Under the microscope,
the microcosm of hope being telescoped
into your eyes.
Who out there denies that they have never been intrigued,have never walked the seven leagues to find inside themselves the mind that is their own,
Is it me,
am I all alone in this,do the stars not shine outside these bars of mine?
Underneath the microscope the seeds of hope shall grow,shall know me yet,before you forget me.

The eagle that stoops and then swoops,the marching of troops,the banks that recoup what they lend,the end of the line where what's yours becomes mine,the beginnings of time,the primordial slime that drips down on the naked,sublime may occur,though not here over there where the air is still ****** and pure.
This is not cure for a trust that I placed,stone will not rust before faith turns its face and looks out on displacements with vacant expressions,compressed in a moment an hour becomes flea like,a bug to be rid of,a firefly slides off the edge of the light in the night of no mention when water retention sparks wars and inventions makes ****** out of minds that crack questions they find and pick out the kernels,
internal relations,contraptions contracting first contacts relaxing the spans of the worm holes through strung theory portals,
and all of me mortal and just dying to know, where do dreams come from and where do they go?

Barbie's so sharp
she knows Ken is now broken,
he's just a token of
the doll he once was.

There are
words spoken from seashells,
whispers, but
wedding bells?
no,
the glitter shone for a time and
then faded.

It's gone in a flash,
too much ******* and cash and
nights on the lash with the boys.

Toys that we were,
but now Barbie don't care
she's got ****** and gin hidden
everywhere and
a rope that hangs loose,
a noose at the top of the stairs
no one cares,
not Barbie
not Ken and there's
no action men
anymore.

Everything broken
everything bust and
everything turns as I
touch it to dust,
except
plastic faces,
botox at the races and
never passing the post.

All we can hope for is
another shell on the seashore,
whispers,
for someone to see her.

At times it is hard to sail on
when the sirens sing songs to me
and the depths of the dark blue sea
call out to me.
In the fearing there is wonder
and I wonder
how come?
where was it written in the heat of the Sun that my Kingdom will come
in the fathomless deep?
Would I sleep my eternity in this, the fraternity of pirates and slaves
whatever happened to Jesus saves?

The sirens sing sweet things that bring me to endings
and the doldrums are here
pending a sharp wind and rescinding previous posts
I host one more party to start me on my way
to slip into and down through the beckoning spray
and when the waters close over and cover
will I then live to discover a meaning to all this
will the bliss that I have in mind be the bliss I will find
or will I disperse
in the teasing of tides that would ride out my bones across waves into more temperate zones.

The sirens fall silent and the night starts to sing
I bring up my collar and call to the Moon,
so soon
so soon and the sky goes to sleep
in the deep someone's calling
and I have to stop falling
I keep my mind still and in the stillness
I will
find my bearings and compass point
and that is the point
to read the map
to find a route
to sail one's ship
to not let go
to not let slip.

I should rip apart this sadness,madness
but what else would I be
could it be this is the one and only
long and lonely trip
we all must take?
before I break apart
I will start to stop again
pick up the pieces that lie in pain
and hoist the sails
put up the mast and hide from the rains
and in the distance in darkness
the sirens begin.

....and who are we that Eton,Harrow do not see,
we are the sinking of the sun,the wreck of the S.S Great Britain has come.
Where once we were the universe,rulers of lands and seas,we have been brought down to our knees to slowly, slowly sink.

Drink and drugs the slugs and snails what ails us,do we know?
Council blocks and towers knock us down to build new towns and the green belt gets much tighter,landfills full up to the brim the doors of opportunity are locked,we can't get in,too fat,too thin,old school ties and gold tie pins and who are we?the
disenfranchised and despised by those that do not see the rising tide of poverty.

Those we passed on our way up are those who put a penny in this beggars cup and wave goodbye,the sky has dropped, the horizon dulled,pulled this and that way,can't pay the bills,drink and drugs the only thrills and betting on the three fifteen to race along another pointless dream,
horsemeat in the freezer section,the four fifteen was my selection which fell at the final fence.

Prozac helps us to relax,**** the council tax and income band just put two blue pills in my hand and make it seem like it's a dream and we're not sinking,what a scream,a film show,I should go and see the launch,exercise to lose this paunch.

