I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.

Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii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It seems like we're going to be strangers
Living different lives in different cities
On different channels
We were best friends
You made me smile
Your smile made me laugh
My laugh made you smile.
Why do parents go and ruin everything?
I'll miss you
I wonder whether we will stay in touch
I had another friend like you once
And now we don't talk too much
I'll always drink my morning milk out of your mug
(You left it that time by mistake,
I kept it ever since. On purpose, sorry).
And I'll always think of you whenever
The clock says quarter past.

Be your sweet 16?
Whatever do you mean?
You're twenty-nine,
Now's not the time
To celebrate your teens.

Yeah it is -
If fans are years
I'm only fifteen
(And a half!)
On here.

So now you *do know what I mean
Say you'll be my sweet sixteen?

Like star-crossed lovers
We did our dance with death
And no one else will ever know
Exactly what was said.

Tomorrow, in shame, I fear
The sun won't show its head.

Shrouded in secrets
The men from F-Branch
Recite the techniques
Undiscussed in advance
Of Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Hundreds of men
Hooded in the dark
Of the midday sun
Kneeling on the run
From Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Suspected by students
Back home and online
Theories get conspired
Petitions get signed
"Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance with Terror!"

The attorney general
Is called for advice.
A solemn exchange
Top down bottom line.
His argument is
"If it's nice it's all right."

Ministers from Ministries
Are detained and questioned
By the goggles of a press
Suffering sleep deprivation.
It's like a game of touch rugby
Outside downing street
With a twist on the rules of 'Just a minute'.

And outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Democracy doggedly dances her dance.

But the rhythms of the dance
The stress of white noise
Peaked
And escaped on the wind
Blowing through the forgotten kindness
Of confused hearts and minds
Escaping through the drafty guilt
Of hung up uniforms
Dancing on the mumbling lips
Of sleeping soldiers
With wives, partners, families, friends
Back home
Who don't know what it's like
They don't understand the drill
They can't do the moves
They don't know what it's like.

But the dance did not stop
It did what every bad vibration does
And moved elsewhere
And was henceforth known
By an unpronounceable acronym:
JFIT!

And now we join James
Young musclebound man
With a drink in hand
Back from tour of duty
It's a Saturday night
And the Weston women like a soldier,
A real man.
The fact that he
Has been doing his duty.
"Do you mind if I ask..." Asked Deborah
Showing more than necessary of her bra
"Where was you based, your base in Iraq-
Your third base, in particular?"
"I'll tell you," Said James
And the ladies came quick
Putty in his hands
Just like a joystick.
Said James, with the gravitas
Or some silverscreen star,
"While out in Iraq,
I was stationed
At a British logistics base in Shaiba.
It's outside Basra.
Basra in Iraq.
Iraq?
You have heard of Iraq?"
But by then,
Deborah and her bra and her friends
Were talking to another group of men
Who worked in property development
And apparently, Deborah, they're neighbours
Or something, because that one said
They've got seventeen houses between them.

But what James hadn't told them is this
The exact meaning of words in English
Like British Logistics camp is
Not always what you think that it is.

Oh did I say camp?
I meant base.
Please delete any mention of camp
From the record.

It was not long before
That James' routine
Had been... very different
To say the least.

Indeed soon after crossing the border
And re-invading his parents' home again
He'd been watching Jeremy Vine when
He spotted a pattern of systematic abuse
On the curtains
Whenever he muted the telly.

James decided to get out of the house
And to help him get a grip
He decided to go shopping
But when he looked down at his list
It said:

59 hoodies
11 Electric plugs
52 Alarm clocks
122 pairs of earmuffs
160 torches
117 blackened goggles
132 stress positions
39 enforced nakednesses

And by this stage he realised
That perhaps he ought to see someone.
But instead of seeing a journalist
Or the Swedish King of wikileaks
He went and saw a military psychiatrist
Who charged him a lot to let him speak
On a one-off profit plus! contract
James ended asking the same question
Week after week -
Do you think I'm crazy?
What does all this mean?
The doctor replied:
"Of course you're not crazy,
It's just your mind is very ill,
I'll tell one part of it to ignore another part -
Here - take one of these little pills
They're only one pound ten each
And if you take one
Every three hours
Every day
For the rest of your life
(Or until you die,
Whichever is longer)
You'll be fine.

