You can stare
I don't care
You can jeer
I don't hear.
I'm on the inside,
the track
where I ride out
the pitfalls and catcalls.
The **** crows and
he knows
what time means, and will be,
meanwhile
all that you do is
stare,
stare at me,
I don't care.

Up in the
North country
even the
winds
blow frugally

In the city
it constantly feels as if there are rabid dogs snapping at my heels,
I snapped back anyway to come apart which is just how it was when Scheherazade broke into my heart as we walked to the prom, when she told me a tale of the nights she had seen in the budget hotels marking milestones of dreams.

Somehow though it's different now, this pain behind these windows eases off and slowly goes.

The dogs remain and growl but they've thrown in the towel.
The Scheherazade I knew then is just a story for old men,
In time to change for a change of my luck where the nights still smile sweetly but who gives a ****?

Not the dancer who makes points with the tip of his knife or the ramblings of a senile old man where his wife waits on tables,
not the leopard who once changed his spots for a date or the tigers aware of their new life as rugs.

Shrugs in the background where Cohen and Simone moan a tune into tune and
soon  it's my go to go and to go is always the option.

To stay are the dreams that we own.

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.

(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.

Laying pain over pain
I cut into my spirit
again,
blood on my sleeve and
who could believe that
such hurt was conceived in
the heart?

Self harming's a charming
expression which hides the reality as the blade slices into me and my tears like the hot blood start running free,
hurting me to stop hurting me which hurts me even more and what for?
few could understand and fewer would even try,
at times like this I feel like the time is ripe to slice again to cut and bleed and cut to feed the gaping mouth of depression.

Self expression should never take the knife to cut out the things that ache.

If I break and take the blade to slice the pain,
If I make again this cut to cut out pain will it go away?

One day
I say, some say
we all say
one day.

One day I'll cut it all away
and feel the pain
no more.

What if when we got there it had gone?
what if what we went looking for had
disappeared or had never been?

I have seen the twinkle of a billion stars
but never touched a one
yet felt the gravitas of every spark
that lit my moment in the dark.

An electric ownership that
never fails to overwhelm me,
if there or not it knows no boundary,
my imagination looked, but it was it
that found me and so what
if it is not or never been?
I have seen it anyway.

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.

What came after before the laughter,
before the laughter came?
a conundrum
a game I like to play, to while away the
hours of each day.

The answer hides
some place deep inside where
the tear drops give a display,
deep in the well
where the heartbreaks dwell and
the night never turns into day.

In the dark and damp a lonely *****,
I see that the lonely *****
could be me.
But it's a game, a game
before the laughter came and
after that I have tea.

I used to listen to Winehouse in the greenhouse and the windows cried in pain.
I had Gillespie in the conservatory and Kitt in the kitchen, but I saved Brenda Lee for the bedroom see 'cause she was the queen.
I had them all running recordings in my head, Dave Dee, Fats Domino, Bono, Callas for a touch of class, Des and Bygraves, slaves to the sound spinning around in my mind and now I can't find a song that's familiar, can't make out the words, don't know the artists, missed out along the tracks, no vinyls, no needles, no tables just racks of CD's
oh please tell me it isn't so
this can't be the way to go,
where's Slim and Kim and Marty gonna go now that the party is over?
In the greenhouse where I listened to Winehouse and watched the pickup pick up the beat,
I take a back seat and eat a tomato while nothing else is going on.

Were we that time in a place
Or the place in that time?
Whatever the answer
I guess that it's fine.

But I can never decide
Lord knows how I've tried.
Sat up in the loneliness in the long distance of night
Wondering if one was wrong
Or the other one right.

And at the end of it
I made no sense of it.
In time and place where the staggering minutes will stand up and face you
Look through you, and to you it comes as a shock then
to realise the clock when
it strikes
does not make a mark in the dark where you lay.
Stay there
Stay where the light disappears
and it will never be said that the tears you once shed were seen,but just wasted.

No one can see you when time looks right through you
like the deadbeat
where the day meets his night.
Does time or his place in his time seem alright
Does he run through the legends he's heard
Believe he has shared in that wealth
Does he have good health?

In some life where there's time and the place
in case we should also fall flat on our face
and struggle to rise.
I look into my own eyes and what do I see?
A man that could be, and once was, a man just like me.

