That look was so significant
it drew my thoughts to you.
That meaningful expression
nearly blew me into two.

Only for one second
did our looks interlock.
I felt such an intensity
and my heart felt such a shock.

A picture paints a thousand words
is something that they say.
That slightest glance spoke volumes
that I could never relay.

It hinted at the part of me
that wants that part of you.
It told me that each singular
should be expressed as two.

I saw two bodies writhing
deep down in my minds eye
and it told a tale that without this
my heart would surely die.

Is this the feeling of true love,
a love from that first peek
that tells to me that you are
the true lover that I seek?

Or am I just imagining
something that might not be?
were you just being sociable
when you took that look at me?

I often hear woman
who express us men as fools
but unlike a game of football,
true love doesn't come with rules.

But it's hard to push it further,
hard to know if you think right.
Because as well as looking stupid
you could ruin somebody's night.

So I follow like a puppy,
trying to catch her eye
and I keep on glimpsing over
trying so hard not to try.

I think that she's the clever one
'cause I can't work it out
but the moment that she walks across
is when I lose the doubt.

And as we leave together
my heart it sings a song
and I'm happy that my first thoughts
were not wrong.

Pheeeeeeeew!

You held my hand,
I thought you cared. 
I held to heart
the first kiss that we shared.

I thought it was 
the start of we 
but found instead 
it was only ever me.

You dangled me
just like a piece of string
until I realised
'twas just a one way fling.

It seems I didn't know 
what love could do. 
Could really build you up
then break your heart in two.

As I watched you
just walking bye
I never said a word,
I couldn't even try.

You held anothers hand 
but looked straight into my eyes.
My mind was screaming out
with such complete surprise.

I stood and watched you
walking with that guy.
My heart was dying there 
I knew no reason why.

I don't know what I did. 
I knew not what to say
so I stood quietly
and watched you walk away.

You must have thought that it's
ok for being cruel.
You left that young boy
feeling like a fool.

So tearful and alone
he learned his lesson then
and made himself a promise
that not ever again.

He'd always be alone 
and that was just the start.      
He'd never love again.
He'd never share his heart.

They found his body 
on that empty railway track.
The train had took his life,
he's never coming back.

A piece of paper found
just after he did die
just read a single word
and that word was, Why?

Searching through the archives
of - my family tree.
Struggling through the mislaid vaults
of ge-ne-ology.

Personal contemplation
on what might come to light.
With so much work before me.
I study through the night.

Lines that take me nowhere
all scramble through your head
but curiosity pushes you
as you study - the 'long' dead.

Suddenly things come to a light,
new relation leads
that push you through the lonely night
and sow so many seeds.

Will it be - Maud Plantaginet
who'll set me to the stars
a Sir, an Earl or Baroness
all Great Grandpa's or Ma's.

A close link to a Tudor King
of whom it's often said
that if he doesn't fancy you,
you could well lose your head.

Henry Three, Henry Two,
King John and Henry One.
Many times Great-Granddads
and the list - goes on and on.

William the Con-queror
and someone very quaint,
Ma-tilda Von Ringelheim,
she's an - Eigth Century Saint.

Has all the work been paying off?
Will the journey - be of worth?
For who knows who - we're related too
who has also walked this earth

Acid rain leaves the scene.
Steam rises, hovering the ground,
floating knee high,
almost in effort to hide the effects
of the toxic downpour.
Hissing puddles.
Bubbling
Acid.
Draining dangerously into water supplies.
Grasses amputated,
stumps of burnt,
singed bushes remain.
Agonized souls,
each bubbling and spitting.
Oozing raw wounds smoulder
dripping this greasy substance.
Body parts akimbo.
Torso’s scattered,
strewn over the horizon.
One would not know which part
came from which body.  
Showered
with
acid
rain
as they ran.
Heaped into inhuman piles
as they fell.
Mounds of smouldering beacons,
self stacked
as they had fallen in their rush to escape.
Erosion takes its toll.
Gouged and hollowed
like the wood of an
antiquated ship-wreck.
Eyes glowing
like small Planets
in a universal darkness.
Bones emerge
through the nooks and crannies
of this protruding skeleton.
After the storm
they slowly started to creep out
from their hiding places
but mostly all staying in the shaded
covered areas.
This storm past
until the next.
However did we
allow this to happen?
Is this
the End?

Knees buckled under his huge frame.
Words emerging from the man in red were
inaudible, indistinct
unable to focus or navigate direction,
incapable to comprehend
or follow verbal instruction.
In spite of the instruction
the little man still contributed.

“Simon Michael”

Words wafted around the courtroom,
unfamilier, verilly a different language.
He felt like one would who was
surrounded by a foreign tongue.
He could not comprehend,
grasp the meaning of this slow motion droning.
He could however see the time.

The clock on the kitchen wall.
Twelve minutes past three.
He was heading outside,
escaping,
he had to get away from her.

Perpetual
Constant
Bellowing
On and on and on and on.

Arms raised
for protection
from constant
slapping and punching.

At thirteen minutes past three
she lay in a crumpled heap
on the hard stone tiles
of the cold kitchen floor.
Her face was split in two
encircled in graduating crimson.

One minute to change a life.
One minute victim,
now, Assassin.
One minute of blind anger
and a life taken!

“You will be taken from here
to a place of execution.
You will be hung by the neck
until you are dead.”

Beneath the world of expectation
above the Hells of Satan’s lair
a body lies in mortification
and no one knows that it is there.

A ****** on a frosty evening
of lovely girl with sprightly nature
who’s only sin was of receiving
with evils own collaborator.

Innocence was wholly shattered,
deflowered just for being there,
her body beaten and so battered
and left there dead with just her stare.  

Terrified, transfixed, still staring
in that direction from where it came.
A beast so vicious and uncaring,
who treated her with so much shame.

There was no offer of protection,
there was no one to lend a hand.  
Just he who caused her such dejection.
Just he who placed her 'neath the land.