Meanwhile,
The dance continued to be taught
Like capoeira on a foreign-office team-building course
On the art of interrogation
The alpha-tango
Aimed at prisoners of war.
But the footsteps of karma
Where circling once more
And the base back at Shaiba
(Near Basra. In Iraq?)
Was once more withdrawn
This time to the airport
Along with other UK forces.

Now relatives of the victims
Both at home and abroad
And those most susceptible
To empathy's ill-considered force
Were planning to divert the dance -
Divert the Dance!
Divert the Dance
with Demo Dances,
Demo Dances!
Demo Dances!

Then it was the turn of the politicians
To work their magic of popular logisticians
By answering the questions no one has asked
Like are we human or are we just dancers?
We are just humans
Doing democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance
Democracy's dance with
(cough, cough).

And the news reporters
With their sleep-deprived goggles
Reported in such detail
As to make one's mind boggle
Each step, each move and each deliberate error
Of democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
With Terror.

(To be Continued... on the BBC)

You started it.
Now look at the floor.
Whole house smells of smoke
You woke me up at four.
I'm never coming back
Only when it's dark
So I don't have to see your face
My friends are dying in the park
I hate telling lies
But you made me
Because you wouldn't accept the real me
Some times I just want to see my friends
Because that's what I need.

Silence is the sound
Of a tree falling down
In the forest.

He's very often sorry
But he doesn't say it.

Silence is the sound
Of the sun beating down
In the forest.

He's very often sorry
But he doesn't say it.
It's like he kind of prays it
But nobody else can hear it,
Still less likely believe it.

Silence is the sound
Of the rain coming down
In the forest.

*He's very often sorry
But he doesn't say it.
It's like he kind of prays it
But nobody else can hear it,
Still less likely believe it.
And though he doesn't say it
He's very often sorry.

My voice?
My inner voice?
Sometimes it is me.
But sometimes, we disagree
And then we split in three.
I guess I am the one
That takes the middle way.

The bacon she bought
Fills the kitchen
With the smell of a morning
Done well.

But she's already left -
She drives three hours
Every day
To prove her career
Is worth pursuing

He's at home
Wondering if one day
She'll be bringing home the bacon
While he's keeping the house clean
And bringing up the children
Stocking cupboards with medicine
Looking after daily chores
Running back and forth
While she's bringing home the bacon,
She'll be bringing home the bacon.

The salty skin of popcorn
To warm November's coals
Let's go to the movies.

The sound of rain is comforting
When you have lost all hope
So is candlelight (try it!)
And something to smoke (don't).

My love I need my freedom
And it is yours to give -
Ay - there is the rub
And the short of it.

The Crystal Palace tower
is solid grey and home to none
its flashing heart beats for safety only.

I felt love today
a fleeting feeling passed through me
like radiation, but in knowing it,
it passed away...

turned into paper
never slept
thought he was a horse
fell in love with the mirror
couldn't be happy
hated everyone
just wanted chocolate
lost his way
forgot how to laugh
could stop time
couldn't understand metaphors
promised too much
hated to let people down
came home in the end

Luke was such a dreadful fidget
He couldn't sit still for a minute
He'd toss and turn all lesson long
Like a caterpillar crawling on a cattle prong
He'd flick his rulers, click his pens
Cluck and fuss like a headless hen.
His tutor, a tall and sombre man
Was struggling with his teaching plan
He'd taken three days to prepare
But Luke was more than he could bare.
"Right! That's it! I've had enough!
If you don't stop I'll call your mum.
Unless you're really in fact quite ill
I'd advise you to stop it. Oh do keep still!
I'm just about to lose my mind, oh Luke
You're being quite unkind!"
But Luke was on a sugar high
"I can't stop!" He said, "I don't know why!"
And with that he jumped up, began to dance
He leaped and swung and swooped and pranced
Till all the neighbours gathered round
To gaze and gawk at this unsightly sound...

Just
A sense we have
For the future that is in us
Strange and Familiar
Like the break of day.

