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.

In this starlit night
Awash in the moons lonely light
A nightjar ***** its wings
And calls out loud.
The vibration sings on waves of sound
Then splashes into the silent ground.
And deep within that song I found
The essences of life unbound.
In this newborn humility
I see,
The changing of the days
And in a hundred wondrous ways
I watch the leaves turn green then brown
As trees grow inward and settle down.
For the Winter sleep.
I weep
And long for longer days
Where evening stays just out of reach.
I wish that nature would stop and teach
Me more.

Some sides are better left outside and outside is some side for some,
inside is a side that is sometimes outside but inside or outside it is still the side inside.
I suppose as I often do that you have an inside outside too,
a heart on your sleeve is I believe a practical demonstration of this,
a kiss held within
a breath given out
a word that is swallowed and turns inside to a shout.

But not everything is about the things that we see, things existential, that which we cannot see,
the face is a fabulous affair,
we can see things that appear and do not appear there,
a perception that fosters the deception of mind
I don't mind,
I see what I want to and what you want to show, inside or outside it's the same don't you know

The problem is,
no matter that I walk for a thousand miles or a month, or a year
I find myself back here
where I started from.
I am the karma reconstitute,the weak man or the resolute
but I always come back to the start
and it's the start that's the matter,it begins as I shatter another life that I live and goes on,
that's the problem.

I may be that hamster on a wheel,in a cage I can't see but I feel that it's there as everything spins,or am I the doll you stuck pins in
but,
then I think,if I was punctured
I would not spin and I'm back at the beginning,flat on the floor,what's more,
I do feel deflated,dried up,desiccated but the karma kicks in and once again I begin to evolve and to spin and the wheel feels so real as I turn into what you would want to believe.

When I was but a lad with snot on my sleeve and in my pocket of sweets where
I could then truly believe in some transitional state,I related quite well,
but I grew and it all went to seed
it's not hell that I need but it's hell that I get and yet
heaven's out there,
there are angels in Tooting, (like me) reconstituting and waiting for a share of the pie.

The future that we bought into has ******* us, all
due to those weevils in the counting houses playing handball with our cash.Give 'em all three strokes with the cat o nine tails,let's hear them moan and send their wails across the land so others of this thieving band may listen and take heed.
I'm sick of being bled bone dry so they can feed,I need to take a stand and start an anti weevil band but that takes cash and dash it all,it's all being counted down in county hall.

I have counted many lucky stars while laid out on the floors in several bars and then have counted several more when making it out of the door into those spaces where I know the sad and lonely people go
but I'm not one of them thank God,I've always been a little odd like that,the flat sound and Elliot knew it too,the wasteland of the tasteless,few will guess how I digress and each day more becomes the mess I make,this jiggery pokery keeps on poking me as if I could be anything other than the skullduggery I partake in.

I have spun my sin into this shawl I wear and call to some greater being to help me bear the shame but it seems like '*******' is my name I hear it often cited by the counting men who couldn't count the Viscounts in a biscuit barrel,
and so I do a barrel roll and bowl along my merry way which I do quite nicely every day and if tomorrow is another day
when do we start the war?

Taken on a trip through the why don't I slip through the net?
set back from the light in the shadow  that might be the shadow of me and
who is free is he who can see the night shift its shape,
landscapes on canvas and seascapes in galleries, it's no wonder to me why Valerie went over to the other side.

Positive thinking in the tin where yesterday is chinking its chains does  my brains in,

Weary,
eyes bleary and nobody hears me,
it's that kind if say you get lost on the way, but I'm used to it.

On the tube.

I stand can't sit and these people just look and don't give a **** about me which all sounds like Valerie.

If this is the day and I am who I am, who's got the script
where is the man that I used to be

' why don't you come on over Valerie'

At the point where the afterburner turns into the foreground I look around me,
there is no Valerie and
only what's left if the dream wasn't right,
the night shifting shape
the rim on a wheel,
sometimes I feel
unreal.

Jaw jaw.

Bless 'em all,bless 'em all
and let's hope those ******* will fall,
off
their high horses and into the ****
I'd walk right past them and
not care a bit
'cause they're grinding us into the ground,
the pound is worth **** all at all
so here's to the mighty and farewell
to blighty,
cheer up my lads
bless 'em all.

This feathered quill with fluted nib stands idle in an idle hand and a man with little time to spare,despairs of flowing from its point,a point to make,a case he cannot state.
It is late the ink has bled,I am being led to some conclusion,propelled to see a page, unwritten not by me but by the elements.

