It is surely in the hour of the day that the moment lives and gives us more than we think that the moment we live in gives,
when in the passing of the scattering of the fleeing images, we see some sense of an ending,some order to finality.
I may be right or wrong,
and that is the long and short of it but I am caught up and intend to free flow with it,to whatever that finality may be.

I see the end as beginning and in beginning this end, I tend to muse on those thoughts that are sent to confuse and send one into a spin,it's a waltz on the fairground,
a merry go round,a wurlitzer,blitzer,blockbuster and the lustre is still there,
shine on sweet time.

And it's all in those moments we often forget,those what if we did's and we didn't do yet,
and the wish it was me's but it is if please,
dismiss the hours in a day,
and those moments in absentia would lead you into dementia where you would not know the real from the moments that feel,right or wrong,each day is as long as the rest,
take the best of them
knit them in gold and hold onto them,without them you're old and grey and the day is still there,
watching you stare at the blank and the bleak and next week?
Next week
another moment will seek you,may find you but what you do is what counts in the end.

The duvet's in a ball and I'm falling into clean white sheets,she greets me,meets me halfway there.
I think I'll put my teddy bear, away
for now.

Oh Valentine,oh Valentine
thou hast forgotten me
for where is
mine?

There is no night
no day
no love
no way not a minute to say
or an hour left to pray
no more games to play
or debts I should pay
everything
everything
everything is grey.

No blacks
no whites
no colours to light up the nights
no stars in the sky
or tears left to cry
and nothing to say
the whole World is grey.

Where once I had seen
verdant valleys of green and the reddening of a rose
and colours had put on great colourful shows
I now see places
obsolete, formed by the desperate concreting of dreams over blue mountain streams and in the scenes of a play
I watch my life turning grey
and I'm old
I have sold the fountain of truth for a look back at youth that I was
and in the young man I see
a colourful rainbow that once upon a long time ago was me
but no *** of gold no more colours to hold and nothing more to say
everything
everything
everything is grey.

(20 minute poetry)

Life beats you down
it gives you the smile
and then rips you
the frown,
dontya just love how
life takes you down.

It's rhetoric and enough of it
to make you sick.

What makes you tick?
What clicks your fingers?

Who needs to float when an ocean's so deep?
Who takes the dog watch tonight?

I keep my own counsel.

The season changes rapidly,
Spring bouncing by and blue Summer sky falling in,
can you
feel the sting
yet?

There's an upside I'm positive,
a terminal ending in a plus sign,
that ending is mine.

But it's Tennessee blue in the Central line zoo,
they're all caged
so am I
watching and waiting for
the Spring to bounce by
for the Summer sky
for longer days
for
different ways
to move on.

I always reach out for the sand on the beach it's about building castles where memories reside,
I tried building houses but the incoming tide washed them away.

so
there's an affinity between my heart and the sea

somewhere inside me a moon's on the wane, a universe dying, another star trying to shine

and it's a crime don't you think or don't you think
that we're on the brink of extinction?


When we go which we will
will there be anything?

Who'll take the mountain to Mohammed
when we're dead?

I'm clutching at straws as the last of the ****** repent
and I'm reaching out to the beach it's about
holding on.

In her sleep where she keeps a matchbox full of dreams, unlit
I sit beside her bed and listen to her voice,in dreams she said,
'I want you now,tomorrow will not do'
'and I want you', was my reply.
She shifted slightly  and gave a sigh
I separated the why from how and now just need to know the when and then we'll fly away
dream together every day and in every way or thing we do
I'll be there ,watching over you.

So sleep now dear, the future is much nearer, than you think it could possibly be
you and me
East and west
the beast is tamed by the best
West and East
the best tamed by the beast
and see how good it will become.

Light your dreams up
fire the sun
forget the fun though fun it will be
and open your eyes
see
me.

We're being faked out,taken out,shaken down, by skulduggery so rife in London town,and we wait for it,salivate for it,cant get enough of it, we even pray for it.

Lubricated,down the pan and flushed away by 'the man',ending up or bending down,it's all the same to London town.