Surround me now, LOVE, like linkage
From beauty to the belly-button of the beast.
Umbelli me here my dear, let me feast
My eyes on your whole from the inside out.
Your flesh and bone, tan-toned complexion
Is f-ucking with my pheromones.
I crave your privacy; forbidden zones
Between ticklish toes and feather pillows
We'll mingle moments and non-moments of
Equal                 weightless                      ness.
A shared glass of milkwith your lips lingering
A lazy-fond sofa-based simmering.
A clinging a crumpling of breath accidental
Harmony undressed by a simple - YES

We fell in love too young
And when we woke up it was gone
Not the love, but the youth,
Not the falling, but the truth.

We fell in love too fast
And no one got to finish last
Right buttons, wrong order -
It ended with a start.

We fell in love too freely
In the flicker of touchy feelies
The End - staring out the ceiling
For the slightest crack of meaning.

We fell in with the wrong crowd
Of love and lust and luck
Till nothing else was true
Except we couldn’t give a ****.

We all fell out in the end
Lovers, family and friends
Until nothing else was true
Except I fell in love once too.

Thank you for reading this far
I really didn't expect our relationship to get off to such a good start
After all it's easy to forget on this thing the internet
That you're often speaking to someone that you haven't really met.
And btw,
Please feel free to stop at any time
Honestly, I don't mind,
No go on -  really -
If you click away it's fine
We'll just put it down to our different styles -
I can't face in all directions
No matter how hard I smile.
But now, given that we're roughly at the halfway point
---------------------------->  x <------------------------------
Well, we've passed it now, but I'll still make the point
Once you're half way through this river of words
Turning round and heading home is on balance probably worse
Than just pressing on - so press ahead, keep the faith!
You never know a scrap of meaning might escape the maze!
After all, what is a poem if its subject is unclear?
And what's a human who does not know why he is here?
But by now you're probably getting bored of my rhymes
And wondering what else you could have done with your time...
Yet you carry on reading, a glutton for meaning -
I know you've kept up or you just wouldn't hear me
So now for my message, the bit I believe in -
You better click 'Like', before you click leaving.

My father gathered tinder from outside
and left the fire burning
as he disappeared upstairs.
My mother said goodnight.

Her fleece followed her
like Charlie Brown
away and up to bed.

The  cheap green leather
where I sat
felt shiny and thin
and big enough for two.

My other half I imagined
tucked up and dreaming of me
wrapped as one
and breathing in her breath.

There’s something in the fire wood
side by side
two twigs have met
in flaming consumation.
All that remains is death.

"How old are you?" I ask.
"Guess!" she says and giggles.

Old enough to have a favourite brand of cider
And write poems about breaking up.
Old enough to say, "I don't do boys",
And hold Zoe's hair while Zoe's throwing up.
Old enough to wear a tu-tu in a half ironic way
And not rise to the bait, whatever chavie-di and chavie-dum might say.

We're dancing down the high street
Up the sunsplashed canal
Underneath the pirate bridge
It's like another town;
Camden's wearing make-up
Like a goth come out in Spring
The teens are taking over
And they're forcing us to sing
Bring yourself, bring a smile
Bring bring what you can bring
The teen's are taking over
And they're forcing us to sing.

"How old are you?" I ask.
Flirteen she says, and giggles.

I don’t believe in growing up
I’m still a schoolboy pratt
Whenever I see bra-straps
They just fidget to be snapped.

Sunburnt brit:
It’s the new colour
In the Dulux range this summer.

If dogs had people’s thumbs
And people had dogs’ tongues
Would they be texting messages
While we were sniffing bums?

The cutest thing is when confused
Mummy’s little soldier
Waves the skirt of truce.

I guess there was a last time
I sat on daddy’s head
And grabbed on tight to his greying hair
As he led me by the legs

… a watercolour freshness
breezes through the open window.
The trees are stretching,
Shaking their sleeping dust dew
From their earthy leaves:
Nature’s man-made morning is
Apple-crunch crisp.

