I anesthetized myself
with
fifteen pints of Olde English,
**** good health
I'm going down.

But coming round when
the pounding in my head
reminds me that
I can't be dead
is a drawback.

Yet
Olde English sounds so quaint,
believe me folks and yokels
it ain't,
the locals where I live
give
free stretchers for the
wretches
just like me.

No one
not even you
will ever know
beforehand
how things will go.

Practice may make perfect
but perfect is no guarantee
of success.


The council sent a wrecking crew
which is
the sort of thing that council's do
and knocked the brick wall down
because the writing that was on it
didn't fit the image of this
Town
and it could have been
in
Camden
Kentish
or even Highgate Village which
is not technically a town but it
has lots of walls

Walls remind me of ghetto's
no go's
and,
'Halt who goes there?'

But it's just word association
like
council aberration
normal situation
and who pays reparations
to
the future generations
when we've used the whole
world up or washed it all
away?

The end dear friend is just the entry and he pointed, but he never meant me, it was the old man sat inside me that the message was intended for.

I sat and wondered about the door and what was it the entry for and could it be he meant me after all?

Then the timepiece changed into a watchtower and it changed back on the hour, every hour

what tricks these eyes can play
what puzzles and to blind.

In the end I wouldn't mind a new beginning
somewhere with a decent climate
and
slightly South of the equator
where I could do a baked
potato
on the rocks.

but don't worry
they'll twin you with a town up
in the Pyrenees
which
you'll find out
will be full up with
the Chinese who'll
be
making origami
chewing gum from
Sorghum and
reciting verses from a book
by ...tse Tung

The end is just a fixture
another game we play
away.

We stare into the pit as
the pendulum slices
another bit
and there's less of you
now
than there ever was.

Oz isn't real
and
if you believed all the spiel
that it was,

tough.

No
medals for trying
but lots for the dead
are you dying to join them?
and
somebody said,
"it's a man's life"
my wife
doesn't think so and
she lets me know so.

and everything goes slow.
as
I hibernate and wait out the winter,

Written by Thirdtimelucky

Never swear or tell a lie on a Sunday you might die
and you won't be going to heaven
that's a fact.

As children we believed what we were told
becoming older and not so trusting
I
put no trust in Church or State

maybe it's heaven that I'm heading for
if not
then hell can wait.

I'm not sure who you were speaking to but the man in the greatcoat assumed it was him and he could have been 'the thin man' or 'the third man' but not the 'bird man of Alcatraz'

see me and
it's jazz painting by Dali
or possibly
Toyah slings Goya on the canvas
she's a lass is our Toyah
but is she from Lancashire?
doubtful.

Tracey
will you race me
around your unmade bed?

There's
nothing peculiar in being peculiar
the peculiar thing is it's not.

I wonder about people and how they
fit into the architecture,
are they itching to die or is
death
just another building?

If the leap of faith is
a quantum one
unexpected company
wants some
and
John
could be
strategically insignificant,
legally
deemed incompetent,

I
rest my case
reset my face
and place an order at
the bar.

My Sunday
so far
so good.

Someone should slap me awake
I can't take any more of these sad songs
the ones that play on and go around in the dream

The rainbow slows as it puts colours in my eyes
and
somewhere where the angel cries over
an untended gravestone
I feel alone.

it's the ukulele thing
sweet music on a savage wing
and the prayers which keep repeating
eating into me.

B.Demille in Saville Row
says
someone has to go
so I know
I'm dreaming.