Don't try to tell me,that this is right,or we should bite the bullet and accept our lot,it's a dot on the card when life is so hard that we have to stand and fight.

The 'establishment' might not like us
but those ******* in their close knit groups,storm troop us every day and take away our pride,chide us,ride us,grind us down,remould us,reminding us how cold it is when we can't afford to pay for heat
don't let them beat you,defeat you,cheat you 'cause we'll get through
and do them down.
Life is like that,
London town,it's krap
It's going to snap
to fall apart
the streets will rise,the building's fall and down at Mansion house they'll call us ****,
well, that don't hurt a bit
Let them **** on caviar and sip sauvignon at the trough, while poor men cough their lungs up,
brung up,wrung out,strung up and finally thrown down,
why would anyone want to live and try,have children who die in
London town?

The memory of a death comes knocking at the door,but of a death that has been and gone before,
and it will come again, as it has for many years and many tears have been shed.

Fred Wimbow didn't know the time and wasn't quite sure how to dress for his interview,
but he knew enough that to impress, he'd better look his ***** and span,best boots and spats a nifty cravat and hair tonic on his moustache.
He set of to the interview with answers ready in his head and was hit by a van which was driven by a short sighted man from Hartlepool and then poor Fred was dead,quite so,
and when Death came a knocking at the door the widow Wimbow knew what for.

And she was waiting case in hand to go meet Fred in the promised land.

The moonlight,silvery,garnishing the sand
and
I
working at the lime pit
hands caked white,
a negative in a night of negatives and
wondering about the
what if's and if I might
flow,
like the lime in the kilns flow,
hot and steam through a tropical dream.

Breakfast,
an ordeal of a meal when my
mind
already full
can take no more.
I want to be under the moonlight
on the silvery sand
on a tropical shore.
Is that
too much to ask?

There's a playing field inside my head,a
rugby ball,a double bed,a
library,librarian too,
three tigers?
no,
in fact a zoo.
so much goes on inside of there
underneath this mop of hair
it's more than I can really bear,
I wish that bear was in the zoo
inside my head
I really do.

In 35ml the day flashes past
I wonder how long the film will last
the camera shutter melts like butter in her hands and trickles down like golden sands beneath my toes.
I strike a pose beneath the morning light
the lens opens wide
and takes one more bite
one more sight to see
in one more picture I could be
an album of colour photographs
silent looks
silent laughs
pictures fit from yesterday.
The camera shuts upon today and I release my grip,
slip into another frame,
one picture's just the same as any other image you could mount
on top of countless
others.

It can all be found down on Strutton Ground, or on Victoria Street,where the Angels meet up once a week to seek out worthy causes,
in between and between the pauses of the traffic that rushes past,eyes are cast among the cats eyes that sprawl on roads so lazily and look to see the racing of humanity.

Fleeting are the fleet of foot that shut away ,what, but only if they knew are people just like me and you.
And tanks tread leaden legs and heads no longer full,pull doleful souls to where the Angels stand and lend a hand.

Victoria has many palaces but palisades they'll all become,importuning what light there was and opportunities are light because,
the work has dried up,******* in the red tape of black crepe soled shoes that use the halls of parliament and only to abuse the lost,the friendless and the night seems never endless for this section of society.

A one armed Gorilla from Gabon
climbed up a tree and hung on
though he couldn't swing
oh boy
could he sing
and he went by the name of
King Kong.

Smoky grey under a pink lipstick sky and to one side and above me in the blink of an eye
dawn breaks.

A yawn takes me to that place
how about you?

I wake being early like the bird with the worm, but I catch the germ of an idea on my lips, ships leaving port that are caught by the tide
Side by side, groom and glide and the bride with a broom sweeping the stardust away.

No fanfare here
no trumpets
just a
so long and nice to seeya
and move along there's nothing to see
be a
darling
move along, please.

High above the bay of pigs
tables moved around,
no fanfare here
just the sound
of change being changed and
nothing to see here, be
a dear and move along, please.