Black ink branches stretch sober against the drunken orange sky determined brush strokes ever upwards side by side lovers carve their names in oak afraid that they alone are not enough to bear witness to their greatness

fearless twigs to root themselves in air and ***** at nothingness ever upwards and alone inside themselves a cold wind blows they brush each other in the breeze while green tips know that somewhere long ago and down below

we were related

but now

no turning back threatened by inflation and rivals that compete through fear and jealousy compare ourselves and someone has to lose happiness no more magic than energy neither made nor lost just changing

hands our currency no worth our pompous pity cannot afford the toll to pass a millimetre closer to ourselves in ever shrinking families as words remove us from our cousins and define our being badly

Barry’s dead.

I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.

Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.

Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******;
That’s the story of your life –
All
      most
               man.

Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…

I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.

Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:

For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.

(Earnestly)* This is the first time I address the House
From these back benches in twenty-odd years.
I must confess that I had forgotten
How much better the view is from up here.

It was frequently my necessity
As Leader of the House to talk my way
Out of accusations that a statement
Had been pre-empted by an interview.
On this occasion I can gladly say
That no such interview has taken place.

First I have chosen to address the House
On why I can't vote for a war without
Support at home or agreement abroad.
The present Prime Minister is the most
Successful Labour Party Leader of our times.
I hope that he will continue to be
Our Party Leader, and I hope that he
Will long continue as successfully.
I have no sympathy nor comfort for
Those who use this crisis to remove him.
I applaud the efforts that he, heroically, has made
Until today to secure a second resolution,
And nobody could outperform the Foreign Secretary
In trying to win the backing of the Security Council.
But the intensity of those attempts
Just shows us it was vital they succeed:
Now those attempts have failed we can not
Pretend they were of no import to us.
It is not France alone who wants more time.
Germany wants more time, and Russia too.
Indeed at no time have we ever had
The minimum support we would require
And it is mere delusion to imply
That this degree of fierce hostility
Can all be due to France's President.
The truth is that Britain is being asked
To go to war without any support
From any body to which we belong:
Not from NATO, not from the EU and
Now, not from the Security Council.
A year ago a coalition formed
Its cause: to wage and win a war on terror.
To end in diplomatic failure
Signifies a most obvious error.

History will be amazed surely at the
Miscalculations that led so quickly
To the fall of such a coalition.
The US can afford to go alone;
But Britain is no superpower now.

Our interests are not best protected by
Unilateral action, but by the wide
Agreement of a World governed by rules.

Tonight the partnerships we value most,
The EU and the Security Council,
Are those that sadly are the most weakened.
These indeed are heavy casualties when
A single bomb has yet to be released,
But since the US have already warned
Their strategy will be to "Shock and Awe"
It seems, of casualties, there will be more.

It's been a favourite theme of our critics
To say this House no longer occupies
A central role in British politics.
Nothing could better show that they are wrong
Than for this House to stop this Government
Committing troops to a war that's without
Support at home or agreement abroad.

I intend to join with those tomorrow
Who vote against this war now at this time.
It is for that reason, and that alone,
And with a heavy heart... that I resign.

It’s embarrassing to have too much money
The make believe buddies and the fake deference
Measuring your height in yachts and widescreens
Kids who are unfamiliar with your touch
Ever more expensive toys to overflow
The ever-thinning circumference of time.

Holidays can be a way of dealing with
The superfluity of excess in day to day lives –
The addict learns to miss his true love
While the CEO goes food shopping
And remembers how to set forks and knives
On an empty placemat’s either side.

I don’t like Marmite.
I’m going up on deck.
Don’t look. Don't Look. That’s why I said don’t look.
WAIT! Somebody! I have to go inside.
To find my glasses. My swimming glasses.
In the wonderful world of haribo.
Do you smoke? I don’t want you to die. Why? But why?
The purple ones are so sweet, did you know that?
A giant one came out! A giant one – two eggs!
In the game his eggs are like – that – big! He made two.
Is that friendliness?
I’m going crazy.
But dadDy!
My feet used to be – THIS - big.
I told you you had to use this.
Hey you! Come back with my slippers.
Put a glass with only ice, I want to make very very very cold water. ..

Trying and failing to get to sleep -
I’ve never sailed before.
I've already tried counting fish
So I turn my thoughts to statistics
In the hope that they reassure:

The chances of dying on a yacht are
Absolutely minimal
(Unless you’re a millionaire).

So when the ocean swells and the boat rocks
I pray to the god of my holey socks
That danger is safely slipping by
On my port or starboard side
And the hungry old whale of fate
Has bigger fish to fry.

