I lay on the grass, the cool ground,
as the mosquitos come to feast
from all around,
but I don't care -
I can feel the Earth spinning,
the nature: brutal but forgiving,
happy to take us for the ride.

I watch the stars pierce the sky,
moving them along, slowly
with my mind -
but it's nothing,
just a great cosmic illusion,
pulling the strings of our allusions.
Oh my, what a ride!

The untenable darkness connected us;
a language of alienation
native to our inspirations,
twisted.
Swirling, we took residence
in untapped soil,
imposing a culture of transformation
aligned with radical forms of exploration:
a bounding endeavour to the Mother Sun.

Everything that was
breathes through this moment,
this present,
and what will be
is stuck there,
forever.

They were wick-thin folk,
           ready to burn it all down,
as everyone gathers round
                                                 the flame;

probably too young to play the game
they were in,
    and as I said, wick-thin:
with no foundation,
                                    the pervasive alienation
feeding their weakness: ingratiating.

So, don't stand to close to the fire,
      step back a little,
                                     admire
breathe      perspire
there are many voices making up the choir.

My pen aligns with my insecurities,
faltering,
when all I want to do is kiss you,
to understand the mysteries of the soil.

However, I cannot write.
My heartbeat is in my fingertips,
the words are buried
and the page, for now, lies blank.

I'm amazed how the pages keep turning,
Forever unleashing new learning:
A slap in the face
       A gentle yearning.
A death, a birth
with every revolution of the Earth.
A loss, a gain
                       The accompanying pain
And the endless horizon.

The Swell


We see a human face

and the fear that drives it's heart,

so easily forgotten

for the things that pull Us apart.

From the start, We will treat you as a person-

it's up to Us where we go from there.

Together, We could tear down our prejudice

for a chance with love and care.



We relinquish the need for a universal control

so that new growth springs

from cracked concrete,

mielony mor.

Nature will inherit The Earth.

We listen to Her,

Her suppressed wisdom,

channelling Her Power,

Resilience

& Tolerance.



We Touch,

Hear a heart beating,

it's reactive rythmn,

as We step closer to one another,

the intensity of connection

building

branching

and reaching for the light.



We understand all there is to understand,

that We will know nothing

before The End,

before The Horizon.

Time is our commodity

and, We know what that should cost.

We understand the value

in Becoming

lost.



We embrace the coming change

as inevitible,

beautiful;

We would not stand in it's way,

shackle it to Our will

or deny it's murky reality.

We are in metamorphosis.

We evolve

and resolve

to find another way, Our way.



We find something new

beneath each word,

from every colour,

move through space with all Our senses,

open,

putting nothing under cover.

And, taking Trauma as Our lover,

We will nurture each Other.

They both let go and take control
falling, they get caught
in each others spaces
so that, compassionately,
they can look one another in the eyes
as they dance like a seed on the breeze.

I'm haunted by the ghost of a young Bob Dylan,
followed by William Blake, beating a prophetic rhythm.
I'm a fraud, a flake, exposed in Plath's diary -
Maya Angelou has caged me, my song falling flatly.

But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because, either your daddy was too,
or, you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now, even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.


But the day will come, I'll be classed as crazy, man,
already feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

Because they'll nab you from the streets, it's the master's plan,
until all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, but never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight, they won't see the light,
But from the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.


'Cause only the blood in a diamond means it's not worthless,
the value we imprint are just absurd curses.
We all know what's hidden there, under the surface,
so, who teaches us acceptance and what's it's purpose?

We're all in it together, we're all complicit,
our lives connected by this something illicit.
Adopted by the collective notion, we choose to forgive it
and perpetuate it's frameworks, instead of letting them diminish.

Alright, let's have a break. Drink some response a bil i tea,
marinate in what's around us and all the things we neglect to see.
Where have we been looking and why do we think we're free?
Calm down and carry on? **** na, that aint me!

But in revolution, don't we just come back to the beginning?
Spinnin' round and round, in a ******' hellfire rythmn;
it's enough to leave you questioning each and all decisions,
or, just **** it all, sit back and watch the visions.


Like a pig to thunder: all big eyes and wonder -
As our world comes crashing down, ripped and torn asunder -
we won't get very far with all our property and plunder,
what would William say then, I wonder?

Some are born to Endless Night, but then, it all flies apart,
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark.
It's my one sight of light in the deepest dark,
so, if you hold to me now, we just need a spark.

But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because either your daddy was too
or you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.