Tomorrow I may rise to see my ship Great Britain back at sea or I could stay in bed and thread excuses on a needle,sew myself a sweater,keep the heat in,can't afford electric fires not like those out in the Shires where logs are burnt,money earnt is money burnt in my opinion.

Back to basics,Luddite hills and give me two more small blue pills,put them on the bills of lading,degrading I can do,but you have so much more and it's ship to shore on the radio,rise me hearties off we go,one more mad dash to make some more cash,undeclared that's only fair,
the revenue can go and ***** and spin upon that middle digit,fidgeting?it must be fleas,do fleas get brought down to their knees?

You see,
in this last scramble to the death I ramble on with my last breath,they haven't taxed my fresh air yet but I bet they will,drink and drugs for one more thrill,up anchor as I will at will to drift away into the sinking of just one more day.

Harper scarpered with the loot and Jimmy Tang was in the boot of the Ford Escort,
thought he'd pull a fast one,how wrong was he
now he's off to see the sea in concrete shoes,
Harper doesn't lose he wins
and Jimmy Tang just spins below where tidal currents flow.
The Old Bill had their fill of killing,and
Bobby shoe shine who was willing to grass up Harper for a new life in Santa Barbara or somewhere hot and dry,told the old bill of a story,****** gory and full of death.
hardly daring to take a breath Harper hid out in a redoubt,(a throwback to some ancient war)
The cops swore later he shot first but it's anyone's guess,the upshot was,the world is less a villain and a spiv
and Bobby shoe shine doesn't give a hoot,he'd got his loot a different way.

Least said and nothing to mend
nothing to defend and no one to lend you an ear
and light continues to bend around the posts of the day,so whatever you say is distorted,reported by magnates controlling the press and however much less there'll be more, and the implausible causes of any decisions are picked over by vultures and revised into later editions.

Free press
get your free press depression read about free press aggression and say what you will,we'll all read our fill until we can all read no more and no less than no more.
Barons in Wapping now moved
and Wapping will be another new century, of debatable consumables sold in charcuteries and pharmacies and no more free press to distress the dressing rooms in boom towns and where once printers stood they will now sell returnable (deposit required) wedding gowns
it's no wonder I feel down and need a little lift as I sift through the remnants of yesterdays news,my own views irrelevant as I ride on another elephant all painted in white
another bending of light which we fall for.

There's always more than is less,
more to depress and distress me and drinking Darjeeling leaves me with the feeling that it could always be more
another front page to enrage me
another bent light to distract
and if you don't know it we're all being attacked by the news that we pay for
I think that's a bit more than I can take
I can fake things myself and don't need some gnome or some elfin in Tooting or Fleet Street to sell me a rag that tells me of nothing that I want to know.
So I'm going
We're all being snowed by the establishment gurus whose raison d'etre is only to abuse us
I've had enough of their bullshine
if light's going to bend I'll make sure that it's my light that glows
and not some nosepicking,cityslicking, lickspittling critter who couldn't see beyond his...
..well enough of that
I'm out of the next deal
if you want to get real you will be too.

Sunstroke.

There is nothing in the way she looks at me
that would lead me to believe
she'd ever read a book with me
or take tea out on the verandah.

Miranda
Miranda
I dream of Miranda out on the verandah with me
wish she could see what I feel
Wish I could steal her away for a day
wish she would say
'hey
how are you doing
I've got the tea brewing
come out to the verandah'
Oh Miranda
you make my heart ache
wish I could take you and make you believe
put my heart on your sleeve
put my lips against yours.

I woke up out of doors
I'd fallen asleep in the sun
waiting just waiting for Miranda to come.

Nothing for nothing unless you put something in and what you get out is nowt like what you put in.

Three blind mice
didn't get very far
the Farmers wife drove
a Mercedes Benz
had a 40 gauge with a
telescopic lens,
blind or not the trio
got shot,
three blind mice.

Not relevant?
but the elephant in the room needs
room to manoeuvre and
who's going to hoover up later?