Nobody understands children
Or plays their games properly.
Nobody looks them in the eye
As equals
Or tells them a secret
In return for one of theirs
A real one.
No one cares what they think,
Just how they are, and what people think of them.
They do not exist.
Their opinion is not there.

It’s sad because
In many ways
They’re good at life
And in many ways
We’re not -
We take on too much,
Live unsustainably
And end up
Disappointing all round.

Oh well.

Julia exercised her power
Over the happy family’s
Holiday photo shoot at dinner.

To cage the moment
The adults sent a camera to either flank of
Her and her father.
She was suddenly reticent, shy, they thought.
Her face dancing away from the camera
While she monkey hugged her father
(For some more haribo).
But he would not give in, because he did not have them,
And everyone wanted a picture of them together,
The spotlight was on them now,
He was sweating in the glare of the media circus,
The pressure was mounting, no retreating now.

So when daddy said,
"Come on Julia, smile for the camera!"
She narrowed her eyes
And clung harder to his neck,
An all-encompassing embrace -
Not so much of love, but of
The only power she had –
To hide her
Face.

"What's up Julia?" Asked Dad.

"I'll smile for you if you want,
But I'm not smiling for the camera." She said.

(Earnestly)* I beg to move the motion
Standing on the Order Paper
In my name and those good names
Of my Right Honourable Friends.

Straight up, I’ll say, it’s right that we this House
Should debate this issue, should pass judgement.
That is democracy; that is our Right
That others elsewhere struggle for in vain.
Again I’ll say I do not disrespect
The wavering of those not yet convinced.
This is a tough choice and – yes – a stark one:
To stand down our committed troops and turn back
Or to hold firm and so continue on.

I strongly believe that we must hold firm.

The question most people will ask is not
Why does it matter – no – but why so much?
Well, as we brave this new Millenium
And face up to the Nation’s greatest threat
With our majority already stretched,
A resignation from the cabinet,
With all the other parties also split,
With everywhere the closest of allies
In disagreement while on different sides
Those who usually would not agree
Agree on this. The people, this parliament
Echo the discord with an echo made
Less bitter as time passes, not less grave.

So why, then, does it matter quite so much?
Because the outcome of our firm resolve
Will find itself determining much more
Than Iraq’s future and her peoples’ fate
More than the liberty of an whole race
Brutalized in Saddam’s sick sick name.

It will in fact decide the way in which
Britain, the world and we confront the threats
Our right to liberty requires met.
It will, what’s more, affect the UN’s role,
EU relations, Transatlantic ties,
The manners of the US in the world.
It will prove the political pattern
For a generation, perhaps more, to come.

This is no longer the time to falter;
I will not be party to such a course.
This is now the time for this house to lead;
To show that we will fearlessly confront
Terror, tyranny and dictatorships
Which threaten to put all our lives at risk.
To show that at this moment of decision
We have the courage, we have the vision
To do the right thing. I beg to move the motion…

Through the day's clutter
In idle moments
To distract myself
From the great grey elephant
Who is no longer in the room
I notice myself
Experiencing a new pleasure -

"Russia - a short history."
A book of black on white on red
Something reassuring about
The prison bars of text
Keeping time at bay.

At school I couldn't much relate
To history. Why would you bother?
To unravel distant mysteries of
One done thing after another...

But wars that once took place
A hundred lifetimes back or more
For every step I take away
Are closer than before.

History was one of Grandad's things
But now, the opposite is true
And much as I ignored it
It seems it's coming for me too:

Now I've a habit of my own
That comforts me in bed
I used to read the paper
Now it's history books instead
And perhaps I'm closer to him now
I'd chuckle if he said -  
*History's a place where no one dies
For they're all already dead.

Ms. Love & Mr. Understanding -
They go together like
The mists of love & misunderstandings.

Ms. Love was 15, Ms. Love woke up
Now Ms. Love is 25 with no one to love
Except memories of yesterday, once upon a far away
She met a boy - same old story - now he's gone and now he's all she
Wants – but they both have moved on
Yeah they both have moved on…
Or haven't they?