On hallowed ground in hallowed halls where stalls are put out to catch those locked out or in depending on their point of view
I saw you dancing with Joe Carter, bartering your soul?
The devil dresses many ways and moves like Fred Astaire
I saw you dancing there with him
I saw you in the dim light on the last night of the proms
on hallowed ground in hallowed halls I wished I'd had the ***** to punch Joe Carter in the face

Dull and drab,
but have you ever wanted to grab the sky,shake it up and ask it why,
It's dull and drab and shabby too?
I have,
have you?

Let's pour some light into this tea *** day and flush those scudding clouds away,
Rain?
never, whatever this weather will do or will not ,we'll not feel a drop or droplet yet,
the summer's not through.
I've not had enough of the sun
have you?

I'm putting some paint from a quaint little tin,a nice shade of blue to let the daylight brew through,
are you going to stand there and stare
Will you be there when I'm done
Don't you want the sun?
I do.

In her pram which is a trolley
she carries a baby, which is really
the life that she has in old carrier bags
and a holdall which carries
nothing.
She lives in her dream of
french fries,scones and cream,
kindly people would pass her
and offer some coin,
she accepted,quite gracefully
fully aware that dreaming or not
she needed her pennies to buy her a ***
of London Dry Gin.
She spoke in third person as
if she was not there at all,
a bit like the holdall,
empty.
No faces to face the faces that faced her
she hid in the barbed wire of unkindly
stares
where the world couldn't find her
and her baby was safe in
the bags in the pram.

Life carries on until it is gone
and then carries on a bit more,
somewhere in between
I bet you have seen her
perhaps
you have been her.
The queen of the street
with jewels on her feet
which are
tatty old shoes
but she lives in her dream
that way
she don't lose.

Words multiplying inside my brain,buzzing like bees making honey again
I relax into a hot wax bath, earthed and birthing joined up writing,
multiplying's so exciting.
In barren times I spin no rhymes,not one bee and no honey for me but now,kapow it's multiplying and though I'm trying
I struggle to stop the words from sliding,rocketing out and colliding,even then this collision's providing me
with more honey,
and more bees buzzin' in my head.

When I was ten and grandad was at least a million years in the making and the sun took longer to rise than to set before the bar code was compulsory and CCTV cameras were a fantasy, when the speed limit was the maximum we went and I spent days on the banks of the tidal flow waiting for something to come or to go little realising that the tide was inside me and the sea was the ocean that fed me a dream,
when I was ten is a million years in the making and grandad was there all the time.

You may mock at what she knows
But the gypsy Rose
Shows me
My future and my poverty in history.
She
Ties up time in a crystal ball
I fall under her spell.
And well enough that you may mock
May knock the fortunes told.
She says that I will not get old and wrinkled like the well worn pages of a book
And all it took was that gypsy look into the ball.
Again and every time I fall
I stand tall upon her ministry.

Finished with me
I cross her palm and in it put a golden crown.
And the gypsy Rose bows down to me.
"Thank yee koind Sir",says she.
This Rose without a thorn
From the day that I was born and until I reach the end
My friend will always be
The fortune teller.

The underground mouse in the underground house scurries through Chancery Lane as he nibbles on knick knacks thrown down between train tracks,
In the main he is pleased that there's a lack of green cheese for he thinks of himself, a connoisseur,
though he never turns up his nose as he goes for the pickings that fall out of boxes of Kentucky fried chickens.
I like underground mice and think they're very nice,
I wonder what they think of me.

I know the eternity of midnight
where the days don't light the days and the night
stays tight against my wrinkling skin,and the only way out is the way you got in,but you can't find the way and you're lost,
so you stay.

And midnight never ends,this eternity wends its way slowly to your core,clambers clumsily in through each and every pore,and though you try to reach the sun,for some the sun will never come and here you stay,
Crumpled, where the night becomes the only way to live,
crumpled, where the night feeds on you,so you give,and
pleading silently for this eternity to end,
for one brief moment to pretend things will work out, but doubt assails you and you flail wildly,
childlike,sadly stuck
so you sit and **** your thumbs until eternity makes up its mind and comes,
whenever that may be.