Tears will not help,cry if you please
get down on your knees and pray.
In the time and the place of today
we have got to do more than we say.

Stay silent and die
Do not hear the cry
Lie to yourself and say it's okay
Just another today.

The vicar loves to lord it while we sinners sit on devil's pews and this abuse is all contrived to make us think that all our lives are as nothing to the life of christ, who suffered at the hands of man but was his plan to make my *** go numb or listen to the sermon from some vicar who though dumbstruck with communion, rambles on long enough to wake the dead?

I wholeheartedly agree with the words, 'pick up thy bed and walk'
jeez,
talk about a one man band who gives and with the other hand can slap the slices from a loaf of bread.
If I ever go to hell it will be first class, the Brighton Belle can kiss my *** I want a limo to take me to limbo and a Triumph TR7 to pick me up at the gates of Heaven and roar into the night.

No light weight pick up sticks or childrens game
these streets of age all look the pain we travel on
and along the way
that road of well versed stones speak to me of
skeletons and dead men's bones
and harlequins that never win the coloured robe.

Global warming swarms
more food to feed the flame
that leaps and shouts out 'who the hell am I'?
no wings, can't fly
can't feast on clouds that rule the sky
no name
more pain
more streets and terraced vol au vents
more wants than needs
the fire's feeding well
and who the hell am I?

The game of jacks and random court cards
highway tightwires trapped in backyards
tripping through the cabbage patch
match this if you can,
the cooking *** that will not get hot
the trying man that does not try
the winds that wail but never cry
a merry go round
but why?

A rest,
the day I test the temperature and paddle in just to be sure
it covers me
and the sea that doesn't see will take me
to the place where blind men congregate
and wait for..
..but it's far too late for me
whatever was meant that I should have seen
has been and gone.

Sticks more stones
no lack of mobile phones to spread the word of this disaster
stifling an insane desire to laugh at my own misfortune and already five before the hour of noon, when the Sun scallops lightly across the other sea of sky
I pull my socks up,don't know why they ever fell
who can tell?
Not I.

They try to ****** you,
reduce you
to quivering mountains of jelly.

(well we won't have that,will we?)

While we're picking up dog ends
looking up our rear ends
they're
sending their sprogs off to Harrow and Eton
making more running dogs,
they think that we're beaten.

On the street where I live,half
of the residents don't live at all,
they vegetate,
a form of somnambulism,
some kind of mistake because the other half
don't give a frig,
this is the gig,this is the play
if you're happy or not they don't care,anyway,
they won't ****** me,
I am cardboard citizen and free,
under the rainbow and off the grid,
still got to bid on a house or a flat
and that's the way of it.

You try and you think that you're free but
you're numbered and name tagged and put in the queue
and all you can do then
is dream of a time when
freedom means freedom and not
medieval serfdom.

..and so
I came through the inaction of incredible addiction,
full of facts, which though a fiction
became a part of the truth
what next?
The new found sobriety vexed me,
activity eluded me,
included in,
I felt left out, understanding
what this was about took some time.

In the end
it was the hit and miss and
the Miss that kissed me
who made me see
what could be.

My salvation summed up in the equation
n=calculus (2)

Underneath pale spring skies
to everyone's surprise
'The Wanderers' returned telling tales of omnipotence
and the relevance of a divinity
I heard nothing
I was deafened by the noise from the laughter of the girls and boys so filled with glee
that 'The Wanderers' had seen fit to see
to find their way and come home to be
with them and you and me.
I don't know where they went or how they spent those,
lonely days when I would gaze with fear set solid in my heart
and wonder how it is that being apart
is so painful.
Fearful now
I keep my eye on those that take it in their mind to fly away.
But what is day without the night
and night without the dawn?
Storms may come and go but this is what I know
'The Wanderers'
will always be the hope and the guardians set by the gate
of those who wait
for liberty.

As Jackie leans against the *****
beside the grave that's he's just dug
he digs up another 'makings'
and with bony hands still shaking
as if his very life depended
on the Virginia flake expended
into his heaving fragile lungs,
He starts to cough
he starts to heave
he doesn't have time to believe
that it's self harm
that he's doing.

As the spasms calm
he takes another pull
and when his lungs are full
he quite deliberately
exhales the smoke,
discounts the words I spoke
about the damage done
and rolls another one.