Randomness, a pick of sorts all more some less or
like a drawn out game of chess,
the elephant still leaves a mess,
the castle takes the Queen.

A cat went carol singing on a cold December night
couldn't read the words to sing so
stood under the light,
three blind mice
see what you've become
the words in a song sung under a light on
a cold and dark December night
well
I never heard such a thing in my life,
three blind mice.

High
and nothing between me and the deep blue of the sky
and I have to wonder,
not at the wonder but the wonder of why
I could cry.
These incessant questions never leave me alone
even up here
where it all should be clear
I am never as near to the answers I seek
as when I'm down there in the crowd.
I ask myself out loud
what is it that keeps me from sleep and defeats me
and why do I seek when I don't know what for?

It's all needles and haystacks
I can never relax
I feel like my back's up against a solid stone wall.
If I fell
how far would I fall?
If I fall
would I be fallen or would I have fell?
These pointless questions give me hell
I'm on a roundabout
a merry go round
above the ground
way up high
where the moon steals kisses from the deep blue of the sky
I wonder why.
I wonder how and what and when
and again
I wonder
I pen
exhume those words in pain
shout out
roundabout
spinning
beginning to find a trace on the line.
Before I run out of time
I will know
I will go away sated
The journey is long
and I've hated the waiting
the unknowing
of what the picture is showing
and who held the key
was it me?
was that the mystery?
I wonder

On the horizon, I want to see,
four elephants marching slowly to be
joined by two zebras in stripey white coats,three stoats with hair tinted,a polar bear minted and in a sign of the times,a cavalcade of ***** that walk in straight lines.
On the horizon, I want to see
the new moon arising and setting for me,
Jupiter calling,Mars at war falling in love with his Venus and Uranus can do as it pleases, while in the lap of Saturn I map out my eyes on
what I would like to see on the horizon.

So long is
a long time
coming,
shortly is
just
the same.

They shot me full of dextrose,
god knows why
and now
it feels like I'm teleporting,
courting the sky,
kissing her blushes as
time passes by

Payments due and debts, racing bets that never win,the roulette spin,unlucky dice
and blood that runs as cold as ice.
The gambling man goes rambling on,against the odds,playing slots,losing lots and never breaking even.

Even when he pulls four Kings, someone shows a Royal flush,
at a push I'd say he's not a man who should or can play games of chance where any chance he has to win,end as lost chances in the ******* bin,
the loser's tin,he gets the *** of not a lot,no golden prize,look in his eyes,
despair and gloom
and in his empty room,TV hocked,door tight locked
he sits
tries to slit his wrists and fails,hammers more nails in his head yet still he wishes red came up on number twenty three,
he doesn't see the futility
of the spinning wheel that really is not real at all,
but an imprint on his tortured mind and the same goes for the three of a kind,another hat trick.

Just a sickness not the deal and nothing tastes as good as throwing double six and tasting blood,
all good
or so he thinks
so he drinks to hide his shame of not a penny to his name
and tomorrow will borrow another dime
to try another time
to change his luck.

The houses of Parliament set in relief
against
a background of greed and sheer disbelief
and Big Ben struck a quarter to the hour of ten
while the bespectacled gentlemen filed in a line
to vote on the amendment for the
twenty third time.

She tenses
I sense her,
she bids me
to enter,
I defer
to her
will.

Pull down the night
sky
to use
for a blanket and a
cloud or two to comfort
you
a couple of stars in your ears
to lighten the load of your fears
and settle down for the evening,

it's getting colder and you know, not because we've told you,
but because you feel it creeping into your veins
fogging your brains and maker it harder to think and so you sink into an uneasy sleep where the dreams that turned bad are the dreams that you had long before this kiss of death

and each breath that you take makes you wonder if taking one more breath is better than..but if hope's on the horizon it had better get its skates on,
time's running out for those sleeping out and Winter is licking her lips.

Dreams that leave you hanging from the
opera in your mind and the
orchestra keeps bangin' on and still
you feel that hangin' on
is the only thing to do.

I don't mind that dreams don't find their end in me,
I can shift the light around until the night can't see
where I am hangin'

The opera's another can of worms
storms in B cups
bombing tea cups,
do your dreams make you squirm?