(20 minute poetry)


Hands turning blue
Ice running through
my veins.

no longer the season of goodwill
and it will not be again and until
the Summer runs in
In its bare feet.

ruggedly sluggish in leaving a trail
down on the tube every day
without fail

Generally,
in matters of colour
blue is my favourite
but
on days like this
when the cold makes me miss
the hot summer sun
I could go for a tangerine
an aquamarine
an orange or lemon,

must put my gloves on.

The draft through the door rushes in and pushes cold air in my face
oh God
I have to get out
leave no trace
can't face another day
living this way.

Mercury freezes if mercury can and if mercury can then so can this man,
they'll end up chipping me out of an ice block.

Old Holborn
for a smoke
but it's the station
I'm sat in
no smoking allowed.

Echoes know
That as echoes go
Echoes echo and just grow and grow.
And echoes mate
Conjoin and integrate
Then as the echo spins
It turns it's echo into twins.
Echoes roar.
Echoes echo more and more
As each echo echoes off the door.
But echoes die
As echoes fly into the sky
They fade into the fading light
Silently echoing off the soundless night.
I like
Echoes.

John Smallshaw   2011.

Something hysterical
or maybe
it's
classical
music.

I'm in the
shower room
plotting an overthrow
this body
just has to
go
soon.

It all turns to dust,
the days are getting shorter
the night's are much tighter
I long for the lighter
mornings
to come.

Something hysterical or
me
waxing lyrical while
the sun burns a hole
in my headstone.

Today shall be a talking day
a walking day
and I shall walk and talk and say things
to myself and maybe others too
and if I do
it may make this day seem okay.

At times the rhymes that stymie me
those unreleased
I will set free to walk and talk along with me
another piece of poetry.

Others look and wonder why this man that mouths words passes by
with spittle dripping from his lips and tips of cigarettes unlit
just waiting for a light to rip into his eyes and slip a match into his hands which make the shuffling of the pack
another cigarette and back to walking
talking
stalking through the rush hour crowds which pass like clouds around my feet
and will I ever find a seat
to sit?
unlit again.
'Hey mister have you got a light and if so might you give some substance to the nicotine'
and I,unseen
the haunted of the haunting dream
lit,unlit and barely time to clean or clear and my oh my oh dear
the heavens open up and fill my begging bowl which in actuality is a Starbucks cup which in the breaking makes a better place to put my shamefaced
unlaced misery.

A cup another cup of steaming tea
sweet,delicious and given to me by a sweeter looking lady who maybe felt a little pity,sadness too
but who am I to know what goes on in the minds of those that throw this sausage dog a bone?

I howl and I can howl and how I bark
but not when I am in the park sat by the swans and ducks and in being somewhat of a lucky man
which I most assuredly feel is what I am
feed the wildlife with stale bread and talk the words that flow in seasons round my head.
I'm sure these birds appreciate my soft spoke words but they don't tell me so, and so I go into another walk and talk
with skateboarders,
talking tall orders as they whizz and skid along the concrete tracks
on which the local councils with their tightened schedules close their eyes and turn their backs.
And back to City
unmade streets
leaking drains and leaking brains that leak through walls and wall street halls and madness ramparts
broken and rebroken hearts
false and even falser starts until it falls apart.
The falling I can understand
another matchstick in my hand and one more cup of tea
I've had enough of lunacy and lunatics
I shall go home to egg and chips
retire and
sat by the fire will watch the flames that flame out names and burn the corners of those pictures that I carry on the inside
another fireside
an ash grey day
a walking,talking time today
tomorrow
who knows?

There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.

The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,

Sunday and the faithful are beaming.

The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.

An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.

A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.

I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.

No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.

We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.

Tell me men of Agincourt
what was it for
why did we fight and
did we win at all?
A hundred years of war
what was it for?
The prelude that we chew upon
meatless bones across
the Somme?
Tell me,
Edward,Humphrey,Henry,
men of Agincourt,
what was it for?

I carry homelessness within my head another addiction among the dead,the outcast of society,those who have nowhere to go and end up going nowhere.
I share their wanderings, and begging on the street is just another nowhere place to meet old friends,
and they are few dying as they do among the bitterness of litter blown where dreams once treasured have now flown and soon I will be all alone
with
homelessness
no more or less a tragedy but I can't unlock my needs without the key and that has gone the way of friends
It always ends
it always will
the chill of winter icing those, not within without no homes and there are no sticks and stones for them,no names to call these nameless men,
if I count to ten and hold my breath,hold my breath,hold my breath until death takes hold of me.