Dan understanding understated undemanding
Underwhelmed to find his hand in hand in hand with Beatrice Blanding
She's a nice girl in the right world and though she may not be the right girl
She loves him dearly
And he loves her… nearly
But is it nearly enough?

Looking for love behind all the wrong doors
Like you came into the bedroom and forgot what you came for -
Is it something different, is it more of the same?
Was it someone else, or is it me again?

Dan understanding gives Ms. Love a call
He says I've missed too much of your life already I can't miss it all
Oh, what say you wanna play? I'm on a train I'm round your way
I'm up to here with being brave, I want to see what life could have been
Do you know what I mean?
Do you mind if I lean in and…
Kiss you?

Looking for love behind all the wrong doors
Like you came into the bedroom and forgot what you came for
Is it something different, is it more of the same?
Was it someone else, or is it me again?

Ms. Love & Mr. Understanding -
They still go together like
The mists of love & misunderstandings.

The phone rings
I can't tell which
Pocket is on fire.

I take it out
Already answered
Something is dangling

It is my father's tears
Whose common theme
Is death of fathers.

"Is it Basil?" I ask.
"It is."

There is no CCTV
On the open sea,
Just you and me
Like roving pirates
Risking our lives
To ruin other people.

Life's the longest distance between two points:
Doggy-paddling through the present backwards
Understanding words already spoken
Right hand on the wheel, torso twisted
(As in standard reversal procedure),
Looking out the back, advancing slowly,
Careering backwards down the motorway:
We see ourselves in car windscreens becoming
Reflections of ourselves in passers-by.
Decode the numberplates, look out the sides
For chaos, chance and consciousness to coincide
And tell us that we haven't missed our turn,
Forever facing where we can't return.

I found your number in the yachting pages
Listed under ‘x’. It took me ages.
Bet you thought that ship had sailed.

Last night we talked instead
And words weaved their way
Like threads around each other
Into rope, at length
The hope and anchor
Between a future and the pasts
We did not share till now.
Moved together with the swell
Of gentle laughter
Cast out and overboard in faith
That a lifebelt given was a moment saved
From drowning.
Inadequately,
I thanked you for the chat
You disappeared down the hatch
And got a bout of earache
Shortly after that.

We head for home tomorrow.

My mate Marmite
Woke up in bread with a girl -
I can't believe she's not butters.

I wish I could be a monkey cub
And climb on any breast I loved
Hug any neck, tug any dress
Like a child who hasn’t yet
Learnt how not to love.

The cat comes round from next door
When his humans have all gone out -
The kids with their mum’s high-pitched voices
Daddy "Drill" with his DIY shout

And the cat comes and sits, sits in silence
And he rolls on his back on the floor
And he asks you to tickle his tummy
Then he asks you to stop with his claw -

Yes, it’s nice of a day to have company
Of the kind that don’t too much distract
Yes it’s better than telly, oh isn’t it very -
Nice to have neighbours with cats!

One day in an office somewhere,
On someone else’s time,
Someone had an idea -
They were looking for ways to make up money
Out of thin air.
Now this someone somewhere was a man
For want of a better name, let’s call him Dan
Dan’s idea was simple, it was this:
Let’s start making make-up aimed at kids!
Not kids like students, or as in school kids,
But real kids, you know, of 9,8,7, even 6!
Infants, toddlers, babies, that’s the biz!
We’ll be the market leader in make-up bibs!
Tell them they get purple potts when telling fibs
But try our concealer - Mum won't even notice!
We’ll get some newborn WAG to celebendorse it
And call it something aspirational like, Babywish
In fact, before 12 months they’re really not all that clever
So how about “With Babywish u2 can live 4ever!”

Adults wear make up and try to hide it
Or at least they want people to see
Their best side, and think it’s really them.
Kids, on the other hand, or teens
Are not meant to wear make up
So that means they wear it...

Loud and proud!
Bright red lips!
A mascara sandwich -
With blue eye shadow sauce.
I’m stuffing my face with quick fit zit fix
Foundation, blemish remover
And a dab of blush.

See, I get a rush
When I see myself in mirrors
And don’t recognize myself for half a second
Think, ooh who’s that?
The teachers hate it
But it’s my face -
And face it - it’s my right
If I wanna change it.

