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.

They opened up my heart to see
the self and fallibility
and
in the time of waking,I saw
continents for taking,saw the minerals
that broke the souls,
the souls that slaved for yellow gold, and
holding on to minds, were free men breaking
open liberty or was that in a dream I had when
morphine took the best of me,the green light of
my destiny marched off and set the dogs to bark and
I would be a danger if I had the sense to know it
but when danger shows its face to me,
the self and fallibility comes in
and laughs out loud.
I see the ending of an era and  fear a sharp reminder that
the Devil sits in memory of dreams that he once sold to me,
upon the bed I tremble as the angels all assemble
and they're shaking out their wings while in the background
I hear Elvis sing and
Graceland is my home.

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.

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.

The authorities can authorise as much as they please but they have no authority over me.
it's the rule of austerity
It's a dog eat dog and if you're down on your luck,you might as well **** on it,they don't give a **** and once you've feasted on failure it don't hurt a bit,
and a pound in your purse is as much of a curse as no money at all,you want to buy this,you want to buy that but you ain't got a bit of food in your flat.
'Live off the fat of the land',
like those buggers in Whitehall who sit on their hands and yet still have hands free, as they wave them around to try and authorise me.

And in those ivory towers the powers that be who think of roast beef and not about me,carry on, as if it's all tickety boo,
but you know,it was never like that as you sit in your flat with no food,the TV shows a riot,you should think why not try it and you're becoming unglued,
falling to bits and it's them effing ***** what's to blame.

I walk and can hear the glass crunching
it's like snow on the Screen when in the old days of the Queen it was all black and six two five lines white,
at least I think those figures are right, but I was only eight, stayed up 'til nine, read books under the blankets and read out the time by the light of my torch, tried a magic lantern once, but the pictures ruined the story for me.

So the numbers never had a chance of adding up to five or fifty five or anything really
my hands were tied by the binding on the books I read, I couldn't make head nor tail of reality, it was all one big adventure to me unless it was a romance novel which I turned to now and again when the pain of whatever it was bothered me and sometimes I just went for that long walk, took a longer time, too much Rip Van Winkle wine and woke before bed and time to read again,
eight is a fabulous age to discover
a new page in an
old book.

You..
Who sit up in those towers of shuttled steel..
..and sparkled glass
Bend..
..and kiss my bony ***.

But for the moment let that pass
And we'll talk about society.
Those communities that have lost heart
Communities you use.
Dosed on cider...
..and the ships you've launched with special brew
Because champagne is far too good for the proletariat..
who crew.
Your tide of greed.

You..
Will excuse me for the interruption..
..but while you march on in corruption people starve and die.
I never wondered why before.
I obeyed the law and toe'd the party line
But now I'm old and time is short..
..it's time you lot were caught and put on trial.

Your days are numbered
One by one
The day of corporations will be gone
And maybe we'll find some sanity
Help humanity.

But for now we'll let that pass..
..you gnomes up there can kiss my ***
You're going down.

Ring a ring a roses
******* up your noses
atishoo
atishoo
the septum breaks down.

dedicated to all those hard working city boys.

Life,
at various stages I have raced through its torn pages and stripped off in the margins for reasons unclear.

No nearer now than I was way back then to the finishing line.

Never knowing the plot
never knowing a lot
I think the author has got
severe problems.

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.

Ventilation shaft
aft.
Fresh air pumped out in a flash.
Upon crash dive a bell will sound, hold
tight
we're going underground.

Like moles who wish to buck the trend
I wish the constant night would end,
these tunnels that we make..
..me laugh.

Ventilation?
Call it gas.

****** in, trucked out, this is what life's all about, shifting shadows shape us into that which is the late
us.

Fluid chains of ether either here or in Ibiza,
ventilation from the shaft?
or just the same old laughing gas?

The weekend stretches out
like a loaf of fresh baked bread.
I want to cut myself a slice but
I'm poorly,
tucked up in my bed.

Life isn't fair
even when I'm in there,
I should get well and tell life
to go to hell.

I received a letter
from the doctor,
it said
'you're better,
back to work'
The doc's a berk.

In spite of it all
I think I will fall and
taste Saturday night,
take a slice from the Sunday and
drift back slowly
into
Monday
where the week stretches out and
I'll wonder what the weekend was
all about.