This girl of lovely disposition
never had time to say farewell,
was never found by expedition,
just left to rot and left to smell.

She missed a life of exploration
that night he took her life so ill.
Encircled now in forestation
beneath the soil of old land fill.

Her family sought, indeed, still seeking
in hope one day she may be found
and from her grave her soul is speaking
to all who walk above the ground.

One day she may receive response
by someone sensitive to call
someone who walks with such a nuance
that she may indeed perhaps enthral.

But until that time she lies beneath,
between the World and Satan’s lair.
Waiting for that one relief,
that all should know and all might care.

As I look up in the moonlight
at the wonders I can see,
could it be, perhaps that somebody is
looking right back down at me?

Have they got me in their sights right now?
Are they studying our race?
Are they deciding what to do with us,
'cause they think we're a disgrace?

Are they analysing human-kind
and are they figuring us out?
Do they think they understand
what people really are about?

Perhaps they use their birds eye view
and watch us scorch this earth?
Or maybe we're just an experiment
and they've watched since planets birth?

Can they see so many dying
in countries off afar?
Can they see us drain resources
and put them in a car?

Can they witness the atrocities
we inflict upon our own
as we enter into wars with them
and destroy each others homes?

Can they plainly see the poor who die
because they cannot get the aid?
Do they think this idiotic
when they compare how some are paid?

Do they think that we are watching
as our creatures become extinct?
Can they see why there are shortages
and that it's people who are linked?

Maybe they can see the answer?
Perhaps they followed the trace
and the answer for the rest of them
is to destroy the human race?

Perhaps like us mere mortals
who will just take the vermin out.
Perhaps to them we are the vermin
and that's been proved to them no doubt?

Maybe we are on probation
whilst they figure what course to take?
Maybe that are trying to see
if we figure out our mistake?

Or perhaps I am just looking up
and there is nothing looking back
and the world is never going to
get itself back onto track?

We all know of the horrors
of the world that cause such strife,
were hunger and disease
initiate often in life.

Disasters and war
creating havoc far away
where terrorists reach out their swords
so Governments might sway.

Where life is so easily removed
with just one single swipe
and those who have the might
of force can solve it with air strikes.

Whilst the human population
can initiate such hate.
I like to think that together
we could make a world so great.

The creature that is "MAN"
have proven what they can achieve
and if this could be directed,
then perhaps we might believe.

Believe that all together
things could begin to resolve.
Perhaps the problems of the past
would finally resolve.

Perhaps the poorer of this earth
could have enough to drink and eat.
Perhaps we wouldn't have to battle
with those kids from down the street.

We have the gift of innovation,
so let us have the sense for peace.
Lets fill the world with happiness
and gain of some release.

It could be something we could do
maybe it's perfectly feasible
all that needs to come up front
is for people to be reasonable.

Our lives would be preferable
if our thoughts could rearrange.
Things could be much better
if we all did dream for change.

The brains are all around us
and the talent is no dream
so together we could do it
and could make our world supreme.

Perhaps I'm just a dreamer
who often wishes for the best.
But to make this a reality
we should not ever rest.

The plagiarist is somebody
who loves the high regard.
Talent less and lazy and
lack a sense of working hard.

Its easier to copy,
take credit for another's trade
because they lack accomplishment,
it makes them feel afraid.

Afraid, because of inadequacy
in what they do or say
they want the credit of their peers
without a price too pay.

Incompetent and shallow
might cause these beasts to steal.
They like to boast of mastery
but of course this is not real

Shameful in their thievery
could never achieve the work they stole
but perhaps when they're pretending
this helps to make them feel whole.

This should not make them happy.
This should not make them glad.
In fact it should reiterate
that they are really, very sad!

I walked through town last week
and a stranger came and spoke to me.
I agreed with many things he said
but I didn't know who he could be.

Interred for spouting to the crowd
is what I read in the daily news.
Religious twaddle said reports
so they locked him up for different views.

He spoke about his fathers house,
he also spoke about the rights for all.
His words were guiding us to follow,
that without our father we would fall.

Holy men from other values
refused to hear what he would say.
Degredation they threw forth
so keen to lock this man away.

I was reminded of the past,
perhaps you might recall this day
when something really similar
happened to he, to whom we now pray.

I don't think he was sent from God
but to quieten him they were intense
and rather than let us use our own minds
they kicked this fellow off the fence.

I know he believed of what he said
and to spread his words is what he tried.
Perhaps this man was just a nut
but was this reaction justified?

We gather at the wire,
concealed in the crowd.
Some of us quiet,
others are loud.

So many cultures
share this common sway
all are sweeping the ports
trying to get away.

We wait for disorder.
We wait for mistakes
and in all of the turmoil
some will try make their breaks.

Authorities' do their best
to keep us in grip
but they're not always aware
of the one who's made the slip.

We are always here waiting
and are concealed out of sight.
Hiding in any location,
configured by our plight.

Not a task we would choose
but what else can we do?
It's fifty, fifty I think
if I get caught or get through.

Moving swift our intention
in the hope we succeed
and to that ideal location
we hope to proceed.

Even if we're lucky
and our course we get done.
Everyday then will try us
with a life on the run.

Then if luck stays with us
our lives this will sway
but things are not always clear
always ready to get away.

I pulled the knot of the rope
tighter, rather like one would
to secure a tie into shape.

The rope was well secured
to a narrow wooden beam
that insured that the rope
would not fail and I was
positive that the structure
would take the weight as I
had designed it to do.

I looked at a picture I held
in my hand and the image
made me feel that this action
was the required course.

Suicide!

It wasn't the life that I had
led that had stirred this desire
to end my days.

I had no upset for the vicious
attacks I had made or the thieving
I had done to procure my habit.

No, it was the death of a child
that had brought me here. For
while I journeyed into the realms
of chimera and fantasy. Whilst
I walked the light fantastic
this child lay in his own unknown
territory.