Two wires, living in a bag too long
Our lives got crossed and tangled
The days came out all wrong.

Tied ourselves in knots
Over the simplest things
Never forgave before we forgot
Anything.

It's like we knew all the words and we still didn't sing.
It's like we knew all the words and we still didn't sing.

It's time to make it happen
Find the words
Throw the cards
Up in the air
Realise
You only get one life
And care.
I am alone
It is just me
These words are mine
No one will see
My heart will beat
Until it stops
I carry on
Because I'm lost

Writing through the daily wall
A blank page of A4, a biro scrawl
It’s a bit like playing arkanoid
Bouncing ***** and breaking bricks
Rotate, rotate – and that’s Tetris!

Perhaps there’s something on the other side -
Another level, a higher level, a new frontier.
But sometimes I wonder.
And when I do I’m like
Someone suffering dementia
Locked in an instituion
He cannot think outside of
Alone in the courtyard
Talking to soundbites from the past
Unaware of his own
Uniform.

-Opening-

Some things are part of you
And yet you have no control.
Certain memories and habits are -
And my sister was just so.

On the morning of the funeral
Mum gave me a mint, a polo
I ****** it for a while
And felt the ‘o’
Dissolving into a thin hoop
Of mint on my tongue.

And somewhere in there was the memory
Of other moments spent
******* the ‘o’s of meditation
Years, sometimes decades ago.

There was no narrative to these memories
Save me
And during those moments that narrative
Could not see itself,
Or the relative position of its parts,
But moments do not need narrative
To be complete
Like Bryony,
I’ve found life to be
Oftentimes bad for me,
Like confectionary
And cut flowers
Short and sweet.

-1-

Bryony is now a rose,
But once upon a time
She was a mischievous
Kink in a hose.

At Kingswood Drive,
Ben and Bry on the same side:
“Daniel – help us out! The water’s stopped-
Look down the end and check that it’s not blocked.”

At last! A chance to be of use!
The baby bursts with pride -
Just as the hose unkinks
And sprays him in the eye.

-2-

Bryony ran away from home
To join the circus known as Camden Town
A world of orphans with piercings
Selling t-shirts to clowns.

I didn’t understand it,
Neither did mum and dad.
But we went to visit once, me and mum,
I must have been about six,
Can’t remember much,
But it must have been a good night –
Always is –
When you end up in high heels and a dress.
I was her little manniken
In a whole world of fashion.

-3-

“Dan? Pass my bag there with the moisturising lotion.”
I do so, and by return of post –
A vague memory of a smoky blond from photos.
I always thought she would be a model
When we were growing up.

I didn’t tell her until recently
When she’d acquired the cheekbones for it
But now her skin rippled
With dry amusement
At the notion.

-4-

At the hospice they admired
Her strong will and determination
To join the dots
Of visitors
With a shaky stubborn line
From declining throne
To the swing seat
In the garden.

“They’re lovely here.” She said.
They were not trying to change her,
They were helping her accept.


-Ending-

An ending fitting for a start
A rhyme she made me
Learn by heart
My earliest memory of her
Playing pattercake
And saying:

Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.

Two strangers lie skyward
And wonder if their stars are crossed.
He’s gentle and she is soft;
They nudge and shuffle closer
Until they’re equally as lost –
Arm hairs touch,
A sudden rush
From depths of stomach
To somewhere up above.
If we were children,
We would call this love.

Twilight silhouettes.
An evening cigarette, up on deck.
The sun sets - on the far side of the cliff -
While the boat
Dips and lift, dips and lifts.
Golden brown all around legs returning
A golden sun is burning out
Turning down the volume on the sky
Now the whiteness of the day seeps through
Our sand-entrenched shoes and is swallowed
By the vastness of the wine-dark sea.
Our salt-encrusted shoulders have rolled no boulders
To touch the sun at noon
Long afternoons through hazy pastel views
Till the day’s foaming sea breaks
Upon the hilly hooves of Spanish rocks.
Meanwhile, the spine of a sleeping giant
Lies in a hazy snooze,
Its camel back runs grey to black
Across the flat horizon. Pupils widen
As the semi circle of gold is swallowed whole
The velvet sea rolls gently for Poseidon.