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.

Village life city style.

Going shopping,
once the necessity has now become the must have fashion accessory,faces adorned with quorn burgers,hamburgers,lamburgers,mouths full of soda pop and this they call the weekend shop
it's enough to make you stop and think and blink your eyes in disbelief,good grief we're heading to obesity and nothing ever comes for free,we're paying through the nose for, goodness knows what's in the meat,is it pork within those pies or horseflesh? they just tell us lies and still we stuff our faces 'til we've had enough,eaten our fill,one day I'm sure we'll all explode,
I bet the greedy ******* will even try to barcode that.

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.

Flashed by her eyes and
lashed by her tongue,
she cuts me to pieces
and that's just for fun, but
she stands at my side and
she watches my flank which
is
better
than money in anyone's bank.

Do I love it?
you bet and
you'd lose
don't confuse what you think
with the things that I know.

In Sorrento

where the soft winds blow
where if I knew she
would know
before me,

it's hot here
but you should see her,
as cool as a cucumber
she watches
I slumber,
she's thinking my number
is up.

Then she wakes me to take me to
the depths and the highs,
we make it and
time flies away.

The alarm bell.
Did you sleep well
did your dreams have pictures coloured in and was the crayon that you took from out of the crayon tin, called me,
did you see me smile
feel me touch you
was the crayon colour blue?

Was the night a colour of its own
did we groan or were we silent at the midnight chime
did we colour one more time?

If I'm in your dreams,you're in mine
so
let's colour one more time before the morning breaks the night and tomorrow we can watch the colours run as we too run into the night again,into the fun again
and in the crayon box where no locks are set
we'll get our pictures filled with colours, until all time is stilled and then it will not matter any more,that our colourings lay scattered,
for the floor will be our painting book
and all it takes,or all it took
was the empty page to set a stage for hues to fuse into our hearts
and this is how the colour starts.

At six past six
I forget about the colours and the pics and dash to make the train for six fifteen
and entering once again into the dream,I wonder why it seems so clear,the colours that we hold,hold dear to us,
and such a fuss
about the way we make the crayons that we take and break along the way.
It's all a day of finding out what colours we like and what crayons are all about and why shout?
A silent glance,another chance,a crayon tin,a colouring in and off we go again.

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.

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.

Maybe she was Russian black or
maybe my imagination,
but she moved like snow on peppermint,
slow and tasty and
much to my amazement,
she melted lines upon my face and
I,
stepping light on all the right stones
making magic with these old bones
melted into her.

With several leaps into frustration
my destination marker hardly
changed at all, though
I had run through cracking panes of glass
where reflections would not let me pass
I saw the end.

She blew a kiss and disappeared
I flew into a rage and feared that
I would die,
but
angels do not work that way they
reappear another day,
and so
I wait,
with pepperminted tongue in cheek
I shall be silent and not seek
another one.

Russian black or red or white
snow and peppermint at night
is my desire.
I light the fire and wait for her
to come and dine with me
and share my appetite.

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.

We went everywhere
together
and got nowhere,

life goes on.

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)

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.

An old leprechaun lives on my lawn
he cuts and keeps it neat
I called to him and asked his name
he told me it was Pete.

One day old Pete just went away
he didn't leave a note
before the grass turns into hay
I'll have to buy a goat.

One deep breath away
from the start of another day,

Begin,

moving on with a spring in my step
pat the pet cat
feed the budgerigar
turn the key in the car,

so much for the spring in my step!

got go get from here to there
pollution in the air,
but I'm seated in a Peugeot
and that's the way to go.

I'm feeling slinky
it must be the dress which
I admit
rather suits me
rather *****,

on the count of three I am
no longer me.

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.

... of course the side effects have some effect,
slang terms in a dialect,
being near with one defect,
perfect.
it kills me with its monotony
a gluttony of verbose,
such grandiose schemes
lost in daydreams and
of course the
side effects kick in like
oil I slip in and spread out
rainbow style.

At the end of your tether
don't know whether to go on
can't  decide if you're sick of hearing
that same old song?