Underwater I breathe air,a little trick I found when underneath the earth and being ground, they thought into fine dust,the fire was just a place to warm my bones while the winds sang songs to me in dulcet tones.

And still the quill sits silently as if begrudging me a moments rest, it  would be a feather in my cap if only I could slap another word out of its tip,but no letters slip to form these things,it seems that silence only brings me emptiness,even less than that when words within are crushed and flattened by the fattening of worms that squirm and hold me in their coils,and any words there were are spoiled,deleted,secreted quietly and forgot about.

In the tomb without a light, this ink is but a link to further things to think and if only I could force this quill to spill something.

Underlined in red and on the tombstone up above it said,

'here lies within a man so thin
and yet so thick
his quill
a magic stick
his ink
a skating rink

Magic couldn't save him'

But this is of another page when reached upon a ripe old age and suitably I shall erase that which pertains to me.

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.

...and later on, though he wondered where the time had gone,he got off his seat,onto his feet and moved on through the day,
his thoughts criss crossed the paths down the line of bellyroll laughs and his eyes watched the skies for a sign,but none came.
The sun spun its rays in intricate ways and the heat bothered him,he's been fat,now was thin and the skin on his face was grimy and tight,he should have bathed in the light but he shunned it instead,
shaking his head,moving on,looking for her but she'd gone,he was fading away,there was death in the lack of excitement today and his days were the same,looking for signs where none came,searching for tokens and words that were spoken a long time ago.
He didn't know and nor did he care,he was moving along,he was looking for her,but she'd gone,travelled on through the veil,walked now in the shadows that rose in the evening, within the valley that lies beyond....

...and later on when the evening had come and gone and she still was not where,when his mind ceased to care and he was dead on his feet,
he sat back down on his seat and looked at the sky,opened his mouth but the words did not come,
with the sun stuck in his throat he put on his coat and went home.

She
spins stories
like
spiders spin webs
I
am spellbound.

If the Sun doesn't get you
the scorpions will.

There were four of us in a half track and a little way back lay the fifth.

The Sun got him good
roasted and peeled him like a spud.

Tannoy, the radio man was the next one to go, slow like a withering vine,
sounded like static on the line
then he went dead.

Fitzroy, the Sepoy, more of a boy than a man
prayed for a day and then went on his way to whatever heaven it is that Sepoys go.

Bill, a bull of a man from Mill Hill and who spoke with a permanent stutter
uttered his last and I travelled on at half mast
cursing the Sun and the Sand and the hand I'd been dealt.

Felt the scorpion sting as I pulled up and funny thing too
I could swear that the scorpion looked like
Frank Sinatra.

It's Monday
sigh,
oh me oh my
why,
'twas Sunday only yesterday

what trickery is this?

I kiss her slowly as she wakes.

They say that sixty seconds takes a lifetime for
a minute,
she makes a lifetime longer and the hours
make me hunger,
but her kiss comes on much stronger than before.

Only Monday makes me smile like this
the waking kiss,

Sunday I miss, but not that much

such are the ways of days in the week
who seeks to stay in a given day
stagnates,

she waits until the ink runs dry
oh me oh my
why
'twas full only a Moon ago.

The distance between the A and point B
the earth and the sky
the shore and the sea
are the steps that we take,equations we make,the sum exponential,the potential we're gifted to lift up our eyes,to gladden our hearts,make the most of new starts,to kiss and behold
to love and be told that we're more than the one,melting then gone and in two I see me,closing the distance between point A and the B and the best thing of all is that this is all free,
There is no hidden agenda,she gives me her body and soul,I give her my whole,one more tangent,one sine and the waves realign,I am hers she is mine and once these mathematics are done,we get to the fun of learning the talk and doing the walk and the chalk makes its line across and beyond the beginning of time.

No ifs
no buts
he called you all *****
and that puts him in the doghouse.

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.

When the pack ice closes in and the evening ends only to begin,there comes a point when you realise
you cannot win.
The world will spin but you do not because you're rooted to the spot and you haven't got a clue,you don't know what to do and so you freeze.
The morning breeze unfreezes you but still you don't know what to do and you shiver in the early air wishing you were anywhere but here,
and the fear you feel is just as real as shadows that you cast,though you know deep down that fear like shadows fades away and does not,cannot last.
The summer comes,that evening goes but you felt the melt of snow along your spine
so you sit and wait 'til it gets quite late and you do it all the time,but time is moving on and you're still rooted to the spot,still without a clue,still do not know what to do and really there's no helping someone who's closed off like you.
The ice holds tight
for some the night will never end and some will never lend their eyes to gaze upon the clear blue...
lights and skies and butterflies and I have wandered through the why's and wherefore's
stored multitudes of memory in the rack,been there and back and still the ice pack closes in,
this spin of mine ,this start and stop and waste of time,this snow that melts along my spine,
in the shallows of my mind I dine alone.