On my come back to reality I
was assured another vision.
This time though neither delusion
of mirage. The child lay dead
with the syringe still hanging
from his young personage.

As I kick the stool away the
knot does its job to perfection
and as I struggle my life
away at the sharp end of this
rope the image flutters gently
down to the carpeted floor.

It shows the image s of a man
and his young son, soon to
be reunited in death.

Such falacious thread
is pulling tight
from no Holy Book
I know.

For those, self considered
right, allocating this
self seething show.
Creed or colour
should not divide.

Derogatory agitating collectors
paid off with sheer synthetic pride,
sponsering religion as their own
connector as they twist and they
tear at its written word.
Packaged to a self corrected tone,
fantasy provides absurd images
directed at the degected zone.

In anothers name they do their worst,
projecting miss-shaped Holy vows,
they drain sacred trust
for evil's thirst and so that
impieties seed should sow.

If you do aim to speak this way,
then have the courage and take that
leap on your own head.

Leave pious scriptures from
any religious source and form
well alone whatever faith or race.

For it is true that people will
for their own self enhancement
treat religion with disgrace
and thus, try to
demenaor such elegance.

Life is a pantomime
light hearted and plain.
It's behind you they shout
but it's all part of the game.

The villain is booed
by the on-looking crowd
but there is nobody there
when you decide to turn round.

You think that you know,
you think you will solve,
but the answers are gone
when at last you revolve.

Is it the king?
Or perhaps that old aunt?
Who's got two ugly daughters
who would tear you apart.

The boy with the buttons,
is he evil or good?
Or is it that carved out puppet
with that long nose of wood?

Who is the goody?
Who is it best to know?
Well we really can't say
till the end of the show.

Life is no pantomime
not so light hearted and plain.
Full of caring and good
but also vile and insane.

No one shouts he's behind you.
Villains do not get booed.
You cannot always see them
as you're plied and you're wooed.

They are not always ugly.
they may never seem nauseous
so the only advice here
is to always be cautious.

Trust takes time to endear.
Trust is something to earn.
Trust is something that you need
very quickly to learn.

Never hand it to quickly
to anyone in the line
cause we all need to realise,
life is no pantomime.

I lie awake each night
and sleep it seems so far away.
I need to catch some sleep tonight
not sleep the day away.

But doing it is easier to say
than to get done.
just lying in the darkness
really isn't any fun.

The harder that you try to sleep
the more you stay awake.
In the morning when you leave your bed
you feel you've had no break.

You feel all the aches and pains
that your sleep should repair
and not only are you knackered,
you're also sporting tangled hair.

The day will soon be calling you
and raise you into action
but anything you do today
will not bring any satisfaction.

So I lie here counting sheep
to set me on my way
but I've been awake all night
now I will sleep all ****** day.

A long time ago, when I was a kid there was
lots of stupid stuff that i know that I did                                              
But one thing I know is, if I had a beef                                                         with somebody else, then i'd knock out his teeth.

There was no need for knives, *** I dont mind a fight.        
Only cowards use blades, and you know that I'm right.                  
If you can't use your fists like a real man would,  
then I'd give it up boy cause you're really no good.
                                                                ­                                        
We would battle it out, not go in for the ****.
It was to sort out a problem not a maniacs thrill.                                          The best man would win and then it was done.                                        Sorted out like two men, without a knife or a gun.

We don't beat on our woman, nor man handle the old.                        
It was not our intention to be laced up in gold
We wasn't bought up to go out and rob      
So we did what they all did then and got us a job.

We never took our vengeance over the top                  
we never shot at people or murdered a cop                                                   If thats my attitude I would have been shown the door.            
If you wanna be a killer then go find you a war.

Would they be as brave if the other's shot back                                            or if they'd walked on a land mine *** they'd strayed off the track.        
Travelling to places where kids are dying of aids and                              instead of staying too help they could go out on night raids.

Now its got to be said that i am getting no younger                                 but my heart brims with hurt when kids are dying of hunger.                 So if you wanna be a man then just throw down your gun.                      Go and travel to these lands where there is work to be done.

If you think your a big man and you want to see death.                             Go to a land with no water and you'll see the bereft.                                   and if you're so big that you dont feel the pain                              
just take that blade out and open a vein.

Isn't it time for you to at last realise.                                            
That attrocities are real and dont come in disguise.                            
so go out there 'Boy' and do all that you can                                    
and when you do that I will call you a 'man'.

So I hope you heed the warning to keep away from that gun.                   Give your mother an extra day of seeing her son.                      
Smiling and breathing, that child to whom she gave birth.            
Not rotting in a graveyard covered by six foot of earth.

Learn a lesson from your breatheren who end up full of lead                   and end the retaliation that leaves another kid dead.                      
The hospitals can give figures better than I ever could                        
but just listening to the news I know they cannot be good.

So if you must fight take a tip from the past                                             use your natural resourses and that way you may last,                           to use a knife or a gun you dont have to be brave              
and it's sure as hell a fast line to a grave.

The Artists ideology
their insight and vision.
Love their biology
see their division.

Lines of colour,
flowing and forming,
seemingly fuller
haphazard and warming.

The Critic explores
the artist, their passion
to find what they strive for.
Their ideals and fashion.

But some critics talk waste
when they try to show
what is our taste
as if we don't know.

In between life’s mortal coil
where living teaches harshest real.
Mixed between the good and vile
this is the realm we learn to feel.

Our feelings good or very bad
often guide our way in life,
in many ways it is so sad.
Our past does cause us so much strife.

From early years I lived with rage.
Violence was just a way it seems.
Beatings from an early age
it took away our childhood dreams.

The first girl that I really liked
assumed there was some good in me
until my temper truly spiked.
It's when she wanted to be free.