Find some solace
look in the face of your fears
and kiss them goodbye.
Get high
better than being low
because then there's only one way to go
and that's straight to the doors of the place that you know
where the fires burn bright
and the music's alright
out of sight out of mind
and in that place you will find
all those friends, who roamed off and left you
and went off to view
their own personal hell with a view from the windows
of their own private cell.

Well are you at that end
can you really decide if you want to send
yourself there
are you in a fit state to care?

I've been and come back
been stretched out on the rack of indecision
blocked with precision
by the walls of derision
and now..?
..now I'm a regular guy slightly shy
but I get by.
I no longer cry for my God to come and take me
to the woods out the back
and then to cremate me
I have burned and in turn I am whole.

There's a whole lot of living
just got to give
giving it a
chance.

In the unbroken smoke, where the cream on the coffee can choke
an unwary cat
that's where I'm at.
I didn't look for it,book it,get this life at cost,so **** it,
I never asked to be here,
the price I must pay is too high and I fear I will die.
The sanatorium,
humorously called a
gated community where
electrodes are placed on my brain,
is that normal or sane?
what kind of people are these?
I can walk as I talk with the trees in the garden that's known
as Gethsemane
where I feel all alone but know that nurses are tailing me.
The smoke drifts away
there'll be no shocking me today.
Napoleon comes by and he waves and says 'Hi'
I say,
'not yet'

I never knew what it was that I wanted, but now I do,
to queue, to queue, to stand in a queue waiting quietly for you and as the queue snakes it breaks and reforms and takes the form of a snake and the best bit is where the start of it disappears into the end.
As I bend and writhe the snake comes alive spitting but missing hissing and hitting the mark, in the dark you can't see who's in the queue, but you hear them,
old men, young men, men when  the ale house turns out and lots of females too join the queue, I can sense them among the old and the young men, their perfume leaves little room for doubt.
And who knows where the queue goes, but we queue anyway, one day we'll queue our life away and
I'll be in the queue for that.

The day my head exploded was a normal sort of day,
I was walking with my sausage dog
along the sands of Morecambe bay,
when all at once which happened twice, something occurred
which wasn't nice.
The shifting sands with shifting hands clasped me tightly by the legs,my sausage dog thought it a game but the hands reached out and grabbed him just the same.
We both thought that this was the end,
me and sausage,
mans best friend.
Sinking slowly in the sands,the dog and I held by those hands which gripped us ever tighter.
it might have been an act of God or it may have been my sausage dog who saved my life,
just when all seemed lost and done,
my head exploded like a gun and out of it came a length of hope which dog and I fastened to a rope and slowly pulled ourselves quite free from those grasping hands and the greedy sea.
Afterwards,
after a cup of tea and a bonio,( for the dog you know)
we decided not to go
that way on a walk again.

Caption this,
lips
a
kiss
a
loving touch and
how to caption
missing you so very much.

Time grins awkwardly at me,can't see the joke
but only time can see the smoke that leaks out through the backs of old cracked hands,that hold the stubs of cigarettes as if letting go,will let time know the end has come,
for some it will as minutes climb up on the hill of hours past.
Only second chances last and are written on the dials,posted tightly into files and filed away.
Then the day filters slowly away into the flittering, skittering shadows that we fear.
The heart beats faster as it slows and only time knows why,
Time drags feet and then it flies
never dies
lives forever
severs links
never thinks but
time links us all.

We danced across the roof of the sky,
with the lightning flashing by
we laughed and held each other tight.
It was just another night in Monterey.

And dashing from one bolt to the next one
the dance carried on 'til the break of day,
when we set aside the morning light.
Then held each other tight once more,
stepped up to the door of dawn
and opened wide the seals.
This ,
the reason why we're born to dance with thunder
and split apart
the gentleness of the aching heart.
To
step inside the eagerness of why we hide
and slide down rainbows,
twinkling toes and stars that shine are yours ,
be mine.

Time slips down along with rain
and what hurt once,does so no longer
and while the storm we carry gets much stronger
we become
serene,
moving,dancing in our dream
and amid the streams of crashing life that smash upon the shore
we open once again the door
and are born once more into the
dance we make.

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.

More paintings,
sketchings
copper plate etchings
I look and see them all,
and fall into
those hand picked scenes,
paintings,sketchings,
etching dreams.