Do you remember that time when I pulled your hair and you cried to Auntie Sue?
I do.
Can you recall how amazingly tall Uncle Tom was?
because I can.
Then I turned into a man as if any boy can, and these thoughts that occur make me wish to be back there
amid the bluebells and corn in the fields of my home.
But we roam and the home becomes distant,though a piece is always kept in the back of my mind,along with comic books and her good looks and sometimes I forget how I shook like a leaf,when the first time was that time just beyond a belief.
No grief though as I go through these pictures that tell me and in images fell me
just smiles across the miles of the years that separate,
me and my fate
we've got another kind of date to arrange
a strange sort of meeting
straight talking,no cheating
I'll be waiting at the gate
in that state of unreadiness
I'm famous for.

I could if I wished add to the list,
it goes on if I do or do not
I could imagine or throw in my lot
with
the wandering minstrels
then I've got songs good or sad
I could add.

I imagine

the preen if the peacock can preen is a scene clipped from Dante's inferno

I know
I have been there
my plumes facing where
the air meets resistance.

I have fought and have failed
seized the day and been jailed

the German in me
don't give a
Fuchs

but it's a patch under par

and I have no wish to be a
generalisation
a mile post that marks the end of a civilisation.

I am the art
in me
the living part
of me
and the only piece you see
is that what you want me to be

If it is a list and any addition I may make could be possibly missed

Tough.

When nothing is sacred and there is no sin
we might as well be living from
the outside within,
where the devil drinks blood on the streets of the 'hood
and the good die young,
never place a reliance on chance,
you won't ever win,so
get used to living from the outside within.

Save me a seat at the table and we'll meet the prophet of doom,forget
empty places,the faces you knew,
the living goes on and the dead never do,but it's true and we know, seeds
of hatred can grow in the unlikeliest space,
and on the dead sands of biblical lands a trumpet will sound when the ground opens up and swallows,
I see it must follow on from where we went wrong and I wonder if this is the twenty first plague,
hard to gauge when you live from the outside within,hard to know if it's true and if so what to do.
When nothing is sacred and Lord Melqart is king we shall all be the same living from outside within.

(20 minute poetry)

Everything is possible

That first step is probably the hardest one.

The deeper you've been
makes the light seem
more inviting
and biting the bullet to
take that first step is exciting in a dreadful
sort of way.

Everything can possibly be
I look in the mirror and see
it's the truth.

When the lights go out and the wind whistles
when your head's so full of thistles and thorns
It's hard to believe
you can move on and leave it behind you.

and it
is what never finds you if you don't let it
back
in

everything is everywhere
that
you want it to be

I look in the mirror
locked into me
and see
it's the truth.

It is art that oils the moving parts of me
the free flowing nectar in the seed of me,
art in ******* tips and the half full skips,
the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast.

I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme,
more 'fog on the Tyne'
the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross,

It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it,
everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit
and every bit helps.

My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light,
gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give
salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are
milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it.

I see art in the  faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there,
out looking to share,insiders,
outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please,
street paintings,feint bread  lines on fences,dull
brush strokes on brickstock
unlock your mind
find your
art.

Inside the brightly painted hut
crinkle cut and candy flossed where old men dossed out of the rain and one more stain don't make no odds to Gods who '**** a deaf un',
sits Johnny Stone,
among the brittleness of skin and bone, he wears his worries and his cares away by sniffing grey hairs up his nose.
Posing every now and then for beachside surfers who,when they see this man survives amid the torture of the lies that haunt his face,move on to another place and forget they've ever seen and glad they've never known
Johnny Stone.
In this tinsel town one more Stone goes down and one more becomes the one that's trading places,revolving dreams on sunlit faces and a bigger pile of luggage cases for the dustbin men to take away
Stay at home,carve your dreams quite thinly off the bone, or you'll end up like Johnny Stone,
hungry
and all alone.