Then, the wicked beat breaks & it all flies apart
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark -
it's my one sight of light in the deepest dark
'n' if ya hold to me now, we just need a spark.


The day will come, I'll be called crazy, man,
feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

We'll be nabbed from the streets, it's the master's plan,
'til all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight they won't see the light,
But in the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.

It's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a more catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because either your daddy was too
or you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now even I'm getting confused,
but who actually wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.

Then, the wicked beat breaks & it all flies apart
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark -
it's my one sight of light in the deepest dark
'n' if ya hold to me now, we just need a spark...

He slips on a dress,
looks in the mirror
to see the material clinging
to his contours
and embraces all the possibilities
that come to him.

The power is palpable
to this side no one sees -
himself - released,
exuding the best parts
of his character

Ready for an unready world.

Where's the rythmn,
The rythmn, the rhyme, the reason?
I feel it's all getting lost,
Much like the seasons.
Have we been overcome,
Punished, for some inharmonious treason?

I feel I'm cascading and fading,
Like a politicians integrity,
I mean,
**** knows just what depths we'll see,

as all the consequences show thier hands,
in scorched lands
& Floods...

Civilisations get buried in mud,
so what makes ours so special,
that we would escape the Earth's revolution?
Sit back, enjoy, The Grand Delusion

as the Earth just keeps on turning,
never learning,
burning              hot
Right from its core
              -it's experienced a lot
                       But never this before-
A species forever driven towards war,
to enslave,
to dictate
and who impose their will, by law..
Who imagine a window
just so they can slam the door.

What more        will it take?
As half the world is going to sleep,
the other wakes,
Sun, streaming through that window,
as the day breaks..

The problem is: everyone wants their poetry in axiom,
Their concepts digestible,
But, if you're asking me,
That's ******* detestable..

Living in a world of probabilistic irony,
It's the next turn of the card that will define me
And a sense of the cogs, pushing the hands of the clock,
Is what times me.
******* irony..

There's nothing left of me here,
only the ghosts appear,
they've barricaded themselves
in the abandoned buildings,
I see them peeking out.

The cities voices, familiar, shout,
even as they whisper.
There's nothing left of me here
or my ears would blister,
like they used to.

It used to be: find today's food for all,
then dinner from the bins
and tonight squatting the old school.
Being homeless is a full time job,
ruled by desperation and The Law of Sod.

From the street, the city stands naked,
free of it's dazzling attire.
Underneath all the buildings,
the foundations of history,
is the same boggy mire

                                         (from which it sprang)

I wrote poems on these pavements,
some, simply, political statements, in colour,
but there's nothing left of me here,
the slabs have all faded, once again grey,
and this is all I have to say:

The city didn't notice that I've been missing,
it was lost in it's lovers arms, kissing,
a Time Immemorial embrace;
oranges & lemons
and the finest of lace,

a commercial covenant
with The Man With No Face.
The entire space was built
on the idea of exploitation.
There's nothing left of me here,

I left along the road of alienation.
A bankers brogues tread on beggars hands;
actually, this here is private land,
property of The City of London.
Well, I'm ******* gone, son.

There's nothing left of me here,
I'm done.

I accidentally skipped 2 pages -
I have to go back,
a clean mess,
unabided,
I write something
and try to hide it.

Is it better if I rhyme it?

Well, I can't help myself,
it's like spotting patterns
in the stars,
once you've seen it,
there they are,
the beauty spots and scars.

A cliffside, strewn with wrecked cars.

But up it climbs,
smashing rhymes,
rattling the bars
of my cage
as I step out on to the stage
of the blank page

Avoiding the trap doors

It's filled with an opportunity
though, sometimes,
a sense of dread.
It can be a clear window,
dreaming futures, summoning
the dead

Bars become lines on the page instead

I use what imprisons me
to set me free;
locked in a lexicon,
I can breathe,
the blank page
is a forest of falling leaves

Where I can hear the echos of my screams.

So don't waste it.

By the light of a candle
   & the setting Sun,
just before the night's begun,

I write poem #5
of the day,
just to have a bit more fun.

I don't have a country,
they have me,
               we're stuck.

At least my flag waving hand
               is free,
what luck.

Time is all I have to spend,
though, I'm not sure on the exchange.
I'm negotiable on how I lend,
I'm sure there's something we can arrange.

You see, Time is all I have to spend,
I can't sell it for minimum wage;
but if I really had to,
I guess I'd spend some Time in Rage.

