Imaginative energy flows in, around, then out of me and I can see in it the key that opens up the world for me.
Clouds of pirates floating by are dressed as clouds up in the sky, firing catapults of fun filled with laughter at the sun.
Daisies growing in the field for bumble bees to land and steal, then take their ***** home to be, made into honey cakes for me.
Imaginative energy the magic all around with me and if your eyes are open wide, come in and join me on the ride.

Those were the idiot days when the long nights in Summer came upon me and light the winds blew, dew in the mornings to dampen the ardour, but we always knew that wasn't true.

And August ran quickly along the pathway to meet me in colours as bright as my eyes could take in.

There's a sin in not seeing or feeling these moments
they only come once and then they are gone,
September, October and life's nearly over, fireworks in November I remember them well.

December for the end of it, by the tree and the fairy lights with the faces of the family, etched by those ghostly sights that appear in my vision...
..' Oh grandad' she says, 'it's a play on by Dickens'
okay,
One more Christmas carol and time for my sleep.

Her eyes a steelyard grey,watched me in the bar today,saw me drink,made me think there'd be hell to pay if I said hello and offered to buy her a bourbon or rye and then she swaggered up to me and said,'anytime you're free hunk, you're welcome to take a chunk ,a slice,I'm nice, of me,be my guest and don't be shy,you're not shy are you guy?'

I left rapido, head held real low and ears turned red by other things the steelyard grey eyed woman said.
I'm not a ***** but she was downright rotten rude and anyway what would my mam say,if I took a girl like that to Mothers flat for tea?

She'd say,
I'm mad,that girl is bad, best get shot of that bad lot and there's not a lot that I can say
except she was kind of **** in a steelyard grey way.

Restless in her sleep she wrestles me, in dreaming deep of what is and what is to be, she takes hold, I see her fingers white and clenched, drenched with sweat,
and cool her brow, wonder how she has the strength to fight.
This night is like the other nights when we have fights and in spite of that the night is always spectacular for me,
in her dreams I can be her superman, not the 'desperate dan' I really am,
in her dreams I fly to her, take her where she wants to be,
she wants to be with me.

Then she wakes and wonders why, the tears I cry for her and I would die for her,
and tonight she will wrestle me and I will nestle close,
and close the light out
one more night bout.

Tilt,
another guilt
and
one more rosary
will finish me.

I've done with Salome,
she's the dancer
who knows me
too well.

Skipping out on my bond,
let the bondsman come find me
he'll find only Salome,
dressed in her veils.

The church bell
rings solemnly

I pray that eternity
is quieter
than this,

Grandad did keep a pig and chickens also a monkey which was either sat on his shoulder or up on the clothes rack which was set high up in the kitchen..sometimes we would unfasten the rope that tied the rack, and did that monkey chatter as it fell towards the kitchen table..happy days.

My Grandad kept in the back garden ,a big fat rosy coloured pig.
Not the one that did a jig
but another
which was certainly a smelly thing.
Granpa would bring it bits and bobs and the pig would grunt in its approval
until the day came for the pig's removal.
It ended up in 16 dinner bowls and on one big serving plate.
I have to say pig tasted great with apple sauce
But of course
I miss him all the same.

The streets became the targets
targeted by meaner men
and women too,
in march across the capital
making capital of
circumstance.
Which would dance around the pole now that May has gone?
who are these devils in disguise who seek to tell the ignorant and uninterested lies
and lies they tell
that sell their ideology
to you
not me
for I can see them in the power zone if what they want to call their home
but home for them will never be
the homeland of democracy.
People see it every day attacks against the homeless,gay and any other sort whose parents once set sail from some distant sunlit port to find a better way
and life would only have it
that these devils want to take a bit away from them
these meaner men and women too
would take it all away from you
so watch your back
they don't care when
or how they attack
but it's usually in packs like cowards do.
I'm watching them
are you?

I'm doing 380's
degree by degree all I can see
are B52's
rear gunners, point takers and what does that make us
barbarians?
the new cowboys and Indians?

Time frame,
it's an old game in a strange place with a new face that looks down the sights and yet the stars still shine.
What's mine is mine and I'm taking yours, that's mine too
rear view gunning and
point takers running the show but where do we go from here?

We're going to bomb today to the middle of next year,
it'll be different then,
we'll all be older and wiser men and yet,
Big Ben,
News at Ten
and the stars still shine.

Everything changes but stays the same,
time frame
time again,
armaments
arguments
distilling some truth 'til we dispel all the lies and in the eyes of the cat who
has seen all o' that
nothing amuses him more than the ground that he's walked over before
and
degree by degree all that I see
are the B52's
and yet
the stars still shine.

Time but stoops to wrap its fingers 'round the trigger and,
shoots a hundred thousand years.
and I,
shot blast,
somewhere in the distance and my present past,
am cast in stone.
A statue to atone,
misgivings I alone would know and
time,
time to show trajectory.
PnF
the directions all about and me.
And equally a
Parabola,
a crab upon the shore,
scuttling now but there is
more to come.

If we vibrate and we move in the frequency,
of the universe there is no secrecy,
to the wavelengths
we swim along hopefully
meeting vibrations besides, that dive deeply
inside of we
Vibrating in synchro simplicity.