Tell me this,
how nice is paradise
is everything free
or is it cut price
Is it Harrods or a Tesco?
That's what I'd like to know.

Do you sit do you sing
do you do anything
or do you just float in the air
are there many up there?

can you fall in love
or is it just him up above you adore
what do you wear?
I care to know.

One day I'll go and give it a shot
will you forget me not?
in the gardens of Eden we'll meet
parting is not sweet
just bitter.

I watched her as she slept which kept me wide awake and for every breath she took which took my breath away,I wanted to wake her up and say,'how beautiful you look as you lay there fast asleep,but I count another breath and think myself to ten and when my heart begins to slow,I know I'll leave her to her sleep and my imagination screams to keep that picture in my mind.

They take it in turns
multiplying like germs,
ideas wreaking havoc between
my two ears.

If there be a vaccination to relieve
this situation,
let me know.

Ideas grow
and like dynamite they blow
the world apart.

But
between these two big ears is
another world of hope that's
filled with fears and the germs
accumulate, they never want to
cooperate
leaving me in such a state that
all I want to do
is sleep.

Work,
the *****,
the crack ******* house, the new dope den but someone is still pulling the strings,making me do things and all for work.
Should I go out in this pouring rain and smoke that pipe of labour again or sit here at home with a bottle of shame?
It's not on the cards but all the same
I wish it was summer.

Leaving well enough alone
I go home
where only your words serve to burn me
remind me to learn that to be free
is to be one with
oneself
And alone very selfishly I turn over another leaf.

Oh thief, come then and take me
and let us not tarry
marry me into your night.

Out of sight out of mind
the wallpaper lines the drawers in the wardrobe
and mothballs like meteors
flash warnings to creatures
do not enter
and the scent of her lingers
I lick my fingers as if I could taste her
as if I could paste her to the walls.

On the inside of life where I fall into tomorrow
where yesterday lives in the crook of the hollow
below my cheeks and today sneaks a peek but decides to return
to a place I would spurn
Oh if only I could.

She is still here or there
somewhere in the recess wearing that Westwood creation
I station and anchor myself to this point
and at the point of a pin
where the needle grows thin
I jab it into and under my skin and I blunder
along wildly
in panic, but that's nothing new
to a fool who would do such strange things.

Eventually relenting
and I on repenting she brings me to her
here or somewhere each place names the same as the last
and each one disappears as fast as it came.

This is a round about big dipper,dip for a duck
childhood fair ground game that we play
we all want a coconut
but some don't want to pay.

She comes to me to say
'it's okay it'll be fine'
and each time I believe
until the mothballs remind me she leaves and I grieve
And the drawers remain shut
the wardrobe is but another reminder
a laughter at me
one day I will find her
again.

She had to stand on tippy toes to kiss my lips but
love, she knows
disregards the differences in heights,
makes a mockery of the passions spent in
sleepless nights but love,
she knows is where we
stand
together hand in hand against
the world.

I lived across the bay
from Windscale,
the power plant,
the real
Jack O' Lantern.

They said, not true, that the
power station turned tomatoes blue
but
we knew
and
fish with more,a score of eyes,
we were wise to them
the power station
atomic men.

A tunnel to France,
what for,
to find some romance?
fat chance.

There'll be trouble and big
if the silly sods dig
a trench
to meet
the French
head on.

Tails I lose.

In the quiet of your home
in the corner of your room
in the rushing of the street
in the time you're on your own

when the stars light up like candlesticks
when the moon begins to pray
and the oceans hear you groan
in the time you're on your own.

When the milkman comes and the sun's not shone
but the night has packed its bags and gone
and the dew is you upon the floor
in the time you're on your own.

One small kiss can resonate,
make universes hold their
breaths and wait
and still we wait
in the time you're on your own.

