You are a poet lacking poetry
A composer who never penned a symphony
A clown plagued by misery
A broadcast not shown on T.V

A duck pond missing mallard mates
A panda without panda traits
A perfectionist who makes mistakes
A pacifist who fights and hates
_

Poorly built Jenga towers
Polka-dot the moor
The cows and sheep, for centuries
Have wondered what they're for

Perhaps they're ancient ladders
Leading straight to heaven
But the last young lamb to try it
Fell down and smashed his head in

The cows tried them as markers
To work out where they are
But in their field that's useless
As they never travel far

The word springs from my mouth
Lips part just like blades
Tongue bounces north then south

Scissors was the first word
My infantile-self uttered
Since that day, my vocab
Has grown increasingly cluttered

Using my favoured blades
I resign to cut a few
But Scissors, sacred Scissors
I shall never sever you

When something snaps
The ****** all bolt
Dogs out the traps
We all collapse
Down the plughole
Like turned on taps
Jaded expats
Bourbon, poker
All throw craps
Black top hats
Line the road
Like mourning bats
Marital spats
Crystal prisms
Where love refracts
Wear navy slacks
Stare out to sea
As mars attacks
Nightmares hide facts
Flattened like focaccia
Under fifteen all-blacks
Fuss over Goldman sachs
You know we only blink
When it's the shirt on our backs

Pablo went to the circus
The lithographs give it away
Unless of course
He had the knack
Of producing a place from scratch
An imaginary circus

The positive and negative space
Silhouette circus
Of hoops and bears
Gymnasts on chairs
The blank faced audience


He also did ******* bullfights
In 1946
His blood splattered face leering
Over his lithography

There are two unfinished gins
By our bedside
The night took us
And made us forget

I reach out to quench thirst
In the morning
The juniper taste of regret

I watch you while you're sleeping
I listen to you breathe
You'll wake up and leave soon
Then it's back to the distillery

There's just one unfinished
By my bedside
The night's over
You fell through the net

I reach out to quench thirst
In the morning
The juniper taste of regret

There is an elusive group of creatures
Seldom spoken of by sensitive souls
Lining railway tracks as far as they stretch
Hiding in hedges, dashing down holes

All it takes is patience
An ounce of imagination
From Taunton up to Stoke-on-Trent
One can be spotted between every station

The Hedgetracker is spotted
Silver eyes glow in the green
Though most keep sightings to themselves
As to be believed they must be seen

Hedgetrackers should not be feared
They're neither vicious nor malign
They just want to keep their peaceful lives
Of watching trains fly down the line

When I dream at night
             which is usually, although
Not exclusively
             when I tend to dream

There is always a giraffe
              at my side
His name is Rothschild

I thought you should know.

Mr and Mrs were in love
It had been so for years
Still every time he came home drunk
He reduced his love to tears

The rule of a love triangle
Is somebody must lose
This household was no different
Mr , Mrs or the *****

A posse of cronies
With button-marked thumbs
Were part of a ring
Of cyberspace chums

With crimson-lined eyes
They played night and day
Till some solemn stranger
Took their machines away

The stranger stole through the dark
Before they, could awake
To tip their technology
Into a lake

The groups sleep-rested eyes
Opened to see
The redundant space
Where gizmos should be

Some shouted, some cried
Some just couldn't speak
They rose from their beds
Confused and knees weak

Once clothed and clean
And breakfast was through
One cry could be heard
'Now what do we do?'

We argued over that Marc Bolan record
That I knew wasn’t mine anyway
We argued over that Marc Bolan record
It’s my demented way of passing the day

I love to see the lines on your forehead appear
They run so incredibly deep
I love to see the lines on your forehead, my dear
When you’ve got the bit between your teeth

So when I hear ride a white swan
I can’t help but think of your face
Fighting your corner for T.Rex
That cosmic dancer in outer space

The young boy looked puzzled
Sat slumped in the car
A day trip to Grandma's
Roadsign : Not far

To his curious child's question
No answer replied
This proud, Grey Englishman
Watched chevrons, sighed

People pray for their mortal life's extension
Others for peace, for hate and wars prevention
Some atone for sins too dark to mention
Me? I pray for salvation from convention

