My shoes rest on concrete
as I lean on concrete
and stare at it.

Everything is concrete;
especially our mistakes
and our final outcome.

We are not music,
or art,
or the future
or hope,

we are what has been
before us:
one step closer
to
the
end

Waking up half drunk,
forcing the food down
and then sitting on the toilet
to feel everything that was there before
burst out of me,
whilst writing it down.

The sounds that I try and hide
because the woman I make love to
is laying awake next door.

The knowing,
that all I have to do
is wipe,
brush my teeth
and head for the bars
to start again.

Please, for the sakes of yourselves,
SHUT THE HELL UP.
If you are going to talk
then talk.
No one who is anyone
wants to hear
how you love the football
or despise the government
and immigration.
It is dull, two dimensional speak.
It says a lot about you
-you say a lot about yourself:
dull and two dimensional things.

But, I suppose I like listening.
I now know that I have nothing
to worry about.
I got out, in a sense.
Sometimes it gets lonely
looking in at everything
you can't be part of,
but most of the time
it is the reason I haven't bled to death
or run in front of one of these cars
built by idiots
and driven by them.
I tried it once,
but I didn't know what I was doing.
As a result, I won
or maybe the car won,
I'm still not sure.

Anyhow, let me get a beer.
I'll be back soon

It's Gospel
Category: Writing and Poetry
The blacks are singing gospel music
through an open window;
they have their god.
I just said goodbye
to the most beautiful girl I have ever seen;
I don't have mine.

I need the cold bottled beer
to slide down my throat,
but the landlord has overslept.
Some people really have it made
and they generally make it a pain in the ***
for everyone else.

Fifteen minutes to go.
I've held out for an hour.
I swear to the god
who is being projected from that open window
if that door isn't open at one 'o' clock
I am going to **** someone.

They cling,
they dive.
Sometimes they rise to the top.
They ****,
they blow.
Sometimes they get lucky.

At the end of the day
our fight isn't worth it.
We press on
against nothing.
We try and make sense of it,
but that is as much of a waste of time
as wasting time.

You can keep telling yourself
that you're something else;
progressing further.
I used to do that.
I was wrong.
You will die just like me,
and I will die just like you.

They deal in hatred
-often well disguised.
Religion impregnated
the extremists.
Then the fingers
really started pointing.

No one is left
without being chastised.
Immigration knocked up
national pride.

Everyone is waiting;
glaring at each other.
We are all dogs
being cattle prodded
with hatred
until our leashes snap.

What a circus it will be,
even more so than now.
More so than ever.

I am both sad
and excited:
If it takes so much
-a moment of finality,
of bloodshed
and horror-
to make them realise
that they really ****** this up
with their superstition,
flags
and greed

then I will grin
through the whole
disgustingly fitting
affair.

'Throw it away,' he said,
'throw it away
throw it away
throw it away.'
Hume didn't believe
that any man had
thrown away a life
while it was worth
keeping

and nor do I.