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

Like a clown that drowns in the echo of laughter after the show is done,
I run through the programme always looking behind,
expecting to find something I cannot see,
but that's me.
hoping I'll cope with the ketchup of history which is listed in the programme under subsection 3b.
I always felt in two places,hence the belt and the braces,never sure of myself, wherever I went I spent time looking around,testing the ground,making excuses,checking the exits,expecting the sluice gates to open and flush me out,push me out to where history exposes the truth in the posing and posturing.
At times it is comforting to hear the mad laughter knowing that what will come after is the silence,this may be the penance I have to endure, to be in the asylum knowing there is a cure,
to drown like the clown
still unable to see,
ketchup on the pages of
my history.

The event horizon
dies on my lips.
The outside of me slips within.

At the edge of a reasoning
this thing that would bring me
to an alternate state
cannot wait and it swallows.
My cheeks become hollows as I **** myself in
and the event shall begin with
a flashing of lights.

When the night turns to spin and the angels pin their hopes
against the twisting of the corner ropes
and the bells do not chime against the rushing of time that races past in glee.
I can see me in a negative
A picture I would give this life for
More and more the night gyrates,waits and then it rushes on
into an inner halcyon
long bygone.

In the end there is no end
no beginning
no point in space in which to face the past.
Held fast the faster that I go
a blurring in a fiery glow and eventually I will finally know
that which was hidden behind the lies.
Then my eyes will rest easily upon
the other side of
event
horizon.

Almost effortlessly it appears to be
somewhat divine
cuts the line so fine through skin and bone
homes in on the malady that's affected me
and burns it out.
Laser beams unpicking seams
I deem it best to just accept the light
lay back and relax
while the laser attacks
me
internally.

It's like Star Wards
tied by hospital cords
and it's scary
but interesting and fascinating
hyperventilating
fear
the laser comes near
closing my eyes
nobody dies who comes into the light
Yeah alright
I'll believe
but the laser freezes and does not burn
which is of some concern
did not expect that turn of events.

The surgeon cements me together
he's clever
and say's 'all done
nothing to worry about'
then goes off with a gun in his hand
to laser beam land?

Everything moves so fast
where once a plaster cast would have done,
Today,
everyone wants to blast you with a laser
gun.
Zapped.

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'

Down in Brighton
everyone's a light on
waiting for the bomb to explode,
Hove and Shoredene's playing to the drag Queens
everybody's dancing along.
Songs of romance, wishing for a last chance,dashing down the promenade,
but life is hard for the artists
who end up in the back room getting slightly ******,
and down in Brighton everyone's a light on
waiting for the bomb to explode.

There's a cold wind bullies in
from the West
I put on wooly knickers and
a hand knitted vest

were I from Yorkshire I'd
rub goose fat on my chest

but them's a strange lot
up there
tha' knows.

Rock bottom,
not  a
good place
for a
vacation home.

Even the daylight feels heavy on me and the clouds have conspired to cast weights on me, the sky is a slate grey and this is the way of it.

I need the safety of steel bars surrounding me so the people can stand and look in on me,
I hope that they don't try to set me free because
the burden I carry is too much for me.

There is lightness somewhere and it falls on me
in unfortunate blindness,
I cannot see,
so I fall on my knees and I make a plea
to the Lord of the heavens,
he don't hear me.

When days like this come along in tandem
I cry like a man and then whine​ some, but
my tears are acidic and
only make me feel more sick,
if only the weight didn't weigh on me.

I am happy,
I am
and I know it
even when I know and
can't show it,
but the weight that hangs on me
drags me down and
points only to misery.

I wonder if there is a feelgood factory
and could I be factored in
by some chemistry?
if so
would they bother to take the time
to takes these weights off
of mine before I'm dragged
deeper into this feeling
of misery.

'What time is it', asked the rock, who had turned to dust, and the voice replied,
'rise o-clock'
and the legend began.

Rumours ran rife that the man with no wife had returned, someone burned bushes in honour but that had been done before.

The rock that was dust blew away but returned as a man and I hear people say, Peter, you're cool, but Pete was no fool, he knew there was a reputation to salvage.

In Virginia on a blue ridge a cowboy, head slung low, which matched the slant of his guns
hummed tunes from a memory that his Ma' made in Yosemite a long time ago,
the man with no wife who was also a cowboy rode far into a canyon and it fired his imagination, and more bushes burned as he passed.

'Nothing new here my dear', he said to his horse and he talked to his horse more than he talked to most people.

By a steeple in Piza, leaning towards a disaster, a singer of ballads sat eating chorizo because even singers need to rest, It was Monday and the light burned which was a nice change from bushes.