People pray in aid of middle eastern tension
Others for freedom, no more Guantanamo detention
Selfish suits pray for the latest invention
Me? I pray for salvation from convention

People pray for the safeguard of their pension
Others for good, for evil's condemnation
Some pray for forgiveness for an earlier conversation
Me? I've lost faith

A young, fairly attractive
Woman mouths
The words to the
Latest chart entry

She thinks no one is watching
I am

A balding, middle aged
Man picks
So aggressively as to
Carve a new nostril

He thinks no one is watching
I am

Sat in the Car
With time on my hands

The breakfast massacre of '95
I was young and naive
I was fresh-faced and alive

I cracked open my egg
Was about to let loose
When my soldiers arose
And marched past the juice

Down over the tablecloth
Straight on from hot tea
My buttery battalion were
Heading for me

The breakfast massacre  of '95
I was bruised and battered
I was barely alive

Parma became violent
She threw her weight
Around

Bertie cowered
Hunched shoulders, eyes straight
Down

Parma pounded, pummeled
Bert's soft head fell
In

It takes allsorts
Bert's final thought
There is no sweeter sin

A new arrival sends him itching
To drag open the drapes his fingers are twitching
He benchmarks the day as they come and they go
From window-framed photos
Stories of his own

Relays the album, day after day
Till the thought becomes fact, he can’t shoo away
It bothers him and blights him
The ****** won’t quit
Till he retakes his throne at the curtain slit

I watched the part time poet
Warble

I watched the part time poet
Drone

I watched the part time poet
Get the **** off his chest

I watched the part time poet
Walk home

I watched the part time poet
Greet his wife

I watched the part time poet
Undress

I watched the part time poet
Pour a glass of wine

I watched the part time poet
De-stress

I watched the part time poet
Close the curtains

I hear the part time poet
Call the feds

The part time poet seems
Somewhat displeased

Officers, there's a part time poet
In my flowers beds

The uniformed man who handles me
Is a part time poet too

Now I can go full time
Got enough on my hands
At least two hundred yards
From you

Fill my mind with ideas, ideals

Epiphanies or banana peels

Push my back with a helping hand
Grace my cheek with fist
A sponge, I soak up everything
Assassinate me or assist  

My ears are always open
Though do not always understand
I must hear every argument
To grasp that helping hand

Fill my mind with ideas, ideals

Epiphanies or banana peels

Ignorance is bliss
How often it's been stated
Though I'd prefer to know everything
As bliss is overrated

I, dressed in the shade of an overdue bill
Sat with my sack and a hat with white frill
Awe on small faces as they all filed in
Fake white hair on my lip above a beaming grin

William was his name, thin and pale
With eyes so wide from watching bread turn stale
As I called out his name and pulled out a box
He shook and came forward, black shoes, white socks

Merry Christmas, I boomed , I hear you’ve been a good boy
Inside this box hides a fantastic toy
He took the gift from me, staring in awe
He leant in to my ear, on tiptoe, heels leaving the floor

‘I love you Santa’ he whispered

Prehistoric seabirds soar
in an inner city park
Young mums frame a Victorian lake
No doubt it changes after dark

Pink noses
Pleasant roses
Water hoses
Reeds part revealing Moses

St George never visited
Only his name
The English patriots bombard
The land from which he came

But let’s leave the politics out of the park
On a sunny day.

Enid turned her wheels
A red flash through
Luscious green
Across the wall of corns

In what felt like
No time at all
The gabble reconvened
Inside the hessian on bread street

Taiyo and Darcy
Evoked the Spanish coast
Fresh faces following
More mature fingers

Frankie and Debs
Move us from Spanish shores
To Antarctica, with penguins
Brian and David

Then comes 'The Man'
Four men , four beautiful men
To play us out and
We don't stand a chance with them now

The was a young boy
Who was terribly fat
He ate all he could find
Including the cat

That horrific act
Heralded by a wail
From the greedy boy's mouth
Protruded a tail

Oh no poor *****
How awfully sad
'Listen here my boy
You're making me mad'

But as the boy's father
Shouted and spat
A space was appearing
Right next to the cat

The lads mouth was wet
His belly a-rumble
Now was the time
For dead daddy crumble

Two young Americans
Sit before me on a train
Discussing their fathers fashion taste

How did this conversation start?
Is there any way I can interfere
To halt it?

