..and who'll care about those who care about?
no one?
no one is out there
no one to care
no one to look at
that thing that we share

who'll care about that?.
who'll care about you?
no one to care about
the things we go through
and
I'm not yet half way through
but I'm done,
some of you might
care about that
or not.

This is a stand up routine
it's like a bad dream
I once had and
the weather is bad

can you see me laughing?

But the tube is no place for a
self pity session.

Lots of rosy red cheeks
I sneak peeks
and that's how I know,

and quiet too
as if the
cold's got their
tongues

the cat's not worried
he has nine lives.

It's only Tuesday
which is nether here
nor Morecambe bay
but
I'm drowning anyway.

When I thaw out I'll
go out to gnaw at
what's left of the
morning

I might be some time.

I should have worn my
long johns,
a thermal underlay
for a ****** cold day
but I forgot

I won't make that mistake
again.

He
trains his brain to remember
but can't remember what for.

When they hung out the stars on a washing line
to watch them shrivel and lose their shine
I knew it was an omen.

The night still came though dark and plain
the moon still cast its spell
but
the magic had gone
the romance had died
it was just as well that I never cried
God how I tried, but
I couldn't remember how.

She flew south
I watched her go,
fluttered,
her wings as white as
drifting snow
I drifted too and waited for
the Summer.

It was 20:16 in 2018 and I was sixty one
so you can't tell me numbers mean nothing,

Four thousand and ninety five in total
that means something

Who makes these thing I wonder that make me wander
I'd like to meet him or her, but somehow I don't think I
will.

I want to throw the bones rewind the stones
grow cajones
(I'm told they're a Spanish vegetable)

I add things to things that add up to things
and things have a habit of multiplying
hey!
pay attention
I'm investing some trying here
but it looks like I'm dying here
well
I've done that before
!
That is a premature exclamation
and how do I perform that live?

I go outside to escape my self
and the end and the inevitable
and I sit admiring the night sky
until the stars become the scattered
words I’m trying hard to understand
but seem completely unable to.

I look up into that dark blue night
and I wish it was the ocean.
I wish the world was a fading purple
sunset. I wish the world was
the moonstone blue of the sea.

I’m drowning in the night sky instead,
in all this vast intangible vagueness.
There’s no edge, no shore to the sky,
just stars and then stars and then stars.

I want to be on the shore again,
feeling alive, feeling maybe, just maybe
there’s a little hope in the waves that
have always been able to comfort me.

See, the sea is full of lonely moments,
losing moments, shipwrecked moments,
but it is also the place of liminal on the shore
moments, meeting moments, happy, maybe moments.

But here I am, sitting beneath the sky, not the sea.

I came out here to escape yet all I’ve found
is the inevitable in all its dark, vast, uncontainable glory.
I look away because I don’t want to see it.
I look away, because now it’s the end,
I’m not ready to leave.

I gather handfuls of cold to my chest
and take it all back inside with me.
I dream of the ocean. I long for the sea.

We often overshoot the Moon as
we wing our way up to the stars
and yet we can't get back to yesterday
but
give me the opportunity
to get back there
to a younger
me
and I wonder if
I would take it.

Towering blocks
that
rise above blocks
that nestle below
and
below them
smaller blocks

the pixies have gone
all hail
the rise of the Pokémon.

We're all on the tilt side
and society lied when
it said
life's not a game.

We always met between the lines where I watched ink form tears that ran slowly down your face,
I wished in pencils for another meeting place and made coffins lined with lead instead.

But we did I'd say and did it well
mused amongst the pages of the
times we had and laughed at those
we missed.

and if I live to see the new day come
we'll meet again between the lines
to rearrange the letters and
next time have
some fun.

The rough sleepers
keeping diaries of
near misses and
misadventures
staying alone and alive
living on their wits
eschewing assistance
except
from the social and
the occasional good
Samaritan.

Jesus plays his part,
free tea in the park
meals at the mission
seems god is fishing
for converts,
but
It's hard to believe
in a better life
when you have no life
and you gave your last smoke
to someone poorer than you.

I imagine me
outside
the British library
reading Burns
and who's to say
We
could be that rough sleeper
you passed today
reading
Burns
taking turns
to write in the diary.

Programmed to fail but the rogue programme sails on
into decimal places where few people have gone.

Is it that time already?, said Teddy,
who was going to a picnic with Yogi.

The answer on the street,
it's time for us to meet

But it's Thursday, exclaimed Friday
who was sat under a palm tree.

I woke in Tewkesbury and
who knows where that is.

it's okay
I'm rearranging the signals
trying for better reception
and not going mental
as some would suggest.