Time is all I have to spend,
So, I put my pen to page.
Time, to me, holds Everything,
It's worth thinking how I engage.

Numbing comfort bubbles (are),
tools of a privileged struggle,
like staring, lost, into the flames.
They keep me warm,
so; throw on the bodies, the trees,
it's all the same.



There's one flowing stream
that never dries up,
babbling drugs sports desire.
If I don't douse myself
from this stream, babbling bubbles,
I'll catch on fire.

But then, eventually,
we all burn on His pyre.
Cold comfort,
keeping others warm.

What was, what is and what could be,
all at once coming to a focus,
breathing through the eternal moment,
being yours to create,
allusions, illusions and delusions,
at play, together.

I miss Marseille,
today,
though I can still see her,
I know I'll soon be on my way.

The dusty rock,
the hills embrace her,
the wisps of mist,
I miss Marseille,

her way, an understanding that:
if you can't, you don't pay -
prix libre they say -
associations of the worlds strays.

I miss Marseille
and hearing what she has to say,
on walls, from squats,
saying what's often neglected, forgot.

She's frank and clear
and has time for every kind of queer,
I long for her to lead me astray,
to change; I miss Marseille.

Always. The Sun,
the passage of the days,
anticipation at reaching ever corner,
a confluence of culture, Marseille the forum.

Tunis, Algiers; I can smell
the North of Africa,
hear the sails of all the boats
that traffic her,

I see them line the shores
of every bay
that twist and turn along Marseille,
Swigging from my bottle of beaujolais.

****, I miss it.
Just the thought, I can barely resist it,
I could pack it all up and leave today,
For Le Plein, Cours Julien, For alive Marseille

It belongs to all it's people, to us
and if you try to take it
watch the fuss,
the fury and the disorey,

****, I ******* Love Marseille.
Everyone's on the cusp of Love & Hate,
either knocking on or burning down the gate,
all indulging in their collective fates.

Now, a Picon beer with a slow sunset,
please know, I have not one regret,
just lessons from my passions
and ideas from everyday chic/schlague fashion

I will miss your elevator kisses,
your smile in the stormclouds,
the lightning,
so exciting and frightning.

I loved it when you hated something:
The tourists, Men suffocating the street.
I loved seeing how you could eat,
you will always be an inspiration

So, it will be fine, okay?
So long, Marseille,
with your West facing bay,
you are forever blue in my memory, never grey

But, I will miss you, Marseille,
and that's okay.

Does it all add up?
You should take it out
of the equation
1312
what's the cost of
disaster & devastation?

An acceptable loss
A reduction
Complete or Total
Destruction

What's the economics
of a butterfly,
The means tested
dimensions
of a vegetable,
the equation
for your dreams,
and the measure
for respectable?

Can you budget
for a life?
When all is said
and done,
who's counting
looking
down the barrel of a gun?

I spent so much time studying to get the right answers when, in fact, I should have been learning to ask the right questions..

I take strength from them
the mice are scratching inside the walls
I resign myself to the trees
as I move further into the forest, I'm forgotten
The Moon is a clock
I am revealed within, pale skin
a part of me stayed in the city
trapped
it makes me docile needy and wrapt
The moon is a clock
that my clouds often block
I resign myself to the trees
I take strength from them
they will struggle through winter with me
I have no faith in flesh
I love
They move below above
the trees wear the earth like a sock
The Moon is a clock
as I lay in the meadow
the grass covers me quickly
the taste of blessed sanctuary becomes sickly
I stare at chipped paint on floorboards
wrap cold knuckles on a dead door
I resign myself
The Moon is a clock
the clouds fluffy socks
we will struggle through winter
I will die in my own little world
this big one a backdrop
The Moon is a clock
As I move further into the forest
the bare trees become more honest
I take strength from them
they are here with me
I have no faith in flesh
the mice are scratching inside the walls
the leaves fall
this blessed sanctuary becomes a trap
my cold knuckles wrap
on a dead door
chipped paint on floorboards
I resign myself to the trees
and The Moon is a clock

The end of another season
wearing t-***** in October,
from a year long binge
I start to sober.

The forest gives its last display of colours
then, leaves drop
so, on the otherside you can discover
what was hidden there all along, by the luscious green:

your bare bones
your trunk, your spine;
the branches of time,
intertwined.

Today a young homeless person died
A politician sighed
A parent cried

And I realised.

three or four conversations a year
the tv goes off
and We confront each other
for who We really are
underneath the pleasantries of Love

You tell me what You went through
when I was too young
to understand
You tell me of passionate youth
and now I get it.