But in the swirlings of the nicotine in a scene
from some rocky horror show
his lungs forget to **** and blow
and his poor old heart
just seems to know
it's time to stop and
go.

Someone else leans on a *****
surveys the lovely job he's made
of his predecessors grave
and thanks his God he got the job
and that Jackie Bleasedale
smoked.

In the laptop of the gods.where canaries sing.

..then you leave me no option,
some will get hurt.

Look in on this and make as you will,
I still need peace,
but
not at any price.

ding ding,
seconds out.
Exit your hiding place.

(Kent Walton laughs in the background)

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.

(20 minute poetry)

The boy with the goggles looked a little bit like Biggles.

On a ride away into a brighter day and I'll head for the hills to where my favourite hideaway waits.

So this boy who looked like Biggles with his goggles on googles me,
I don't mind
though I'm
not sure what he'll find once inside the web.

Haha giggling Biggles takes off his goggles and googles me more and it doesn't even tickle which is a bit of a bore.

In my hideaway, I see all sorts of strange things as if strange things had a part to play in this film of my life.

Today is the day for the breakaway,
the day I become the takeaway and the hideaway will just have to hide away until I visit again probably Wednesday or whenever the weather permits.

And what then of Biggles with goggles he wears like they're Rayban's?
I was one of biggest fans and then he went away, I think that he found my hideaway,
I'll find out the truth on Wednesday
weather permitting
of course.

The counter spins again
you win again
or lose,
you choose again,
complain
the number's just the same and
who's to blame?
Lady luck will tuck you up
give you promise
give you hope
then let you swing
hung by a rope.
We keep on spinning anyway
some say the counter's cursed or blessed,
it stops and comes to rest on
double zero.

When your body's no longer elastic
and you think to yourself, am I past it?
but the mirror says no and your head
says let's go,
don't do anything drastic.

Bones get old and they creak
muscles you once had are weak
your mouth gets too dry, you can't speak,
and you need to go for a leak.

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.

Train me
restrain me
use me up and drain me
then chain me to your heart.
Come my darling let us start
the music
one more time.

When the sun slid down behind the buildings of Camden Town and the evening came to light
when the beggars of Mornington Crescent came out into the night to fire the West End and the good people took fright,
I was down in Goodge Street spilling the beans in the American church,perched on a pew,as you do,talking to a vicar,the slickest padre I ever did meet,
he talked to me in parables as if I was the arable land he sought,but Jesus and I had a deal,so I thought,
he went his way,I went mine until the divine light of reckoning came beckoning me,and I didn't think that this was the time.
But we all make mistakes and the winner takes all,I pondered on this as I walked through the hall of the ancients.

I am somewhere between the nadir and the zenith with the wind that blows behind me and who will find me now?
or do I bow before the circumstance,or take a chance,step out from the twilight,two steps out to the dark night,slight chance that there just might be ,somewhere other than this place that seems to fit this soul so tightly.

Down there,
the air became pollute,resolution has dissolved into the swamp like stew we once emerged from, crawl and sprawl our signature as if our nature was the hunting man,
neanderthal.

And Cro-Magnon thought he had the lot,he had not and never did.

The times are dreary,weary men walk home from work,exerting pressures on their tired bones and California was a dream they had in famine fare when food was scarce as were the ferry berths.

Up there,
the air gets clearer,smelling sweeter but palisades are built and pirates sell it by the litre to the thirsty,nothing beats a bit of commerce,it could be worse
I don't know how
I think I'll bow to circumstance.

Out across the Northern sea
she sits serenely watching me as I sit watching her
two chairs,one space
and Skype lets me
look on her face.
So beautiful,
I'm full of glee
but she sits quietly watching me and sees in telescopic sight a man that might appeal and could he feel her heart beat tenderly?
somewhere across the Northern sea.

I felt the winds ride in her hair as the ocean carries me off,where we'll meet,and yes, her heart beats tenderly.
I'll be her picture on the wall,with colours bright so when she calls to me across the Northern sea,
I'll be in frame
Just wait and she will call my name.
This type of Skyping is no game for children or for lesser men.
When oceans rise and flow quite freely from her eyes
I shall sail across the sea to be wallpapered on her screen,compute the distance,data insistence regulates
and eventually terminates the nightly talk.
tonight I walk
tomorrow free
for we will skype again,
I see the Northern lights
she sees in telescopic sight this man
who waits upon the Southern shore
wanting more.