I sit alone and sometimes cry
because of the things I have done.
In retrospect I’d rather die
or disappear and run, run, run.

It just comes out in angers run,
before I know it I strike out.
Just thank the Lord I had no gun
because I would use it there’s no doubt.

After many bad association
where violence has been used to quell
I hope that in this new relation
this time I do not go through hell.

I fight so hard now to restrain
my temper being what it be
From violence I must refrain
once and for all I can be free.

Free from anguish, free from blame.
Not to recall my younger days
Just talk instead of being inflamed
like others in more normal ways.

Now I am married with a wife.
Three loving children I adore
I think now when I feel the strife
No longer use my Satan’s claw.

Satan’s claw is what I call
my way of evil mindedness.
No longer to this way I fall,
now I can make this recompense.

Although my upbringing was quite bad
I feel I blamed my ways on this,
my parent’s lives’ were very sad
and something I shall never miss.

My life has gained in many ways.
My family I love more than all
and life is now something I praise
I thank God each day that I don’t fall

I wear the poppy
to celebrate
100 years
since
WW1

Cloaked by the veil of night I ready myself for what is to come. Fear is not recognized on this side
of the shroud, for it is this fear that is my most useful and treasured tool.
Footsteps approach the alleyway, I see my target pace forward towards his end, illuminated most
benevolently by the blush of his own burning cigarette end.
In his own world he lays claim to control and intimidation, a brave and dangerous man by his own
words. Words I shall later configure to be truth or allegory.
It is a simple matter to terrify someone prone to be terrified, is a different course to set the same
action upon he who does usually initiate the afor-mentioned phrase.
As the victim looks up into the eyes of this purveyor of violence I suspect it true that fear is well
presented to his visual inspection and it goes without saying it adds to his delight.
I imagine in other venues the same is said of myself but I would very much disagree with this
evaluation. Fear, Intimidation is not what I represent, they are just tools in an arsenal, I am just
simply here to reek good old honest revenge..
You do the deed, you pay the price, Simple as that. No forgiveness passes through this alley-way
this night, just utter, complete and total retribution. A gift from me to all those whom have been
bitten.
As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you will indeed fear evil, for I art with thee
and this rod of correction is indeed not one of comfort
The scatter of burnt ash bouncing off the alley wall signifies the conclusion of any remaining
illumination as he throws the **** of his cigarette away, darkness prevails once again.
As I strike, screams of pain shatter the silence and echo through the narrow passageway. The
****** body of this victim slumps unceremoniously alongside garbage bags, a fitting end for such
*******.
True and honest folk can breathe a sigh of relief, to them I am vigilant. If you swing the other way
however, BEWARE.

If something seems familiar
a past event or more
you know it's happened somewhere else
of that you can be sure.

You can't remember where or what,
or how and why you can't evoke,
those memories you have forgot,
a touch, a song perhaps a joke?

I fail to bring this thought to view
this something I should recollect,
something that I thought I knew,
a moment that I can't connect.

Something that I've read perhaps
or maybe something that I've wrote?
something that i've kept under wraps
or something that I meant to note?

Is it something I have seen?
Kept on the tip of my tongue,
to do it would I have been keen
or was I doing something wrong?

Is there something I'm meant to show?
Perhaps something I'm meant to do?
Would it be somewhere I should go?
Or is it simply Deja-Vu

I'm a ticking timebomb
waiting to go off
so if you fiddle with my works
try not to sneeze or cough.

My wiring is fragile,
my casing needs repair.
The people who  assembled me,
they didn't really care.

But when I'm in a bad mood
you should all run in fear
cause this little boy does pack a punch
because I'm nu-clear.

They should keep me in a better state
make sure I am A1
because if I go off you know
you'll all be dead and gone.

I often think of how you must have felt on that eventful day
it must have caused such turmoil in your mind.
You preach of love and loyalty to your father up above
but there was no one who treated you in kind.

Instead you battled prejudice from those you deem to love,
a love that was not plied upon to you,
disloyalty was so pronounce you must of looked to God above
but towards your flock no sediment did stew.

Of those you taught, who turned away announcing they new not
this good and holy prophet in his hour of need.
Allowing all and sundry to pronounce throughout the land,
that to eradicate this man they should indeed.

Your followers fled from you in fear for their own,
should they be of preference to gain?
They watched as humiliation and defacement were applied
and refused upon direction to utter out your name.

It was not until you died upon the crucifix that day
did your followers decide to turn and face the torrents flow
and pronounce to one and all of the mistake that they had made
by announcement of their Lord that they did know.

Alone in the workhouse. Is where she gave birth.
The starch Parish Surgeon. A Drunken old Nurse.
The cries of a boy child. In her arms did he lie.
Gently kissing his forehead. Before she did die.

Not to be married. Mentioned the Nurse.
Was not to be heard of. Almost a curse.
No Father to speak of. Illegitimate offspring.
His Mother a corpse. With no wedding ring.

Without relations. Brought up with force.
Grown as a captive. Poverties course.
Life in the workhouse. Juvenile offenders.
Selfish providers. Fat cat Pretenders.

"Mrs Mann", Overseer. An hierarchy lie.
Starves and abuses. Would let them all die.
Nine years of age. Each picking a straw.
The boy stumbles forward. Asking for more.

Gruel knocked aside. The fat man, Bumble.
Shocked and alarmed. Off top shelf does stumble.
Dragged by the scruff. Out in the snow.
Sowerberry’s undertakers is where he will go.

Childish look. Innocent way.
To walk at the head of the hearse, they will pay.
Treated unfair. Leading the dead.
Next to a coffin they position his bed.

Insecure Claypole. With nasty remark.
Temper unleashed. Thrown into the dark.
Overwhelming silence inviting a tear.
By morning, escape. Will leave this room clear.

Seventy mile trek. Things look so bleak.
In London he lands. Dejected and weak.
The first friendly face stands counting his loot.
All wide eyed and fresh. In whistle and flute.