I discover what drove You
the insight of Your desires
the things that felled You
what lit the fires
and now I get it.

You tell me how You struggled
how You fought the inanity
how loneliness claimed You
took You face to face with insanity
and now I get it.

We uncover all my lies
I'm finally honest
I let You in
to how I felt so far from You
when You wanted me close

We learn of a strange bond
that makes Us less deserving
of others help
coming from the best parts of Us
at the bottom

three or four conversations
that bring Us closer each year
relationship seasoning
enriching our shared soul
as life takes toll

- Love You..

It was magic
I still struggle to explain it
maybe your smile
but the ease with which we connected
the warmth that still lingers
from that moment
tied to it's memory.

A new buddy, conjured,
instantaneously
a magic moment, too rare,
which only comes sporadically
like the fair
when you were a kid,
and buddies came easier.

I want to know how we did it
but part of me
needs to just accept it,
that bit of magic in the world
somewhat blissful, enchanting,
clinging to the soul long after the instance
daring it to reappear.

Life is my biggest addiction, so once I've kicked that I'll get on to the rest.

Make The Bed

Today I made the bed
so it will invite me back in.

I cut the wood for winter,
stacked it against the house,

for Autumn will begin.

Today I listened to Her,
She told me what I'd missed.

I smiled at the arching sun
knowing where to go,

as if we could ever resist.

My body hums aloud,
I blow into my tea;

The fire sings it's song
As the bed calls out to me.

The Faceless Man

He walks the world without one,
but could borrow any face.

I could guess the colour of His skin
but He doesn't belong to any race

As soon as He's within your grasp
He disappears without a trace

And you can only sense His smile
As He slips into your place.

The egg hatches

"No, Stop!"
I cry, for the first time
nature is trying to change
me
into an ugly old man
hair here there and everywhere
tired eyes
Alas, my mind wants to go on
and its a price
we all pay
so get ******* on with it
I'm having a tweezers day.

A sunrises itches towards the horizon
the beholder begs bygones
for this day to be different
to change
anything new feels unbearably strange
i can only
scratch
the frustration
that bubbles to rage
each ray of light
becomes
a bar in the cage
all i feel
is the craving
& desire
in my face

The sunset reveals true being
the beholder starts fleeing
i can't bear to confront it
my soul
i'd rather chase the horizon and see where it goes
get lost
in the spectrum
as clouds turn
rose gold
as the colours
delve deeper
the world
becomes
cold
but i'm sweating
and shifting
my bones
growing old

We carry with us our memories and our scars,
strewn across our beings like the clear night is, with stars
and like sailors in the wilderness, they give us a sense of who we are,
which direction we are going, where we came from and how far.

Drops in the ocean, we reach out for our anchor,
that thread that ties us to ourselves, our idioms and our rancour
but when the storm clouds gather on the night of the new moon
I tie myself to the mast, submissive to the jostling gloom.

I catch a glimpse through Lightning bolts, the darks fiery reprieve,
those scarry looming shadows of all the souls whom had to leave,
I'm stunned, abandoned to the whim of whipping waves,
on the tide of all those memories that have formed how I behave.

This is my new scar, but it's not one bourne from pain,
it's one that can sense the morning after midnight's rampant rain,
a mountain emerging from the ocean, to make it's mark in air,
before the wind comes round a-roaring and sinks it without a care.

I still think to call you sometimes
& the thought gets stuck
in my throat.
The pressure builds
and a tear breaks loose,
like your single note,
tattooed on the back of my hand.

I still hear your melody, softly,
as it joins the symphony
in my head;
it breaks free onto this page,
turns into this poem
of Love & Loss
instead.

The building they lived in,
called home,
became their tomb,
became the weapon that broke
their bone,
took their lives.

But their stories have to
survive,
This City won't let you forget
about those
you were meant to protect.

I was actually looking for a room
but found myself
on the fiery streets
CRS batting the flames
as politicians took their seats,
business as usual
but the people stood in refusal
Feminists Familes and BlackBlok
Yellow Jackets Housing Groups
round the clock
only the holiday period
could douse the fires
and I went back to mother
the pressure smothered

How long is your attention?
Remember: this is a poem for the dead

For those who were crushed as they slept in their bed

Merry ******* Christmas
instead.