Oh internet
you'll not regret this meeting of the continents and quite content I sit and wait
until the data gate is opened up for me.
she sits and waits somewhere across
the Northern sea.

(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.

Sabres,
labouring to stop their rattling
like
cattle in the abbatoir,
where
the next step is a step to far.

I see a dancing ballerina troupe, arms attendant at attention,not to mention vested interests with the dull of bullets bouncing off cash registers,where nothing registers but the profits,not the loss,
who tosses the baby out with the bathwater ought to look before they leap into the frying pan.
I can sympathise with eastern eyes set on the west but would not like to take the test they're taking now.
One more cow in the cattle shed,one more country to be bled and we are fed and once more titillated
by aggravated assaults.

Dandelion and chamomile
peppermint and elderflower,
gee
whatever happened to
good old English tea?

What was good enough for dear old dad
is good enough for me.

You may wish and say
that there's no way
tea
is English,
I wish your wishes away.

What else could it be at a quarter to three,
but tea time?
my time where
biscuits and Earl Grey will
suit me quite fine.

At her time of life,
my wife would be having a baby
if I told her that tea was not blighty,
cor blimey
strike me dumb
make me fingers numb
if tea don't come
from England.

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.

I sat there looking at the kitchen table unwilling or unable to take it all in
And many years later someone said,
"Hi and where have you been"?

I was here all along which was wrong,
I had gone to the far side.
So I lied and said,
"Somebody died"
Didn't say it was me.
Couldn't see any reason to tell them the story
Of where there is death there seldom is glory and I have seen,
The dying
The crying out in anguish
The wishing it was me
Do you see why, I had to tell them the lie?

On the far side of a day where the night demons lay
And the playing of light
Seems okay and quite right.
Where the brightness is less than at noon
And where soon the wails will arise
As one more lost soul dies.
These are the cries from my heart.

Inside and in parts where the loneliness starts
Is my place.
Where I can't face the tears of fifty odd years, where I sink
With the turn and the spins where once again it begins
I sit back at the table and still am unable
To take it all in.

You'd better run boys,the fires will come boys and burn you out,girls who would flaunt regulations to haunt you will burn along with you,the night's turning blue and the fire's burning black.
Jack who was Tom's mate unaware of his own fate booked a passage to Paris with Maryss, his wife.
It was Hogarth who painted the ****** and the tainted in the liberty of gardens,men hiding their hard ons,paragons of chastity and chasing the mollies to ****** their follies,how jolly it seemed to the Queen of the boardwalks who listened to wild talks and ate turkey and ham,
Shakespeare was saddened,Marlowe quite maddened by the fayre and the stew houses where blouses were shed and doxies were led like little lambs to the slaughter,and the daughters of Satan who were dressed in fine satin,sat in the background watching this fairground.
Then the curse of the cutpurse was cast all about them,men scurried away quickly to the ferries for Putney and Pepys wrote in his diary,

'hahaha the fire didn't get me'

Going to fix up my homes under the sycamore tree
going camping
tent tramping
and all I will see are the whirlygigs that helicopter
propped up in my sleeping bag
watching the canvas sag
like life
it's an awful drag and I am gone
camping.

'Oh my giddy aunt' whose name was Matilda,
once met the Kaiser,
by the side of the Danube.
No proof,
no Youtube but I believed her and Herr Kaiser had a little thing going by the river flowing out to the sea.
Which does not help me under the sycamore tree and the more that I see the less I'm intent on staying in a tent with a roof that is sagging,
I'm dragging my **** outa here
and you guessed it
,no proof
no Youtube
the truth.

Promises made
given and laid down in writing on stones.
I read runes in the ruins of what has become,
what they have done to me.
No longer free
I am devoured alive by those who contrive to control everything,those who bring nothing to the table and the table is bare,
I share my crusts with the beggars who sit on the street,in dark corners I greet them and then I console them
for they too have lost all to the mighty of Whitehall who don't give a ****,for
they are the ram raiders the modern day slavers and we're all in chains,laid on the slabs,looked at in labs,dissected,inspected and put out to tender,sent out as fodder for the high in society to shoot at like pheasants,for aren't we the peasants of old?
Life grows cold an old story indeed
those who can't pay are unable to feed.
So let us give thanks to those wonderful,fabulous,marvelous food banks who are there just in case we try to get out of the poverty trap that stares us in the face.
****'em all down in Whitehall I know where I am and I am a man not a note in a margin but marginalised just the same,just a piece in some game that they play.
It'll all change one day though I may not be here to cheer but where ever I am,I will still be a man, and
not a laboratory experiment.