Flight or do you fight?
I fancy flight, but
I'll take the biggest bite of you
and chew and chew, do you
like music in the raw?

Something more
or something that the lady wore?

Dreams that leave you hangin'

Eighty dollar Cuban cigars
fast women
fast cars
and a seat on the Board.
Lord,
what on Earth did you do to deserve all of that
Who's yanking your chain
who's pulling your cord?
Suddenly life seems so flat.

Dog ended days
Chips cut with corn or with maize
the life of the lowly
slowly I am beginning to get the gist
of the things I have missed
and I see things must change.

In this City
I can see disparity.
polarised opinions
factions on the margin
Verging on obscenity.

So should we all be stars in cars
have cigars with
fast women swimming through
in a boardroom grinning to, the poor folk
who's winning the war
what is life for if not for the promotion of wealth?
by stealth
and all other means necessary.

A pessary for Pilate
for where the sun doesn't shine
on this hit parade the weather's just dandy and fine
or it will be
when I get
what's mine.
Reserve me a seat on the board
attach the chain and the cord
and start
pulling.

The taller it went
the higher it got
the more that they spent
the taller it went.
But
as it went taller it
seemed to get smaller
a trick of the light?
or did it bend into the night?
Is that what they planned all along?

What if,
what if became what when?
what then?
and if then when
what if became
if what?

I lose the plot, but
can you see me
trapped in my own
duplicity?

The nightmare is always where I
least expect it to be,
haunting,
following me through the
shady streets.
I catch it at times in the eyes that meet mine
which I know are my own, or in
the tone of a voice that I hear and here is
the matter,no matter how deep I hide, that
tone of a voice follows me down inside,
you'd think I'd expect it,
but no,
which just goes to show how I fool myself into
a falser sense of security.
The nightmare always follows me.
I always expect that.

we get to get more and we give and give less and yet profess to be Christians that walk with civilians.
in whose army could we be if we don't see
the starving?
if we don't lend our eyes to the poor.

Letters get jumbled and mumbled words spill forth
a fifth of gin would help me begin
to sort these thoughts into a sensible order
but I can't afford a fifth and my sixth sense warns me
that alcohol will destroy me
so I set out blind
unable to find the sentiments in sentences or paragraphs
and,
someone laughs out loud.

Me,
I'm not so proud now
can't tell you whether or how I feel and though I want to be real with you
deal with you on an equal basis
my face is
lost in the jumbles
mouth that still mumbles
stomach that rumbles as the the acid builds
filled with some fear that if you try to come near
I won't and don't know what to say or do
and do you never stop and think
how much easier it is to write out words of love in ink?

I think a pen is a godsend to those who could not lend their mouths to their words
and in words I can write,
I can write us of night in the bed
pen it in red
pen it in blue
that's what I'll do,
Send to you my  love, written in lines and written of times when the mighty pen holds all the aces
even then my heart beats fast as I pace the floor real slow and the ink don't want to flow and I think there's something wrong with me
calamity.

I need some help to wander
then I need some more, to pen the words to make you soar
and will you marry me?
oh
the pen wants a wedding
shedding its ink into what I only think but have never said
penned in red.

If I used a marker
wore a parka
had a part time job as a fairground barker
would it be the same as any time I hear your name.

I freeze
and could you please unjumble me
unmumble the words I cannot say and let me be
a different pen and in the fountains where I spout
let me shout out everywhere
that you're my girl
but when?

The old and the new,
do you remember
December back then?

Stockings hung
bells rung for School?
fool,
no school at Christmas time.

What now?
Google invents the new advent,
twelve days and a million ways
to find everything,
Google
can even sing you to sleep
carols to keep you snug.

Bah humbug,
handbags are on another page
Google and see, but
we
remember the go out and look days
I guess
we
are set in our ways,
the old and the new do
what they do and
I do
too.

It's always like this,
One moment I'm listening
and the next
I miss what was being said
because the voices booming in my head
and taken me to that other place.

Up on the dais I am superman.

I can do it all
enthrall the audience
with my eloquence
but near to you I am struck dumb
numbed by the words that you speak.