Pickpocketed

each pocket has a purpose
church bells shatter through the surface

the worthless circus sunday service
a procession past the pickled mirthless

dispersions of persons pass pews
hoping He accepts the time served, in lieu

and thus this pocket is purposed for you



At the masqurade parade all day
That preys on insecurity

youre sure to see a bargain,
sharking, armed with curiosity

but the cost is often hidden, lost
in a forest of desire, in a silk lined pocket

and this is where they keep your wallet



search for solace in a sound structure
then ruptured synapses, flayed fluster

rebuild it all, regard life's lustre
meander melancholy with what you can muster

place them in a pocket, each respective,
one for your lessons and one for perspective

as the pickpocket of fear plays with the reasoning detective

The Lightning Bolt

A spark,
The first beat of a new formed heart,
The Start -
A new journey begins.

And although the destination is always home,
Exactly where it started,
She understands that what is really important
Is what the journey has imparted.

So, She packs up the old car with just enough,
What She really needs lies just off the road ahead:
In each warm meal she's fed,
Each new path she treads,

Each warm bed,
With pleasant company.
She lets Her mind adjust to thinking free,
Opens it to a thousand new born possibilities,

Conceived somewhere between the highest mountain
To where the land is caressed by sea,
Where She
Is ready to jump in.


She stops, first, at a highland lake,
Sits at the waters edge watching purpling clouds
Gathering in the reflection of the water,
Hugging Her knees tight.

The hair on Her arms begins to stand up,
Her grip on Herself crescendos,
Adrenaline forces Her to feel Her heart,
Just as the storm is about to start.

The electric light,
Blue, Purple and Hot White,
The water bouncing Light,
So bright,
It stole Her breath.

Then it rippled it toward Her in a rumble;
It grew, now roaring,
She tucked Her face into Her knees
And felt Her breath tugging at the trees.

She caught it there, with Her frantic heart,
And forced Her eyes to take a glance,
To behold this violent beauty, this was Her chance,
So, abandoning all Her fear,
She began to dance.

The rain fell hard
And each of Her senses became flooded:

The taste of fresh rain & sweat,
The clothes now clinging to Her skin.
It evaporated all regret
As She listened to the world sing.


She lost Herself at that lonesome lake,
Taken off with the storm and lightning
But the thought only made Her smile,
It wasn't frighting.

Whatever moved Her muscles now
Carried Her to the car, dripping, sodden.
She turned the key in the ignition
And on the radio came something She'd forgotten.

The melody clung to Her like Her clothes,
It drew memories that washed over Her,
Like the rain moments before,
She quickly turned off the ignition
But the key couldn't close that door,
Swung open by the vibrations -

She came back to Herself like a hard-felt revelation.

She smiled then and collapsed on the steering wheel,
In awe of the indulgent moment,
Knowing what it was, in one way,
To be taken apart, all those components,

Scattered in the storm,
Only to be reborn.


As the clouds passed that day,
Summer arrived,
Blooming flowers in the meadows
And along the roadside.

She tried to push on,
But Summer was insistent,
It told Her, take it easy,
It's seductive tone not easily resisted.

And Thus Her journey changed it's course,
Bending, as things do, to even the gentlest force
Like a leaf in a summer's breeze;
She could feel life begin to tickle and tease

And on, And please...

Consumed by the inevitable End
I have chosen to die on the horizon
So no one can grieve for its illusion.

Time will always raise The Sun
Even when there are no eyes to see it,
No instruments to measure it.

It's we who create The End, mould it,
To fit in the frame of our own perspective -
A complete work of art.

So, why does the end never fully satisfy?
Because we know, without knowing, it is a lie
The End is such because someone draws a line
And to that end, we are all doing time,
Condemned by a fact:
That we will die.

Our sense of Time imprisons us
With the understanding that
Our sense of it will end.

And that leaves us here, with a choice:
I choose to die on the horizon,
Free, creating my own beautiful End,

Consumed.

Have you ever experienced the revelation
That: you will never, really, Know anything?

At that moment I diminished into the sunset,
With it's deepening colours,
Into a soothing blackness,
A darkness from which anything could come,
Chaos/Stars.
Every instance became a gift,
So that I could indulge in this anarchic relief,
Relenting,
Euphoric,
To my Lack of Control.



My Psyche enjoys this Bellyrub,
Intimate comfort,
Love of Everything & Nothing,
By my own design,
Bathing, surrounded by the candles of my Contradictions,
Burning from both ends.
A country-boy born in the city;
The introverted extrovert;
A dependant independent.



A pattern emerges from this chaos,
In the shape of me,
Tied down but free,
Wondering: What's the next thing I'll 'see'.