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.

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.

...and now I am tired,unwired and unstrung and what had begun when the sun hit the streets has now ended,I defended my right to work into the night,I was wrong,the night was so long and my life,once light,now weighs me down.
I am drowning in the aspirations of what were once my own creations,treading on once upon a times and struggling hard to work these rhymes into some sort of verse.
Someone nurse me back to youth,
in truth I think that's all I need,to wait beside the fountain and feed upon the spring.
Someone bring me yesterday where I can lay my head and say,I'll do it differently and in the time it takes to cook a goose all hell's let loose as time bends back its hands and the clock stands still,then in reverse,which in itself is one more verse that rhymes,time's marching on and yet we all know that the time to talk has gone and words mean nothing if not spoken,something tells me that time is broken, and by the spring I stand behind I watch the universe unwind.
This is one more notch upon the post or at least the most that I could hope for as I open up and close the door,
sleep will come.
if not now then later so I'll wait a while,lights down low,don't want the night to know,
I'm here.

Let me write of the unknown
of the things we don't know
and have never been shown.

Like the string theory
do you agree?
If this space was put in place by invisible hand
and stars made to shine
by something divine
Why tie them up in a potage of science?

Where the sea meets its earth and where rainbows give birth
makes no difference to me.
It's enough that I see that it's so.
Where do Angels tread and
where can the bread of heaven be found?
These questions I ask as I bask in reflections
of someone's midsections in the
operating rooms where I peer hard to see
and ask again
'Is this the makings of me'

A universe without an end
e-mails that we never send.
These pending posts play host to me.

In one of ten million galaxies
It seems quite odd to make a rod and beat ourself
with what we do not know.
Whether the plan is to grow so big and become the giants we never were
or to be so bright that we outstrip and outsource our own dying light
and gain.
Is all the same to me I do not care.
It is enough to know that I am here and out there
somewhere
a table is set
A game is played and I will get
what I deserve.

There's KFC in the cupboards and kebab in my hair and them ******* Macdonalds are just everywhere,
please take me away from this fat food today or I'll pop,let me shop in the shops where healthy food is the tops,I need not the props of reconstitutes,resolutely defying the deep fat pan frying,I'm trying to detox but it's hard.
Sweet Jesus please hear me,don't send me more chips soaked in soft lard and cooked in some oven, please send me the fare for a wheelchair to healthcare,I just cannot bear this no more.
But being skinny's a bore and when I see pizza I want more and more,I want Indian food every day and Chinese to take away,Chicken satay a la Malay and oodles of noodles all dripping with oil.
It's Sunday,the one day I can say what I like,the one day God gets bored and goes off on his bike for a ride,it's said he can't bide that contriteness,politeness,because he knows that we're sinners and there's never no winners and no one gets the ***,so just stuff your faces and eat up the lot,you've got **** all to lose and only weight you can gain,get to the counter reorder again,another burger and fries and hope nobody dies of boredom

Why does the world keep on falling apart
when it breaks,
so does my heart.

When my head's in a spin the world wants to begin
breaking to pieces all over again,
and there is no end to its falling to bits
and no beginning to winning this war.

If I laid down and died would anyone out there, know just how hard I tried
would they understand now
just how difficult?
but since it just feels
like a waste of my time
like the clocks that won't chime with no rhythm.no rhyme
I may as well dine
on my own.

On, off white horses.

A coffee times table on
a buoy that's unstable and who fares
well on the sea,
salt in my sugar and that's in my tea
woe to the buoy and the boy within me.

There's a light on the hillside
flashing out to waves which in turn,
turn and wave to the light,
it is night, no one cares who fares well on the sea,
woe to the buoy and the boy within me.

Deep in the blue where sailors knew
and the sun is diffused from above,
on the coffee times table when I am able,
I will drown as I look for my love.

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

At times it seems that lines are all I've got
not complaining though
'cause I like lines
I like lines a lot
they're sleek and meet you far away.

