognise
or for that matter
acknowledge

And they wheel off
and the sun rises
and nobody knew
that they were even
there.

Where are you now?
Cairo?
Detroit?
Grimsby or Paris?

What are you thinking?
Finances?
***?
Luxuries?
Nothing?

Like a twig
shaking in the cold
winter wind

Like everyone
that ever lived
you haven't.

In no way
will I move
just to make
my ends meet

One thousand
of my finest
have flittered
to those with
the filthy gift
of serendipity

Perhaps I should
give it all up
my happiness
and well-being
to be replaced
by hard graft.

So you did the ***** tonk
and I did the shoulder shuffle
driving down boulevards
laughing and singing
and trying to find our place
in each others heads

Little did we know
that our words would slice
your face always susceptible
to the tone of my voice

storming out of restaurants
and smashing paintings
of your lovers who were charming

your clothes on the floor
my boxers round your waist
we'd find a common ground
in our anger at the world
and of each other

It was and is
a despicable love
and I wouldn't trade it
for the insincerity of comfort
that so many others have

We shall watch them all rot
at their very cores
passions drilled out of them
as they seep into their settees
while we wear rotten skin
and shine from the core.

That is the equity of love.
and I will adore you
for a very long time
or until my mind dilapidates.

The rocks are whispering to you
with a rough truth
that only the cliffs can teach

Close your eyes and listen,
the wind is carrying the sentence
and the trees sway agreeably

It is the sober sound of mans silence
that soothes your worries today
as the hawk cries above your head

Benevolence has no place here
it has been slain to non-existence
along with his brother, malice

Morality never grew here at all
it has no place here with you
the wilderness surpasses such naivety

Within seconds the social venom
will drain from your heart
and you will know what it is
to be free
truly
free.

A distilled vision
gliding through
the neo-cortex
loosely gripping
the pineal gland

Glazed eyes
a heavy lung
the resounding cough
echoes off the
filthy brick wall.

When faced with reality
or when curiosity stares
no one can ever say
dare they fall down
ever more into nonsense
riled in your own disbelief

Corrosive thoughts
expel my intent
like a worn string
on a violin.

Wasted days
accumulate

An increment
to useless years.

Empty bottles
a sodden reminder
of how my thoughts
drain as quickly
as these ten beers

Smoke lines the wall
like preying snakes
and the pungency
attacks the nose
and every intake
laden my lungs

The ashtray fills
the packet lightens
coke stains the glass
with residues of ***
and my digestive track
looks much the same.

No
I do not see
how he
conveyed
nobility

How is it noble
to do a thing
when it is
expectant
on your mind

To receive praise
assertion
a favour in return

I guess
it is good
to give
when there's
a higher pay out
to receive.

A solitary light sparks
and it begins to consume
until it thins out
becoming a blur

Squeezing tentatively
at the sides
the shackles begin their work
to mould and straighten

The urge to break free
infests consciousness
and is equalled with the fear
of drowning in liberty

The time constrains
and the shackles become heavy
until the light lessens
into the comfort of darkness.

Try to take
a picture
of dust floating
in the bare naked
stream of light
that dances through
the blinds

Try to take the elation
and despair
and all the auras of
thought
from the innards
of your mind
and graciously
ever so graciously
try to put them
on paper

I bet you can't

I bet no one can

Not with the same
life
and flow
that the natural world
and your busy mind
can do
within seconds
moments
glimpses
and fleeting chances

No snare trap can capture pure beauty
and I will never try
well
not honestly anyway.

The glass grates
against my teeth

The beer flows
nicely on down

The rhythm
with time
and metre
goes
against
the flow

but

With a lack
of care or concern
I can break
these *****
little
habits
in order
for me to experience
a sense
of
literary
freedom

Even if
it does
scratch the eyes
and burn the ears

Even if
it never pays
for a mortgage
or
a new car

At least

At the very least

It will distract me
from the torments
of regime
routine
and God awful
reality

Writing really was
the first
and last
noble human invention.

Suddenly
a wave of responsibility
has come crashing
to my feet

The slow throbbing
of the ebbing task
irritates my toes

As I attempt
to shirk it off
this incessant ebb
always following
making it difficult
to walk

There's nothing worse
than a clammy sole.

I smoke this cigarette
in hopes of a ruined lung

I drink this beer
for the prize of bad liver

I think these thoughts
for justification of my actions.

I dreamt
I was beside
you

We were
on the coast
of Lantana

You got up
dressed
and looked

The ocean
was grey
and calm

The waves
ebbing
slowly

Your stomach
was flat
and shimmered

then
you walked
away

I sat
motionless
and gazed

Visions assault
but my eyelids
were closed

A boat
on the
horizon

A wall
being built
behind me

An old lover
stared at me
from the stars

An impassable
cloud lingered
in my head



Clarity
shone through
the rain

I got up
turned
shocked




The wall
was higher
than me

You were
gone, but
I hear you

I walked
into the sea
arms crossed

A cool breeze
struck me
on the face

My feet hit
the ocean
and curled

It was warm
and turned
into blue

I continued
until I
was submerged

That's something
Bukowski
would write

They say

I see you are
a London fan
by looking at this

They remark

I guess the fountain
of the creative mind
has dehydrated

I think.