She moans in tones I understand and as I moan too we move through floating notes across the scale,
her nails are sharp against my skin,she moans again to let me in and we decide to ride the milky way,
against the night the day sheds tears as we shed wakefulness and any fears we may have entertained.
And it's nothing ventured nothing gained,
I may rule the roost,but over
me
she reigns.

Four old  skel-etonians sat by the fireside,
playing truth and consequence and
every one of them has lied.

Yule logs waiting patiently to
crackle and to burn and each old
skel-etonian  was taking it in turn
to turn in more lies.

So I'm not playing party games this year
the fireside is full, I
think I'll pull a Christmas ******* and
just hope that she's not dull.

Up in the
North country
even the
winds
blow frugally

I want to scream and shout 'til my insides come out,my wants and needs and desires feed the fires that are raging infernos,massive volcanoes erupt and they torture me.
Leave me alone or set me free.
I am sick of the pickaxe of bus fares and income tax and I'm thinking of quitting it all, to go and begs drinks at the temperance hall.
Sober,they say it is good,
not today it's not.
I've got a thirst and could drink down an ocean,
sell me a quick fix or fix me a potion or I'll have to scream,I'll make such a commotion.or
I might just curl up and die and leave you wondering why or maybe I won't,I don't really know,but I really know this,
bus fares and income tax really **** me off.

I look in the mirror and see
not me
see
not me
I see
an artist with a frock on,
backing up a bit
I see
an artist with a smock on,
not me.

And they're talking 'bout the Shard!

if a ***** looking thing ever
looked so hard
it's the Shard.

I'm talking Annoyed and
thinking of beating up Freud
they're
thinking Schadenfreude,

that's why Lloyds
exists
for sinking wrecks and
sunken ships.

It's a hell of a mess
when you've got to confess
you've made a hell of a mess,
reflections of me in a dress,

(frocks is cool,
but they don't fool the mirror)

Cruising
pen in hand
Saddique in the driving seat
beat Boris hands down
to be the
new Mayor
in London town.

Out on the balcony and
the only thing to welcome me
is pigeon **** and
two white feathers
and the
weather's
nice.

Fifteen degrees and she's
in a bikini,
who let the genie out
of the lamp?

Cameron's a Klingon.

Star trek or Shrek
it's all make believe.

You wanna believe it?
okay,
makes your day
I make my play and
vote with my coat on
I'm gone.

The five pound a session dream seller
sells me dreams on a card from
the fortune teller,
the tarot is King has a truthful lilt in
its ring and it rings in from heaven
for ninety nine and eleven,a penny short of five quid
I can see what is hid around the corner.

Disappearing
step by step and one by one
soon
we'll all be gone.
The things that we once knew
are like the people few
and far between.
Everything you've ever seen is being vaporised
and rebuilt
in concrete,steel and lies
and there are spies
cameras watching every move you make
can't take a krap no more without some busy-body camera
poking through the toilet door.
What is the world that we once knew
coming too?

Well you
can stick your face where the sun aint never going to shine
we'll all be gone in three months
time.
Fine by me
I'll just put a match to the gas and blow myself one free pass
into the other place.

At number twenty one Leadbetter Street stood Pancho's cafe
where the local lads would meet
to talk and drink a cup of chai
watch the girls go by
but that's gone too.

Who could have guessed that all we've known would be blown away
by the city boys who earn more pay
the more that they destroy.
Oh boy
what a place.
The face of it has changed and I no longer recognise the roads
where under clear blue skies I grew.
Now I chew on candlewax and **** on fishbone stew
Not the world I knew
Oh no.

Time is all I've got
I find a little lonely spot on the dial of Grandfather's wind up clock
tucked under number five
and the big hand comes and wakes me every hour
just to check if I am still alive.

One day I'll wake and find that there is nothing left at all
everything will have disappeared
and I'll fall head first
into the void.
Should I be annoyed at what my fate is going to be?
Should I kick off big time and attack some nameless ministry?
or should I take the big six
lick my wounds
chuck out the sticks and stones and watch my bones disintegrate
or have I left it far too late?