A woman runs full pelt past my left-hand window
The doors shut, she gazes through the pane, as we
Move off- wet eyed, gutted

I try to express with my dry eyes, sorry eyebrows
That she has been saved from a fate
Worse than a quiet platform

The air is taut
It snaps and crackles
Surrounded by a crowd of jackals

No one knew still no one knows
From where this ****** Ivy grows

Through the keyhole up the wall
By Thursday it was ten feet tall

No one knows still no one knew
From where this ****** Ivy grew

The air pulls tight
Thick Ivy shackles
Enter in the crowd of jackals

The man in the mustard shirt
Stares through the crowd
Showering them with
Well measured words
And sardonic smiles

Proped up by his lady in red
I wish he'd let her sing more
If I saw him in the pub
Tightly knit curls
Resting on his pronounced brow

If I saw him in the pub
I'd allow him to purchase
One half of pale ale for me
He can do what he likes
With the other half
-

Patrick Lawrence was too late for the H and M super sale
He ended up with a turquoise shirt and sunblushed salmon chino
Combination which doesn't work on myriad levels

He played the bass though
Redeeming himself through the medium of song
He is almost forgiven

Lucian ,



The unfinished dog

The torn chesterfield

View of the sky

Stillness of age

The running tap

The scattered rags



Lucian                                         Perverse

                           Lucian                                                              Abandoned

Death hung in the air
As thick as biscuits

The milliner went
Mad as a hatter
Exhausted from playing the field
Spin bowler and batter

And death hung in the air
As thick as biscuits

The baker excels
At idle chatter
Drinking pints of cream
Pink buns by the platter

And death hung in the air
As thick as biscuits

The banker needs
Needs someone to flatter
A strict rotation of ties
The same old patter

And death hung in the air
As thick as biscuits

The origins of our hero
Neil Heaven
Is a tale that
following in the footsteps of a great many tales
Has been whispered and shouted
Twisted and doubted
Far too many times to mean much of anything anymore

This much I can confidently state as fact
Neil Heaven is a cat
Neil Heaven is the cat.

Neil Heaven was once so overwhelmingly chill
He slippped into such a
Dazed state complete with
Contented drooling smile
That concerned
Botanical garden staff felt compelled
To contact a feline psychotherapist
Who was able to assure everyone that
Neil Heaven
Was far from unwell
He was in fact
Wellness itself

Wellness catsonified.


Neil Heaven was once
Headhunted by the dogs
But politely declined
Reportedly stating
'All creatures are equal in the eyes of
Neil Heaven
I must respectfully decline but
Am ever so flattered by your
Interest'

Chatting to my pal
Neil Heaven
Recently
It came out he'd never
Seen the internet and
Was unsure exactly what it was for

So I explained that it was access to pretty much the
Collective knowledge of the
human race
Neil Heaven smiled gracefully
Turning to leave purrs
'But I already have that'

Neil Heaven
Takes an annual tour
of the vineyards at Châteauneuf-du-Pape
To share the fruits
Of his gifts in the field of oenology.

Sat in a room with Henri Matisse
You must have many questions for me
I said
Henri smiled

At that very moment    snap      -Gyula Halasz-
His Hungarian walked in
I dropped my tea
She dropped her dress

Henri drew
I drew a blank

Just standing there
Without a chair in the world

Two beaten baboons
Cling to each other
His dear wives

Kids flinch
Cross banana fingers
Hope for the best

Flamingos are shallow as ****

'How do lions go?'
'Rrrrah'
'See him in the corner
Shall we go to the shop
And buy one'

The last time I was
At the zoo
I contracted
   Ragworm

Regal tangs
In aquariums
Across the globe
Are sick to the back gills
Of being called Dory
By over excited children

S
Lucy really wants to eat a mountain chicken frog
Lucy would touch that croc's
Xylophone tail
No issues
Lucy doesn't reckon
I could pass
As a zoologist

Everyone in this city looks tired
There's a policeman in white gloves
A whistle clamped tight between his lips
He's not afraid to use
He is flapping in my direction
I give an apologetic grimace
For the many crimes I have
Apparently just committed and
Speed off into a crowd of tired tokyoites