There is a lack of an artist
in our world,
our society,
today.

Civilisation ceases to be just that
without the genius brush on the easel
or the charismatic words on a page
or even without the sound of music

In arts place, we have sickness

Sickness in the embodiment of
a piece of paper with a numeric

Sickness in the hearts of men
who care nothing more than to get a coffee
and to beat the red light

Learn to love the red light, my friend

Learn to love the wait
for it will lessen the strain
that unnecessary strain
of commitments in half beliefs

You must embrace
the simplicity of every heartbeat
the simplicity of every sunset
on every dormant Sunday

It is within the calm rustle
of the leaves of the trees
that the whispers of truth speak longest,
with words of wisdom
that settle in your ear;

“Stay calm, and be easy
you men of restlessness,
for there is nothing
worth your worry,
for there is nothing
that can harm you,
that already hasn't,
for there is nothing,
nothing
at
all.”

Why suffer,
you,
the enabler
of chronic remorse

Since when
was it logical
to get clean
by rolling
in muck.

And everything
comes to a point
where the smoke dissipates
into the ***** air
and we are left
with nothing
but the wild desire
to start another fire.

Like a cyst
you're always there
ugly and apparent
your words like
a common cold
messy and lingering

How on Earth did you do it?
Penetrating this fortress
laying new foundations
sprucing up the joint
and then tear it down
without remorse

Ah well,
at least I haven't got AIDS

unless

that was
your great
finale.

He was a solitary man
and he wasn't to be alive
for long

He went to the smoking dens
to play games of chance
and he brought a smile

He only wanted more time
away from the darkest door
and to walk towards some light

But look at his grin
as a hand is laid upon him
and he looks upon an ace

He falls to his knees
and he cannot believe
what the dealer laid

The king of spades
supports his grin, and
the Queen does the same

He takes his chips
and grabs the cash
and his ride home

Upon opening the door
he finds familiar solitude
in an empty squalor

The apartment speaks
and says to his soul
that he is nothing

No amount of winnings
could ever alleviate him

No amount of beer
could make him happier

No amount of women
could ever fill that hole

Good night,
you sweet gambler

Good night,
man of chance

Good night,
you lost soul

Good night,
you old romantic

Good night.

I want to climb back into the womb
And so do us all

We try to find a way
And try to delve in
***** first
Obviously not with our mothers
That bag has already been opened
And the contents turned sour
Long ago

So we find other ways
To numb out the pain of living

Any means will do

It could be the sweet nectar of alcohol
Or it could be the rush
Of class A, B, or C drugs
Or it could be sacrificing your soul
For little versions of you
As nature intended

But all the above
Can only do so much
And I sometimes have to contemplate
Quite seriously
Suicide
To get me through many a bad night
When the beer doesn’t settle
Just right

May I be blessed
in a self rewarding ignorance
biding my little time
to cash out on something
more worthwhile

May I be blessed
with a lack of drive
and blind to a goal

May I remember
ambition is charming
but it is never sincere

The lips fleet
from one mouth
to another

They once touched mine
and then they ventured
to other reaches

I knew I shouldn’t
be jealous
but I couldn’t help
but being so

For in the end
it is a test
of who has
the most energy

Looks like I lost
out this time

Looks like I lost
out all the times

I could call her a ****
but that would just
be blind anger

She is just like me
free as we can be

But when you
appreciate
a being like that
it hurts

For you finally
get that heart
burning
searing
sting
of rejection
and the
feeling
of being
ultimately
impotent.

What can we do
when it all falls down
around our feet
and they,
all of them,
expect us to be commanding

Always
they expect someone
to take the reigns
because everyone
is ashamed
of their own decisions

Better to criticise
than to have
that biblical rock
thrown in your face

So do we shirk?

Do we be hesitant?

Or do we be unabashed?

Yes.

A renegade leaf
blows in the wind
away from it's oppressor
who is rooted to the dirt

Swirling and soaring
ducking and diving
the leaf makes his decline
slow and steadily

He meets his own ground
and he begins to lose colour
and turns into a darker shade
of brown.

There is a certain madness
that rushes into our lives
everyday

You see it in peoples faces
and you hear it in their voices

Well

Some of them.

You think too much
and you wish
for the impossible

Your dreams
come at you
like a bludgeoning

It is time to wake up

It is time to face up

It is time to realise

You must realise
that it hurts
to think the way
you do

You must realise
that repercussions
happen to those
that take action

One day
you will find
that the best days
of your life
are the ones
with regret.

And so it becomes
apparent
that I am simply
writing
what I would be
thinking
and just making a
pattern
on a piece of note
paper.

It always starts
With a kick in the teeth
And usually follows through
With a slump in your own
Filth

The pendulum swings
Forever and a day
First this way
And then the other
Way

Time keeps on kicking
With incessant clicks
Smashing your ear in
With such ruthless
Indifference

Left and right
Clockwise eternally

They say time is cyclic
Others say it’s linear
But I’ll go as far
As to say that it’s both
Repetitive and dull

My how dreams can be
rather bleak and hazy
and altogether
misleading

But it's not exactly
all too comfortable
pacing up and down
on the same ground
until you score into
the very earth you hate
watching the dirt
rise past and over your head
until
finally
not even the light
can grace a single hair
on your defeated head.