"Jack Dawkins the name. But you call me Dodger.
Need somewhere to stay, cause I know this old Codger."
Old Fagin insists to offer him bread.
A warm place to live. A snug place to bed.

Next mornings instruction as Fagin explains.
We live by our wits. Rely on our brains.
Its not thieving we do. We take it by slight.
If they wanted to keep it, why leave it in sight?

Bet and Nancy drop by. For a drink they are glad.
Showing concern for this down trodden lad.
Oliver’s training goes on for days.
Each time he succeeds is allotted with praise.

The day that gave Oliver oh so much tension.
When he met the man he had heard no one mention.
Gruff, rough and evil, A man no one likes.
With Bulls-eye his dog. The man known as Sikes.

The day comes around, when Oliver goes out. With Charley and Dodger, their isn’t much doubt.
The two older boys get the items they sought. Though in all of the turmoil Oliver’s caught.

Brought before Fang, the court Magistrate. Innocent plea onto deaf ears migrate.
Last minute witness brings light forth to shine. On innocent captive in front of said shrine.
The message is out, the crooks are all fraught. Nancy is allotted to spy in the court.
The boy is acquitted. Nothing is told. Nancy relays that they haven’t been sold.
The kindly old victim shows pity on boy.A quiet misdemeanour, a look in his eye.
A child of worth, should not be alone. Mr Brownlow decides to take Oliver home.
For the first time in ever, contentment and love.Poured onto said urchin from those up above.
A picture looks down on this scene from the wall. Similarity so true, most evident for all.
But outside a danger does start to lament. The signs coming out from a previous event.
Sikes and his lady hide out in the shade. Waiting in patience for mistake to be made.
A simple small errand would easily portray. That Oliver Twist is not of bad way.
Mr Grimwig suggests that the boy should be bound. With a parcel of books and the sum of five pound.
Brownlow agrees but his friend will soon gloat. Of the loss of said books and the crisp five pound note.
Surely as hell the time is upon. When onto the streets the child is soon gone.
But Grimwig still boasts that the boy they did trust. Was simply a fraud and just earning a crust.
The kindly old man does have to agree. That Oliver Twist is about on a spree.
Held up and imprisoned by this awful pair. Terrified boy removed to old Fagin’s lair.
Bill Sikes decides that the boy needs a blow. Nancy steps in, she will not stoop so low.
Be satisfied Bill for you have ruined his life. Condemned the poor boy to an history of strife.
Is that not enough to cast onto him. He has been through the mill, now he’s out on a limb.
Brownlow decides to post a reward. For information on the loss of his young ward.
Bumble arrives for the five guinea toll. As he opens his mouth the lies they do roll.

Oliver is taken, carted away.
By Nancy and Bill to the place where they lay.
No notice is taken to the tears he will sob.
For Sikes plans to take the small boy on a job.

Shepperton town is the place they will go.

To silence the boy a gun he will show.
Darkness will produce where his sights are set on.
A quick in and out and with goods they’ll be gone.

Toby Crackit and Sikes are partners in Crime.
Through a small window will make the boy climb.
But plans all go wrong and they do not get a jot.
Although in the event the poor lad will be shot.

Old Bumble is called to the workhouse for wine.
With widowed matron intending to dine.
Things interrupted the matron must go.
To visit old Sally on deathbed below.

The dying old woman does make good a wrong.
As she pours out a death persons song.
She tells Mrs Corney about a gold locket.
That she in the past had decided to pocket.

Inside it gave clues to someone’s true worth.
As owner was dying whilst still giving birth.
To a small sickened child it could of helped save.
Returned him to family as she went to her grave.