I am weak
this I know
and that's why I go to that other place
but I carry your face in a cup
and drink it up
when I feel lonely.

If only I was filled with the will to be strong
I could hang on longer
Assuage my hunger.

On the dais the voices remain in my head
and listen to me
and to what I have said.
Why don't you?

One day I will hear
those words in my ear
and those voices I fear will leave me alone
until then,
I'm on my own and only I can understand
the man upon the stage
who stares into the distance
with a look set on his face
of another place.

Finally,
the beer is here,light and warming,strong and clear.
'Storming the Equator'
brewed by 'Thomas Roderick Slater' , founded eighteen sixty eight and by appointment to her majesty the Queen.
A finer beer I've never tasted nor have seen.
Excuse while I take a slip into a little sip of
excellence.

Inflation is just another form of taxation
on the poor.
Was it Keynes who coined that phrase
back in those Bloomsbury days?
when the world was younger than now
when the when and the why and the who and the how
didn't matter
but now
it's appropriate
because of the awful state
we find ourselves in.
Was it him
Was it Keynes?
It seems that he was right
and if so,
then we must fight against poverty
fight against penury
we
could find insolvency
in our own back yard
Life is hard and they make it harder
raiding the larder
taking the food from your mouth.
The South
bleeds us dry
from the Tyne
to the Wye.
We really ought to get wise
and get rid of those guys
in grey suits.

We're not here to represent the people that were meant to do,
what's the point in that?
We, the boys in Parliament are here to stuff our faces with Beluga,(booyah)
and have a pint or two,
represent you?
not a chance.

leaking pearl ear rings
shining
she sings of
glass.

In the images mirrored she
has borrowed a lifetime
and more
conductors who then wrote
and loaned
her the score
tampering with time
she learns how to mime
the words,

vocal chords shot by
the distill of
a thousand and one
mountain men
high on the skyline
an end to a lifetime
a drink to another
old friend.

Down by the remains
of the charcoal pits
ash still spits from
the mouths of the homeless.

In my dream I was again twenty four
out on the town and doing much more than ever before
and doing it very well,I might add.
Am I bad or what?

You really do not have a clue
as to things I dream of things I do and that's all good
I don't think that you, would like me as much or as well
if you stepped off the safety and dropped into the hell I inhabit.

But *** for tat if ya want some  o' that
you've got to be a delinquent
a teenage,old age tearaway,
a dream a day keeps reality away
and an apple in bed is better than a bullet in the head
or a 'Glasgow kiss'

How I miss those mad fights in back alley nights when the sun went off and disappeared
knocking out teeth and biting off ears and howling in rage when taken off to Barlinnie
and locked into a cage,
and then rehabilitation into a suitable product to be let out into an unsuspecting,unproductive,stuck up,shut the **** up,keep your head down half drunk nation of halfwits and half promised promises,the premse of which is we'll give you employment and if you're looking for fun or enjoyment you'll have to look further afield than the field where your tent is and how contented you'll be.

You'll see the future before you, before we then ***** you, out to high street agents who work on commissions from her majesty's prisons.
You'll hardly have time
to do any more time for you won't commit any more crime you'll be fixed up,mixed up with cocktails of hormones and shot full of honesty to be as honest as any one free,
and what will it mean when you're not mean any more?
open a door for a lady,well maybe
or smile at a baby.well maybe
give up your seat on the bus or the train and to make sure that you paid you will pay once again for a ticket you don't need.no more drugs,no more **** so you count the rosary beads and you'll wonder how wonderful everything can be.
can you see it all unfold as your bright future is told in case conferences and committees and everyone pities the lamb back in the pen
where the wolves and their teeth have injected a sense of morality,belief in your veins and you won't play any more games with dodgy credit cards or slip over back fences through unguarded entrances and make any appearances in courtrooms before magistrates who in any case are full of frustrations that they can't sentence everyone to death like they did in the old days
Oh yes
we'll change your ways and you won't recognise even though with your eyes you will see
what we
can do
when we shoot you