'It'll never be the same, we should have left well alone' came a disjointed voice from an unworldly zone and that's the way of it, gods and aliens like to play a bit, sometimes the game gets away and they lose the plot and what have we got,?
Easters eggs and fun
bunnies watch them run as the sun
passes over the sky.

On the chair she sits and pits her wits against mine.
I love her,
she wins easily.
I love her,
every time.

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.

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.

If this world should end at midnight
I will sit tight
and wait,
the battery will be changed and all will be arranged as before.
Before,
when the poor were short changed and the rich had it all their way and that's the way of it,
It stops for a bit
it starts for a bit
It hits us hard
it's **** by the yard
but it's what we get
don't forget that, as you sit in a one bedroomed flat,where the pigeons have shat on your doorstep.

I bet you don't give a **** as the rich ram it home that the home that you're in isn't your own.
Well
*******.
they do
everyday of your life.

He did not hold me in his arms upon
the sea of Galilee,
he let me down,
left me to drown
but worse than holding my breath,
is not death,
No
it's the somewhere in between
when you're stuck into a scene, a
kind of 'Groundhog...'

A mad dog may foam at the mouth but that's
the last thing on my mind when
I find I'm heading South
into the pit and the bit that really bothers me are
the philistines who roared approval at
my removal.

Death may be an obstacle to overcome,
the Son of Man
managed it
and that's another bit that bothers me as I
sink and drown under the sea
of Galilee.

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.

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.

The conclusion,
the fusion of everything when everything's melting in one giant ring,when you're hit by the concussion wave of angels who sing, hallelujah,and ask,'who the hell are you?'.

A good question.

In the end we defend what we did or did not and what we get,where we go depends on the remorse that we show,if we go knowing that, it gives us a shot at the moon,
but the end as it will always wills us to go off too soon,
I hear the Angels croon to me,'come to me,accept this as your destiny',but this endless cycle of eternal misery is hypocrisy and not for me,just let me be alone with me and my thoughts.

I blew it twice and twice they flew,leaving few upon the stalk to talk to friends,I thought those dandelion days would never end,but the dandelion knew the time,though I did not,and now I have the time my friends are gone,blown along the Summer breezes and as winter freezes man and beast,at least I have the pictures in my mind.

February finds me back there,older now and minus hair which once was long and flowing,I guess I'm showing my age when I speak of daisy chains and sticks of sticky Blackpool rock and yet I look for but cannot find the dandelion clock,perhaps it's locked away in preparation for some other Summers day.

*** for tat
kidnap and ****
will
it ever
end?

I carry an envelope
half full of emptiness
empty of hope
addressed to someone who
might understand
someone in Paraguay or
Nyasaland?

A second class stamp
because
I can't afford any more.

A swiss army knife for a wife,
sharp.

There is hope by the score,
expensive though
at the second hand store
I wait in vain
in pain
for someone to say
Je t'aime

(which means love in French I think, but
she can be Irish or anything
just something)
(ps it might mean something else in French, but it has a nice ring to the sound when I say it out loud so I hope it means love)

One day this envelope will flake away
before that day
my day
our day
will get in the way.

I am acutely aware
that this government out there
won't share with us
don't care for us
and
that's their loss.

We can cross the road
vote for the other lot,
X marks their spot
but it doesn't bode well,
the others are just snails
crawling in and out
of the shell.

I smell the same after shave on
all politicians who stand and profess
that they'll save us,
they gave me sod all except a
stink in my nostrils and the need to
take more of the little blue pills.

It's not my future they're taking,
it's yours.
They are closing the doors on ambition
putting up barriers,
we,
should petition the Queen.
but
she's seen it all before and her door is
shut tight.

In this night of a thousand glares
she sits on her throne and stares at the clock
while we
in our madness,
pick up a rock
and throw.

I
being crucified
died.
You did not see me fall
or see the memories that dripped my blood down the concrete walls of yesterday and when I lay there still and broken by the empty stores and unlit lamps,franked as if by postage and the stamps that stamped upon my shattered soul,I felt
whole.
In pieces and yet pieced together,the man you like or not it's up to you whether you do.
I remain a reminder of the pain now gone and one remembers a touch too much at times,
hard and easy times,crayoned soft times,lead pencil lines that tore across my skin,tin tack look back time pressing in on me,
but you did not see me fall or bleed, recognise the need,stem the flow,
it was I who stood aside and watched me slowly drop and couldn't stop the embolism,attacked by criticism,the symbolism all but knew and I,and I
was crucified bled out,read out cuneiform until it dawned on me that you could see and I was but a symptom not the cause.