Three Cripples a pub where to Fagin will fast. A man named of Monks will throw light on the past.
The story of Oliver’s plight he does pitch. Not knowing the boy has been left in a ditch.
Giles and Brittle two servants regale. Remembering the robbery they did make fail.
An embellished story that has one slight hitch. The bloodied young man will make their story switch.
Doctor and Constable soon to arrive. While injured is taken upstairs to survive.
Upon seeing Oliver, Miss Rose does exclaim. That burglar and boy are not one and the same.
Officer’s Blather and Doth examine the scene. Oliver soon will explain his regime.
Miss Maylie house owner and her niece Miss Rose. Will not let the boy to a prison expose.
Losberne the surgeon and Rose take some time. For ways to conceal the boy from the crime.
Giles and Brittle are forced to retake. Admitting to Officers that they made a mistake.
Oliver’s life takes an healthy uplift. And lady and niece are so glad of this gift.
Tender care and love, make this young lad at home. Never again need to feel so alone.
Losberne takes Oliver to London to see. Where Brownlow and Bedwin could possibly be.
Upon their journey the news they do find. The persons in question have left England behind.
Without any warning poor Miss Rose gets sick. Oliver runs to get Losberne so quick.
On his return as he walks down the lane. He comes on a man who is writhing in pain.
Having retrieved some assistance for man. Returns towards home just as fast as he can.
Wanting to make certain of good news for Rose. Memory of the man in the lane simply goes.
Maylie’s sons Giles and Harry attend. Harry wants Miss Rose as more than a friend.
Whilst Harry is aiming for fortune and fame. Miss Rose has a sensitive mark on her name.
Although the misdeed was no crime of her own. Her parents wrongs will not leave her alone.
Harry is aiming at Prime Minister. So marriage beneath him would cause quite a stir.
With love in his heart the relentless Harry. Tells Miss Rose once more that he does want to Marry.
Although after this time he will not ask again. A tearful lady does have to refrain.
Oliver wakes up in shock from a sleep. Whilst at the window two men they do peep.
Fagin and other man, run off for their shame. Memories rekindled. The man in the lane.
Giles and Harry soon at Oliver’s aid. Searching the grounds but no trace can be made.
Away from the scene things come to an head. Old Bumble and Corney it seems have been wed.
The matron tells husband about what she’s learned. About the dead woman, money could be earned.
Chance meeting with Monks Bumble does make. To meet this caped man his new wife he does take.
For twenty five pounds a deal is made. She passes the goods for which she has been paid.
The locket from Sally, she did take and hold. Inside of locket a ring made of gold.
Inscribed on the inside the man Monks saw there. The name of Agnes and two locks of hair.
Inclined is the man, evidence must go. Weighted and thrown into rivers own flow.
Sikes is in fever and sweat it does shine. As Fagin arrives to deliver some wine.
Fagin replies he does not think it funny. The sickened Sikes still demands from him money.
Fagin takes Nancy back to his hideaway. To get Sikes the money he must indeed pay.
A visitor arrives, two men speak alone. Inquisitive Nancy can hear their drone.
Whatever she heard commits her to see and knock on the front door of Mrs Maylie.
Admitting to Miss Rose so that she should know. Who kidnapped the boy from Mr Brownlow.
She explains what it is she heard from the other. That Monks is indeed poor Oliver’s brother.
Oliver later is out for a treat. He spots Mr Brownlow out on the street.
The young man relates what he saw unto friends. Mr Giles and Miss Rose to Brownlow attend.
Oliver is allowed a visit to see. Brownlow and Bedwin who don’t disagree.
The story from Nancy is passed onto both. To keep it from Oliver they all swear an oath.
The idea to see Nancy would be a vantage. So visit they must, upon London Bridge.
Plans are drawn up things are in sight. The deadline is Sunday. The time is midnight.
Sowerberrie Robbed, Claypole the crook. To London a journey. The police he should duck.
A meeting with Fagin does help to define. The shaking of hands as this union align.
With Dodger locked up the need for a new. Association, by joining the crew.
First on the agenda a visit to court. To view on the sentence that Dodger has bought.
The sentence is in, result deportation. For Dodger a blow, Fagin some irritation.
Fagin tells Noah he will give him one pound. To latch on to Nancy and follow her around.
The midnight meeting from shadows perceived. Of talk about Monks who is not too relieved.
Spying for gentry Nancy will announce. When Monks will attend at that old ale house.
Idea as such, he will be forced to declare. The truth about all he has worked for and where.
Sikes is informed of Nancy’s concern. Anger and hatred through him will burn.
When he returns home, throws the girl onto bed. Lifts up his stick and beats Nancy dead.
Sikes will flee London the following day but tries to drown Bulls-eye who could give him away.
Brownlow captures Monks, taking him to his home. After constant question his cover is blown.
The secret of Monks they were soon to discover. Real name Edward Leeford they then did uncover.
His father he told was forced into marriage. With woman with whom he had tried to disparage.
This loveless union for the father was coarse. So he left but was not to secure a divorce.
Agnes Fleming, this lady became his only affection. The two of them seemingly lost their direction.
As a result of this loving affair. A woman alone with unborn child to care.
Fagin and Noah by police are detained. Though Sikes and his freedom still they remained.
Held up alone at his iniquitous den. Out of the way of all other men.
Bates he does follow, Bulls-eyehe will track. Calling on others to help him attack.
Murderer Sikes is forced now to flee. For the ****** he did to his poor Nancy.
He uses the rooftop with avoiding intent. Hoping that crowds will soon give up, relent.
Using a rope to air his escape. About his person the rope he will drape.
High up on rooftop Sikes does his trek. With rope still entwined in a loop around his neck.
A slip as he ran caused a rooftile to loose. Effecting in Sikes with his head in this noose.
Onlookers can see this of this man that they dread. Asphyxiated. Hanging stone dead.
They say what it is that made this man die. Was caused by seeing into Nancy’s eye.
That her ghost came along and did have its way. Making Bill Sikes forever pay.
Even though this story we cannot prove. For many a persons minds this does indeed sooth.
A Letter its told was found by another. Proving to us to be Edwards mother.
Destroying both a Will and letter. Ensuring that Edwards life will be better.
Agnes’s father found out when she left. Became broken heart and soon to bereft.
His shame and honour were both denied. Accelerated greatly the time when he died.
Poor little sister is taken we see. By good Samaritan lady named Mrs Maylie.
Bringing this child up as her own. Miss Rose as she is now, to us be it known.
Bumble and his wife confess. To their dealings in this mess.
Concealing to Oliver’s history. Never again, office be held by he.
Harry’s makes change of his life’s employ. Prime Ministers aim he will deny.
And thus open another direction. To marry her of his hearts affection.
Fagin is sentenced for all of his crimes. The Gallows imposed for his evil times.
Oliver will feel a need to beset. Fagin for proof of his legitimate
Noah is pardoned, excluded his time. For his testimonie about Fagin’s crime.
Monks travels by ship to the new world. It isn't to long until his life is unfurled.
His wicked ways again he will try. Imprisoned, eventually this is where he will die.
Oliver becomes the adopted son. Brownlow a father does also become.
Miss Rose as aunt that will often frequent. To see Olivers life gaining so much betterment,
Life now to all will be a good friend.
This story is formally now at an end.

We walk the line together,
looking straight ahead.
Viewing the same scenery
and sharing the same bed.

Why is it then that we see
two totally different places?
Looking upon the same people
but seeing different faces.

I have never been unfaithful
but I refuse to shade my eyes
away from wonders of this place,
away from life’s surprise.

Every little thing within
my observational grasp.
Looking upon a life so good
and keen to make this last.

I walked this place for many years
before this love transpired
over any independence
of life I once required.

I walked this new route gladly.
This choice I freely make
to be with you of whom I love.
Have I made a mistake.

You watch my eye-line often
and woe betide I should
speak to another maiden,
your looks say that’s not good.

That elbow lock and loaded.
That ever waiting tongue.
Forever watching what I say
should you think I speak wrong.