I have become the dead hour at Woolnoth
a sloth full of woe
and with nowhere to go
I go nowhere,see nothing.
Paradoxically
the deeper I sink
the higher I get.
I am set out on a table like gelatine,flowing slowly with nothing,is this a dream?
I need something soft on my skin
I need raindrops to stop me and let me get in
I need to touch and to feel that even I could begin,
but the clock strikes on dull,
I feel the stretching of sinews and I use up the 'tramadol'full already with 'aspirin' and 'panadol', and the mobile just lights up with the letters that spell out LOL.
it's the way not to start any day but the day never knew me.
I fly with the kites and am tangled in wires and the sloth only wants to settle,dreaming in spires, I aspire to be more than the dead hour.
I need to shower but the motivation eludes me and I sink further into the stink that I am become,
you can shun me I don't care.
I'm a slow learner on the back burner and I can't turn tin into gold,I need to be held,felled and falling into something more appealing instead of sinking into somnambulence and bouncing off the ceiling.

This is the state of play.

Nothing to do
everything to say
nothing to live for but sloths want much more ,as if there's a fire that burns deep inside them,ignites when they find they become men, and then there is Woolnoth,gothic and brooding.

Great poets don't die they live on and they lie in the beds between other poets heads and whisper,
do you hear them? the
ignition men
or do you hear the dull sound on the last stroke of nine?

With a lopsided gait
I decide and..
I wait.

By the river.

Stood upon the rusted piers
Looking out across the flowing years
My youth drifts in with fears of death.

A soft breath of an Autumn breeze
Whispers slightly.

Like an unbound ship I rose and fell
The well of life is never deep
Only deep enough to keep some dreams.

The seagull.

Screams and wakes me to a change of tide
If only I could ride under its wings.
Would things be different..would I have seen?
The well within another dream.

It is the way..as surely as night follows day
Time will take us..all away.
And what appears and disappears or whatever fears we fear
The end is always near.

And a body.

That skin which feels so cold to touch
How much I loved the heat.
Beaten down and toasted brown
Never thinking I would meet this day
When all is taken...all forsaken..

..as I stand and watch the shift of light
Shifting slightly to my right to get a better view.
The years I knew
The years that were
All there standing in a line...marking time.
Taking mine and me
Away.

No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.

In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)

But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.

A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.

In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.

In the outfit I can
be
the outrider,inside of
danger man,bigger
than superman,although
not quite as dangerous as
away in a manger man,
but I can always
dream.

I see no industry but can hear the buzzing of the Captains in decline,
the sign reads,
'work in progress'
I guess that sign is old.
No one told me that the rich would rule the land while bands of beggars roam with hands outstretched,
I guess I would have thought that sounded too far fetched,like some fairy tale being played out in a studio,like three goats gruff being stuffed into the *** and the troll got all the sauce,
of course we must be satisfied by crumbs that fall from fat men and their fatter waistlines but their were times when all this wasn't so.
Equality you know was not a dream although it seems so now,the fatted calf was carved up long ago and served by servants to the masters,greedy *******.
Now the factories have gone,heavy industry that once shone British might and steelworks blinding in the night have disappeared,our future has been mortgaged and our unborn sons are deep in debt,for this we get a bill each year and each year we owe more and more,the door is shut,tomorrow if it comes will find each one of us picking up more and more breadcrumbs which once we fed to garden birds and no words that could be written down or said aloud can make of me an English man feel proud of that.

Can any one of you please put a penny in this old mans hat?
The captains very deftly have packed their trunks and they've all left me in the ruins of today,no job,no pay,tomorrow came and I found out to late that tomorrow is today.

Second contact and down to the brass tacks,
the nuts and the bolts
good looking
no faults
as far as I know.

She scrutinises too,
looking at you know who
and who could blame her?

We agree on a next time,
I say,
at your place?
she says,
at mine.

Our first disagreement,
I relent
and say,
okay
at mine.

She wins this time.

Comments to cut in,to but in and blank empty spaces where faces should be
and what does it mean?
**** all to me.

Say what you want and do what you will
but until you have walked in my shoes,
just lose yourself in the crowd,
choose the words to use and if you can't use them wisely,don't use them,
and what are they worth?
**** all.