I walk on these lines everyday
straight lines I find are always best
can't stand the wavy ones
the crazy ones that shuffle,scuffle and take you round the bend
they're enough to send me off the rails
send me on uncharted trails.

I like the lines of beauty
infinite in symmetry
delightful in simplicity
a lack of them in this,the City
but I don't mind
I find the ones I know are here and wander off to some unknown end where other lines that angle off will send me back again
and I refrain from deviating off these lines
into other scrub marked lines which are the lines of older times
well trodden down and almost worn away
but they'll remain and stay as a memory
of what lines should never and not be.

I see those lines scored on your face
a face
a face
I see the grace and beauty too
that is what these lines of times can do
each mile post sign etched by a line and so lovely for me to see
it means I'm on the road on which you live
and heading off to be
another line upon the track
another never looking back
and one more reason why I love
these lines
so left so,so right
so knocking on your door on what is halfway through the night
I hope the future that we see is lit by lines so bright they'll light another
line upon the road
another road upon each line
and one more time that we will be
in Synchronicity
a harmonic playing
in an eternity
of lines.

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.

You're soaking and you're strung out
but your sleeping bag's been wrung out and
it's wrapped up in a damp rag that you carry in your rucksack

you turn your back on Strutton Ground and you strut off into London' town
like some mad demented peacock, but you're off to rock the Casbah with your crazy words or wisdom which you gleaned from empty matchboxes so very long ago.

The coffee opens early for the bird that scratches daily for a meagre bit of warmth to feed the soul.

and by St Pauls, the ***** of grasping pawnbrokers are gleaming in the frosty air
'pop the weasel ' goes in there quite frequently
you see the emptiness of picture frames in streets you recognise, no names,
because no one would remember them among the worn out suited gentlemen that you became but then it doesn't really matter anymore.

the evening strolls in awkwardly,
but maybe that's just how I see it and
it could be elegantly
I don't know.

and we're back to Strutton Ground not far from Scotland Yard
the new one, the old one's not too far from here and near Trafalgar Square, but you got moved along from there too many times, too many moons and wines ago.

Jumping into the deep end,
let them find me now shattering all illusions and intruding on the why and how and where am I? but here still thinking deep.
In sleep there is a limitless draft to fill this cup and oftentimes I overflow into another dreaming, if another dream can thus protrude from this my dreaming overload and if all roads lead to one, which one and where?
I care to take a coffee, cake and break this fast, this endless task, this is a time to sit and make new plans.
This man's no friend to man not beast nor forest tree and in his singularity, uniquely and this one and only never lonely in his own company
is me.

Your perfume in the air as you leave..
..becomes the grief in this tomb that I breathe.

Never daring to think beyond thinking we might..
..but the night closed me down.

In town..on a tuesday..when it's wet and so cold..
..I hold onto the dream.
That when I come home..you'll be waiting alone..and for me.

I see it's not real and fate has dealt this cruel blow..
..but how could I possibly know..so soon..that my sun and my moon would fade.
In the leafy glade where you lay..today and forever...never forget..
..our sun never sets it just slips slowly away.

And I still play our game, (in my head now)..do you remember the name..no,don't blush..nobody knows.
I talk and everything slows like it used to..when I was with you.

I talk to my radio, as if my radio could ever know how I feel..once more I can see it's not real but it's how I get through being on my own without you.
Sometimes I think that I've cried myself dry then I cry once again.
Crying myself sane I suppose.
Who knows?

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.

Broke

In the broke of shattered night
You light me.
Guide me home and fill me with hope..
..that the morning will come.
And the Sun will shine.

In the broke of the night when in breaking...I might
Cry.
You are close by..to hold me.
In your eyes in the light I see fluttering wings
The dove that sings me to sleep.

These thoughts I will keep in my heart..
..as I relax in the blackness that drifts far away
Will you stay?
Go away?
If I pray you'll be here when I wake..
If the light goes away...will you stay?

As a boy I hid under the bed
Afraid of the dead in the broke of the night
Of the ghosts and the demons that hold on to you tight
And never let go.
How could I know that the delight in your light was waiting for me?
How could I see that far ahead..
..hid under my bed..eyes shut.

As I grew I knew you were there
As I grew I hoped we could share
Something great.
Won't you wait with me tonight?
Won't you stay to see the sunrise?
Let me see the morning in your eyes?

It's the black in the broke of the night
But it's alright
Her light
Is on.