I speak it as I see it.
I have nothing to hide.
I talk the way I always have
not to whom you do decide.

Your green eyed cast emotion
is squeezing at my heart.
Your jealous ways corrupt me,
my thoughts are now to part.

We had it for a moment.
I did all that I can.
I don't deserve this treatment
to whom I cant or can.

So baby now I leave here
I did not join this game.
You struck me out right at the start
and girl that’s such a shame.

Do I wish to see
or should i look away,
will blindness set me free,
what one can't see can't sway.

If horrors do invade
should I not divide
myself from them evade
and cast them from my mind.

My problems they are not.
I have no cause to fear,
some things are best forgot
they could not happen here.

If I myself involve
in others whims and woes,
in me it might revolve
the light on me then throws.

I try so not to care
my blindness keeps me clear,
pretend nothing is there.
Should help remove the fear.

Although I hide myself away
the one thing I do see
If I help not, this righteous sway
would anyone help me.

I hope I would not be afraid
should suddenly I meet my maker
he to whom I’ve often prayed.
Our Deity, our creator.

The questions I would want to ask,
why starvation of the poor?
Why hatred scores religious task?
Why some have less and some have more?

Why folk find hatred in their mind?
Why colour sparks such bigotry?
Why some use faith to be unkind?
Why others must fight to be free?

Why governments detest their own?
Why ****** indiscriminately?
Why more is thought of overthrown?
Why no thoughts go to us and we?

Why would there be a third world?
Why are we all not one?
Why love cannot be unfurled?
Why we don’t miss them till their gone?

These questions and so many more
are in my mind to ask.
Just to remember this list
is a monumental task.

But I think I know the explanation.
Free will was past upon the sane,
people should make self examination
and don't we have ourselves to blame?

For if the many of good intention
follow the bad few
and none of us try intervention
then what do we want our God to do?

For when we ask the question
at that final hour.
We may see the suggestion that
I gave you “people-power”

I sit here in silence
beneath candles glow
my body is missing
where my mind does go

I travel to cities
where I have never been
and I wonder the sights
that I haven't yet seen.

I love many women
that I will never hold
I am covered in Riches
but I do not have gold.

Adventures I've relished,
the future I've held.
Climbing peaks of high mountains.
Watched as forests are felled.

I have flown through the planets.
Visited deep below seas
even been into honey combs
just to visit the Bee's

There is nothing on earth
I have not undertook,
all from this armchair
and all from a good book.

Blistering feet, worn down to the bone.
Had to make my escape, they won’t leave us alone.
They beat and they whipped me to the edge of my life.
Even beating my children and ****** my wife.

If we retaliate it worsens our pain
and after they beat us, they beat us again.
They believe in their hearts that we are really no good
and to die for their cause is to do what we should.

People are Dying all over the place
but to those that are killing we don't have a face.
Our only defence is how fast we can run
as we try to elude where their bullets have gone.

So we run for our life and lots do not get away
this most ultimate price is the cost they will pay,
so I will walk to the end trying to find a new life
away from this horror, this turmoil, this strife.

Find somewhere that’s good and leave this hell far behind.
Somewhere I can mix with those peaceful and kind.
Where I walk down the street and I don’t have to cry
to the point of a gun just because I annoy.

Just for being a man, Just for being alive.
Just for wanting to not just to have to survive.
So I’m leaving this land, the land of my kind
and all of my possessions I am leaving behind.

In the hope for a place where we can at last find some peace
not ****** and hate from some elected thief.
Where starvation and drought is not worsened by threat
and the chances of living does not edge on a bet.

Where the toss of a coin can see a man dead
and a child will die for the lack of some bread.
I can no longer live, I think that I'd sooner die
so I'm walking away, no longer living a lie.

So off I will be, bare heat and the cold
just having to travel with the things I can hold.
With package of morsels I might struggle to live.
We have nothing to own, we have nothing to give.

So my options are easy with this change I am trying.
Either get busy living or get busy dying.
Before me this journey so dangerous and fraught.
It will not be easy, It will not be short.

But tread on I must this is all I can say
and hope all goes to plan, trying not to delay.
Searching this World for a place to be part
and try to forget all the pain in my heart.

But first this long journey a long walk in sight
I will hide through the day and walk through the night.
The losses of life will with time become past
and if happiness comes then I hope it will last.

Do you remember me old lady or am I missing from your mind.
You used to be my mother if you only could recall
but you sit here in this armchair humming tunes that no-one knows
and you can't walk without assistance, should you fall.

I've been sitting here for hours and you utter not a word,
just looking into the realms of space, what should I do?
There is no-one in this place with whom I've got a chance to chat
so I suppose I might as well stay here and chat to you.

I watch as you eat liquid meals that spill all down your front,
I mop morsels off of your face with paper towel
and all I have for this attention is to hear you passing wind
whilst your only ****** expression is a scowl.

We never ever got on, hence you living in this home
for you never did agree with me not one singular time.
Whatever I did do or say was almost always wrong
and you never bothered with me in your prime.

So I don't know why I care for you I must be totally nuts
I know you wouldn't want me here not even for a bet.
So I must have feelings for you floating somewhere in my mind
and I know that there are many things I really should forget.

Things sometime flash before me so brief they move that quick
and in all these little glimpses that must have come from God above,
they rekindle tender moments, when you were kind and so sincere
and provoke that once upon a time there must have been some love.

So then with these thoughts in my mind I will really like to say
that I am sorry for the loathing thoughts I have gathered through the years.
I will do my best to make these remaining days that little more
and will care for you my mother and keep you in my prayers.

Grave miss-shape of my words is used upon me. A scrambled charade of truth once told in such innocent converse. Whispers of reality merge with that of embellishment and ambiguity. skilfully woven and portrayed with tongue of Silver lined exception.

Graced upon to ***** audience whom cast ribald and ****** taunt from hierarchies seat. All of whom, in all reality recognize the stamp of torturous acquirement. All so quite clearly can be witnessed, should they choose to view this mortal shell of indicted personage positioned at their feet.