And if you don't say it clear,say it loud,come out from the shadows and put faces to names,
then it's all games.
A run around,a turn about to disappear into the space you seem to fear,
and me,
well
I'm not here,I'm just some
writing on a wall
worth less than ****** all,
should I care to worry or to fret?
my bet is no.

It will go on until it stops, until my ears pop and my heart implodes and my eyes end up at the end of my nose,
but then I'll see
and I'll see what it all meant to me
which is not much,
a touch of ink,a link to a site,a waiting through night 'til the morning flies in,a pain in the ****,a bit of a farce
but continue I will.

And time can do handstands or stay still, I don't really care because it's not me that's there,
I'm off on my jaunts to old places,new haunts and I couldn't give a fiddlers elbow whether you come or you decide to go,
whether you read me or not.
But
this is me
this is what I've got,
which is a *** to **** in and an ear to listen,
get used to it
or not.

Samphire on the sea shore and later
there is more
fish from the sea and all
of it free, I
set my table for the feast
drinking wine,
another taste of the grape and
the yeast
and the least I can do
is
to thank someone fabulous.

Dear god,
what a great job you've done
you gave me all this and
you gave me the sun.

ps got any ketchup?

Sunbeams dancing off the ends of leaves and
dropping to laugh along the rutted path,
running up my legs and tickling my tum,
sunbeams are fun.

We all think so except for grumpy caterpillar who only ever complains about headaches and hemorrhoids and pains in the chest.
His Mum's a butterfly and doesn't know why he's like it, blames his Father, the red admiral, 'he was always at sea', so she says.

'I'll be a sunbeam for you', we sang and the woods rang with titters and the twitter of birds,
'just storybook words', Mother said, as she tucked us up in a flowerpot bed and the day will be bright again tomorrow and so we borrowed some sleep from the moonbeams that keep the sunbeams 'til morning comes courting.

It's all about the social mining,the digging up,divining,modelling,refining,of what we call society,
the cream will rise like morning gold,
the frail,the weak,the poor and the old will sink into the sinkhole,poles apart from any start they though they might have had,
the world's gone fracking mad,
we are dug up,dusted,polished or busted and thrown back down the pit,they tell me **** don't smell so bad in a world gone fracking mad.
I refuse to heed the signs that say,'we'll all be socially mined one day' and prefer instead to look ahead to something far removed from the dynamite and the burning fuse.
The outcast few will far outlast the casting crew who cast their lines down the social mines to catch those who have not a clue that they're the bargain in the bucket,
**** it why do I care?
I've done my share of casting been outcast,outclassed,passed around and out and now in passing all I had, I still think the world's gone fracking
mad.

...and where did you go,
like the wind that doth blow through my hair
one moment you're here and then you are
where?

London welcomes visitors.

Vagrancy.
You can't see me but I see you
uncaring
staring at the faces
hiding in the hiding places
the alley ways and short stay cubby holes poor souls in poor condition
welcome to the new perdition.
Down at Millbank
the embankment
a euphoria
we live in Victoria under the droppings of the day where we lay
and you can't see us
but we see the bus
we were bussed in
put our trust in
and now we are here in the heart of the City
with no job or no home
and if you feel alone
think of how we feel.
Can't integrate  or get help from the state
and we're stateless and helpless
and guess what,
some of us drink
some of us think it's the answer we seek
until today becomes next week and next year
and on the streets paved with gold we've got old.
We should have stayed at home.
I'll put the NVQ's on a barbecue
that's what I'll do
because it's cold
the only options I'm told are to sink or to swim
I think I'll give in
pack up my stuff
enough is enough
and I'm fed up.

Comes along an interlude where
the many thoughts I have are
thought upon,chewed up,spat out
and that's what thoughts are
all about.
The shuffle in the pack,thinking,things and,
going back,redealing,feeling something new,
thinking does those thing to you.

The interval is where I break,
where thoughts can gather and take up
the slack,knowing they'll
be coming back.

One day the interlude will last and all thoughts passed into the past will pass away,
I'm not thinking of that day,other thoughts get in the way and that's the way of it.