Mister Lee who used to have a Chinese take away
saw it all
before it all was took away
I never listened to what he had to say
one more regret
but that will disappear too
they always do.

Mr's Singh who had the corner shop for as long as I recall
lives in a three bed semi now
somewhere in Southall.
She took the fall as did her shop
the mavericks that betrayed us never stop.
I feel like tooling up and taking on
but even thoughts of violence have been taken
they're all gone.
Disappearing one by one
and tomorrow should it ever come had better learn fast how to run
or they'll take that too.
This is not the world I knew
and every day is more oblique
I should seek some medical advice
which would be nice
but they took the doctors
disappeared them all away
and that was only yesterday
which is also gone.
I can't go on living in this bubble wrap
it's krap
I see that now it's just a case
of disappearing without a trace.
So long
I'm gone.
Feed the cat before you go.

Electric Ellipses.

Eternity is
frankincense and myrrh
to me
and she is gold

I hold her
tenderly for
another
eternity.

the time grid is slow and as we go
time follows us on and then
in an instant of thought,
we've gone from nought to sixty

(so glad she picked me)

I want more than the war I became,
she wants the same

so what if we collide with the stars on the way
each day that brings us closer together
is her piece and mine of lucky heather.

But I need no wise men, be it one man or three
to travel the world to come and tell me of a saviour
I know her.

A final thought.

eternity once frightened me,
but
not anymore.

Cobwebs in corners.

In the rooms of my yesterday
I watch myself play
with 'action men'
'Bill and Ben' on the black and white
tea on the table and mum looks alright
and then my brothers come in
tuck in
******* the ham from my bones.

I like being alone.

My sister comes in and she's wearing a tu-tu
she goes to a ballet school
I take her sometimes and I sit like a fool
watching arabesques
quite Chaplinesque and
I try not to giggle
but I'm a boy growing up and it's hard not to wriggle or squirm.

And I turn into tomorrow where it seems
I have borrowed a few wrinkles and crinkles from Grandad
who's not doing so bad for an old one
but I hold on
to the room
it's my sanctuary
my place of safety.
In a world that's so feisty
my room is so nice
I see
how it looks when I close my eyes tight.
Your own room is waiting
somewhere
late at night at the place where the light shines
through the windows of good times.

I go back to the black and white
in the place where
it's all alright
and where dreams just might
come true.

Atlantis,
a place to miss
when
planning a
Summer holiday.

I never relied on the eyes only cried on the shoulders of strangers and a heart only ever takes so much then it breaks and it all falls apart from one single... touch and it's gone, that infinite omen that seeks its own fortune among the wreck of a nation.
One minute to last us a lifetime and one more to build me a fortress, it's a mess in the mind when you can't even find your own thoughts you relied on but the eyes only cry on,
ask Noah or Jonah who drown in the flow of the mountains that melt into streams, ask the generals who fell through the wars that they fought through and ask them who knows, but the answers we look for on the pages of papers escape us.

I am angry at me at what I cannot see at what I do not knit into the futures that sit in the laps.. and at the gods up there, I swear I could nail them all to the cross when I'm cross with myself.

When I sink and I will, when I fill up the bathtub,
When push comes to pull and the bathtub's quite full and the eyes do not cry any more,
the last touch of a madness like the last drops of rain only fall when the evening sweeps the daylight away.

We sharpen axes, knives and the occasional wit
and we don't do it lightly because
the grindstone is ****.

It's a job
It's a job
for Tom. **** and Bob
a likely looking trio if ever
a ******* was.

I go it solo
believe in my mojo
the grindstone is too
slow for me.

Life subliminal,more than criminal,a nasty travesty to be able to look and be unable to see,to speak without sound and yet to drown in the clamour,
where the glamorous party long into the night but the night longs for rest and who knows but the best that the best's not what we've got.
And the ***** who tramps through his haze gazing at stars locked in his jailhouse behind mental bars knows nothing of this,
his life is an out take,his bones wait for day break but the night knows best.
The glamorous and the glum,a mansion and a slum and for some life's a scream,for others it's a dream and for me it just seems that we're all being beamed,
subliminal messages.