Blabbered brushed jaws painting this foulest of portraits, expressing disloyal and flexuous glimpse of devotion and fidelity. Dedication and overall Commitment that was once so sought after from those who now sit in expectant judgement.

Even unto Royal figure who with such ingratitude and for own expense should be so inconceivable and self immersed than to make false expression for own end. Formulation of such discourse would make even the most unfortunate of individual aghast in repugnant antipathy.

Upon to no Maiden in this realm should I even resemble that for which I stand accused. Particularly that one of Royal Nobility of whom all graces and respect should cast such humility and servitude upon loyal and most reverent subject.

Indeed I would personally Chastise so vehemently any such being who would envisage to execute such immoral and un-pardonable that as I am oh so wrongly accused of this day. With all flight and honour would I intend to right such a wrong passed upon a lady of such stand.

I stand in excellent company with upstanding fellow also cast avail by Unruly Royal and his band of foul hounds all baying to his every utterance and command.

To rid himself of loyal Queen with illicit words of degradation and misdemeanour is not one of a King, rather a Serpent that slivers through the slime of a false Heart. Deeming so unjustly to procure another in his bed for lack of male heir.

Once my loyalty to thee was forthcoming for I thought in my very soul there stood a King of elegance and splendid honour. But all such thought now bastardised as through yonder window shines true light of day.

To thee then Henry VIII, King of this realm I curse thee with every inch of my soul. God above will levy your foul action with female child, deny thee strong male seed and burden thee with an eternity of Hell.

As I wrongly die, I am crying for all that could have been. I cry for my wife and child, for an inhuman heart that sets his sights over the death of his Queen.

For twenty thousand rights cannot make amends for one singular foul wrong.

Sixty seconds in a minute.
Sixty minutes in an hour.
Twenty four completes one day.
How many days for love to flower?

I only glimpsed you for one second.
A minute for my heart to beat.
Was so in love within the hour.
That day I saw that face so sweet.

Our kiss a minute lasts a second.
An hours a minute in your arms.
When were together weeks are hours.
Our years but weeks this marriage charms.

But now your gone seconds are hours.
Minutes seems to last a day.
A day will slowly take forever.
Till we next meet so far away.

As you walk through the city street
there's something that you may not know.
What's going on under your feet
only metres down below.

Life is multiplying fast,
migrating sometimes up above,
to forage through your garbage bags
gathering the free food that we all love.

We carry with us little friends
that pack a really powerful punch
and there's nothing they appreciate more
than human blood for their lunch.

With the lesson of the past forgotten
by you humans up above
where millions died because of filth
and everyone lost someone they'd loved.

Yet still you throw away your waste,
you leave it lying on the street.
Disease is on it's way to you you
from little forager under your feet.

Call this disease what err you will.
Black-death, the pox but it's on its way
and all because you can't be bothered
but in the end it's you who'll pay.

In the meantime we will breed en-mass,
our babies growing, getting fat
and all can deliver to you this fate.
I really do love being a Rat.

He stares all day out into space,
looking for she whom does not show.
A frightened look adorns his face,
Is something missing, he should know?

He is not sure, why or who
these strangers are who do converse.
He doesn't know quite what to do,
why is he here? Why have a nurse?

They look at him with loving eyes.
Smiling glances flow across.
What do they seek and what's more, Why?
He does not know, he's at a loss.

These souls have so much love to share,
why are they pointing it his way?
He only wants his Mother around
and she should be here any day.

He feels sorry for such woes.
So lets them smile and talk away.
Secretly he does wish they would go,
he wants to go outside and play.

They say to him “Well bye then Dad.”
It sends such shudders down his spine.
He thinks that they must all be mad.
Call me Dad, I'm only nine.

They wave their hands as off they go
and he waves back, too be polite.
Though memories will never show
and he will not live through the night.

At his grave side his family mourn,
so sorry that he went this way.
It's hard forgeting children born,
and showing them no love display.

But as they pray they should look above
and as the sun lights, sullen day.
They might see looking down with love
the personage for whom they pray.

Disease all gone, with clear mind,
the one that earlier thought them mad.
With caring heart and thoughts so kind,
the spirit of there “Dear Old Dad”.

What gave you your direction?
What made you want to write?
What ever was the reason
that saw you editing all night?

Perhaps you loved Lord Byron
or for you was Poe the man
or maybe Keats or Dr. Seuss,
with his green eggs and ham.

What had you writing poetry?
Who did you want to be?
The answer to that question
is an easy one for me.

You'll probably howl
when you hear of my choice.
He's hardly a Jane Austin
or Helen Steiner Rice.

And it wasn't Charlotte Bronte
who gave to me the thrill.
But a little fat comedien
with the name of Benny Hill.

As a youngster I remember
his rather raunchy rhymes
that some would look at with contempt
but they did that in those times.

I just remember that he creased me up
and I would laugh and laugh all day.
I would memorise and tell to friends
when we all went out to play.

As the years went on and I read the greats
everything grew in my mind.
I read and read my poetry
anything that I could find.

But of all the brilliant scholars
that have written and do still.
None will grace my heart and make me feel
like that poet Benny Hill.

I have so many images
inside my head,
putting pencil to paper
and scraping the lead.
In case they disappear
got to write them down fast
before the idea fades
and the moment has passed.
When something appears
it is such a relief
so I grab it and run
just like a sneak thief.
When it's safely on paper,
It is finally wrote
then to another verse
my mind I can devote.
Then the process restarts
as I walk through my mind
searching all of my files,
hoping that I can find
that positive word,
that difficult phrase,
that momentous sentence
before my mind does erase.
So if you are like me and
your memory runs amok
then perhaps you should carry
a little note book.
Then you'll never forget
If you do get caught short
and you always will catch
That most elusive of thought