Landseer,
Constable,
Turner,
Vermeer,
they're all here
selling their scenes
making my dreams
come true.

The Bishop on the radio
playing solo to an audience he cannot see
makes me
think of loneliness.
Perhaps his Holiness the Pope can keep me company
with the radio and the BBC.

This Bishop's drooling blood and guts,
damnation and hellfire
Jeez,
I'm glad that I'm not in the choir.

I find religion is like a game of chess
move a pawn and get reborn
Blessed are the knights and those other things
which turn out to be the Queens that run rings around the Kings.
Which again in turn brings me back
to the Bishop
care of Radio Shack.

Yes.
Sunday being a day of rest and recuperation
is the day we atone for the sins
of the nation.
I get down on my knees and pray,
Say dear Lord
don't punish me for being so bored with this
there's only so much bliss a man can take
please make the sermon stop.

The Bishop on the radio will never know I heard him speak
and no doubt next week he'll speak again
of eternal pain and such.
I touch the good book by my bed
and switch off the radio.
I think he's said
enough.

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.

One day these chains will break
One day I'm going to take
One day
at a time.
And one day I will be free
like the raging of the sea
and on that day
I'll surely see
what these chains
have kept from me.

Inside the back of a cigarette pack where a picture card sat I read about Mafeking and Cathay,
I saw 'Grace' with his bat and 'Miranda's fruit hat,steam ships and trains, which monarchs reigned,butterflies and stars,the age of the cars,airplanes and costumes,fruits and legumes,flowers and trees,birds of paradise which pleased me,pictures which teased me,
and all of this sat in the back of a pack
of cigarettes.

When this evening ends and sends us both off to sleep
will you keep me close by your heart
will the start of the night
become part of the rite
of two lovers who dream
in dreams of a day when they both live to say
I love you and you too and do you think it's alright when we sleep in the night if we turn off the light and light the flames of our hearts and that's how it starts
and how it ends
when the night sends us both off to sleep.

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.

If only we were the executioners of our downfall
that would be a fitting windfall, and
a rollover on the lottery
win

as death grins on the side lines
I
remember the good times
sharpening the axe.

You bought the Express,
I wanted the Sun
you wanted it your way
I wanted a gun.
It's no fun any more
since the day
'the mother in law'
stepped through the front door and started laying down the law.

I really try to get along with her
but I can't see her being fair
she wants things done and doing right
I should have run away last night
but she caught me opening the bedroom door and laid me down a lot more law,smacked me in the face and now I'm sore
can't take this misery
what more can I do.
Nor can I tell if this is a living hell or hell among the living,
well she'll have to go
she'll have to know that she's not sharing any of her uncaring here
I am not going to live in fear any more.
Is that the door?
Oh god she's back and I haven't done the breakfast dishes
if anyone has two free wishes
lend me one
and if wishes really work at all
tomorrow she'll be gone.

...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.

If you are
not an
ocean
do not
make
waves.

Project the images behind my eyes and
feed me the words with the gravy of lies
mise over your chattels
but fight your own battles.
I ain't going to fight no more,
I ain't going to join in
I've told you before
you're just a mongrel
a monger of war.

Shut out
cut out
put up
fed up
kicked in
locked in
I've been there and back
attacked
smacked
slapped down got up
but shot up
I went down again and it's not the same.
I'm older now
can't be bothered any more.
Kick the door in
stick the knife in
anyway
you're going to win
and the end..

Well
the end has already been and gone
it didn't leave a calling card
life's so hard
and then you die
or if you don't
you wish you had
sometimes it feels like it's all bad.

With my back against the wall
and so very high up
I could fall
forget it all.
In a rush of passing air
in a moment I'm not there
do you really want to share the pain
and anyway it's not the same.

Solo was the game I played
and solo I have stayed
should not have strayed
mistakes I've made
laid it on the line and now the time is here.
nothing like a bit of fear to make your stomach growl
nothing like a drowning man to make your neighbours howl in fright
tonight
tonight
tomorrow night
I take my flight
will you be there to watch the show?
watch me go
see me fly?
watch me go
watch me go.
In the echoing
In and at the final reckoning
when two and two add up to so much more than four
And anything I ever knew
I know no more.
Will I be sure that I was right
tonight
tonight
or any night
I wonder.