Did I tell you how I prayed
on knees before the morning came
and listened to by bells that rang in mighty decibels
and fell to crush and stay my uttered syllables.

Where in the singing of the psalms did blood appear to flow from palms
and calm this torture
played out as a platform game on X box three or was it me
who could not grasp the significance
of an abeyance I would deign make
what if fakery was the order of the day and would then the bells ring out to say in sixteen chimes or as many times as I could bear
Would the lines that led to crucifixion day be written any other way?
Did those legionnaires despair
or on the darkened unlit stairs did they rejoice at choices made?

And we fade as thus we shine and in another time we'll do it,did it been there and bit by bit we bid this happening to reoccur
so we the unfit,unloved,unwashed,unholy,outcast ones can join in and share
the melancholy felt by those the ones who knelt before the cross
in the loss of things
or in the losing and the grief it brings another lonely bell rings out
with heartfelt pleas and once again I'm on my knees
and giving thanks for these the moments when the light has flashed
and bells have crashed to smother me with talk of other times
the chimes
the chimes
and would there ever be the time to hear them all before the call was sent
Did I not rend the air with blasphemy and would he see the truth behind the curses that I spat into the gutters
when in utter abject poverty
blinded by those who could only see
the misery and not the man?
I wonder if that was in his plan to make the beggars saints and vice versa
or could it have ever been the plan to make a man who felt so bad
that man who knelt would go quite mad
and wrap into a bundle tight
to trundle off with head down in the night.

I kneel before the altar
altered irrevocably
I don't need to see what others see
I now see me in my many faults
for I have walked and talked deep within the vaults of introspection
and selected only those the pieces suitable for my inspections of my soul
and now the hole there was is filled
and stilled the raging mind
and stilled the storm and tempest
instilling what is best and disregarding all the rest
I go to take my rest
and am at peace.

It is in her oceanic heart
that the beginning shall start
every tide will bring in a
new day.

Every way she can be
she is the deep of the sea
and the flow of the river
in me.

Let us catch the flashing lights
that light up London
new and old.
Let's hear the stories told
of ships and quays
and lovers loving from balconies.

let us see with our own eyes
the tower and its towering spies
and where the traitors lied  and children cried and died
with blood upon the king.

let us kiss the ring on the hand of the Queen
have you seen where she lives
and gives artsy fartsy parties?
The queen of hearts indeed.

Who was found guilty when the great fire took hold
in the London town of old?
Did the dear baker go and meet his bread maker
with tears on his cheeks?
Nobody speaks about that anymore.

It's sods law
God's law
can you hear the luddites roar?
London bridge is falling foul
of poor men
I can hear them growl
burn you baftard burn.
But 'turn again **** Whittington'
Won't turn and let the poor folk in.
Another rich man on the take
one more loser that we make the mayor of London town.

Another fake
the bridge never fell
it was made of wood
and engineered by those good poor folk
as they slaved under the mighty yoke
(yoke's a joke I did mean oak)
of the invader.

So let us catch the flashing lights
that blind us to the
real sights
and we'll not see
we'll never be
any the wiser.

She wakes up
drinks tea and puts on her make up
leaves home and catches the subway
at the start of a new day
and her face looks okay
just a little bit older
two degrees colder
because the man on whose shoulder she used to rely on
to cry on
is gone.
The letter was on the sideboard
stating that he had got bored and wouldn't be back
and Jack(that was his name)
had packed up his bags left a half smoked packet of **** on the chair
and moved out of her place.

Her face is a picture painted in oils
boiling on the inside where the tears glide over the 'it's over'
No one had told her and she hadn't guessed
that she would be left all alone.

But you make a bed
you lie in it
make love
have fun then you die in it
and it is always this way
So put on your make up and fake it
take it
and break your heart
at the start of your day.
Is it not always this way?

***** got Fawked
somebody talked
to the Feds

and what did we get?

reds under the beds
missile attacks
packs of madmen
running free

zone one could be
so nice,
but
Westminster was saved
because some daft sod
raved about
*****.

it's that time
not long after nine
when the lights dim
and him
(that'd be me)
asks her
( that's She)

would you like a cup of tea
or something?
she laughs
I bring the tea.