I have never understood a blue rhapsody when the colour's as good as the symphony and the orchestra, thinking, agrees with me as we move deeper and vibe in the frequency.

In the palm of the universe
we could be,
making love to the music
if we could see,
where the universe ends and the frequency starts
and the joining of letters spell out the two hearts,
in the palm of the universe,
frequency.

This..
.the coup de grace
The kiss my *** goodbye.
And thus I die to lay among the graves.

Is is not true that Jesus saves?
Am I forever bound to the underground?
Does it really sound..
..as if I care?

So **** me if you will..
..and fill me with a shot of lead.
I have fed too often on the bones..
..of this day and of yesterday..
..and am ready now to lay and sleep.

Let me still my dreams
Spill my pen of ink.
Link into the great unknown.
Loan me a cloak
Let me soak in formaldehyde..
..these are the death that we have spied upon.

The great one comes
I hear the approach..
..the sounds of drums rupture my ears.
I am fearful of those long..long years and yet..
..how ****** I forget the life..and these fears are replaced..
As I race into another dawn.
Where I am reborn.

Once more I die
To wake and see another daybreak
One more blue sky
And wonder why my dreams are always..
..the same.

Fun fun times in the now and here and in no man's land between the lines where everything that's anything and no one who can be anyone or any one who can be everyone goes.

The weasel may be popped, but the shop's open the whole year through, fun fun things for us to do and who'd have thought that they only bought to keep up with the next door Jones.

Rags and bones and pony carts, Napoleons and Bonaparte's all come to them asylum men who in their white coats, stethoscopes at hand lead the madness of the marching and who'd have thought that they were mad, one and all of them asylum men.

Work they said will cure the blues, but I choose not to take advice, they look twice and shake their heads, Supermen in lockdown wards on lockdown beds with locked in minds find Lois with the golden hair, she's watching any someone over there and it happens to be me, what glee, one more Nero on the deck to fiddle things, in my neck of the woods, goods in, goods out and that's what madness is about, absolutely pointless drivel dribbled by the 14th Earl of anywhere she's just a girl, not allowed the umpire shouts, not PC get out of here and in no man's land the band lays down, Napoleon marches on one more town, Havisham sits in her wedding gown and dust gathers in the corridors.

Would you place my life in photographs on your mantlepieces
Show these pictures to your nephews and nieces?
I think not.

There are many amends to make..
..I have fallen into the fire..the grate is hot
The coals burn
The teacher of life and its lessons can be awfully stern.

As the smoke starts to rise..up the chimney and into the skies
As I meet my demise
I turn for one last loving look.

I should have shuffled the deck
Should have wound in my neck and not been so shortsighted
Would that these thoughts had alighted
When I was in the thick of the storm..
..these thoughts come fast
I am caught in the updraft and am swirling away.

This day would come..and for some sooner than that..
..now I chat to the birds
I am just..jest to their words..I am..

..Not quite sure now..I can't see myself..how could I tell?
I wonder if this is what people call hell.

Not seeing where you are..or where you've been..or is it in the unseeing..
..when you realise what kind of being..
..you were.
As I became once..or was I really there?

I share..but care not for this state..in the grate it's still hot
A little snapshot
Can you not
Spot
The loser.

Dear John,

I got your letter,
it's sat here on
my breakfast table and this I swear,
when I am able
I will appoint a minister, to anoint the hearty souls who take such pleasure in taking polls,another one who we'll call John to join the lines on motorways,preferably on busy days.
A minister, I will need to feed the barons of the press some home produced (by my good wife)
bowls of steaming Eton mess.

I shall endeavour to be so clever and put forward bills to fill the grumbling tums of stumbling bums,if they exist at all.
and I won't fall into the trap of thinking this World's round not flat.

Yours
David.

They dragged the river twice
from bank to bank
a nice job for some.

Jimmy Dunn was bloated,full on fish and chips and mushy peas but then he eyed the apple pies and his eyes being bigger than his belly ordered that along with jelly and ice cream.
Leaning loudly on the groaning table and unable to make a start,he farted,then he ate some more, off Mr's Plumdore's a' la carte.
Again, he tried another start to get his day  up into gear,but parting from the food laid there was more than Jimmy Dunn could bear,so sitting down with more than most, he thanked his rather pretty hostess in the cafe, by the river Dee,
anyone with half a brain, would not have caused himself to gain such weight and I could see the enormity and the immensity of his big bulk.
Eventually he left his seat and plundered off along the riverside just as the tide was coming in,never saw the banana skin.

They dragged the river twice.

you take your test and it's negative, that's positive, right?
but you don't sleep at night because you're positive it should be positive, but again, a test shows negative, positive, right?

This is like taking an exam
you know you've done well
but you still have to wait
for the results.

She says because she always does,
take the bull by the horns,
he, meaning me, yawns
and trots off to the kitchen.

Let me make it then,
coffee, toast and at five to ten
a shower, shave,
the bathroom becomes the
Master and I, its slave,
but the saving grace
is the mirror's broken and
I can't see the cracks that run
across my face,
the morning lights the day
and the lines that spread along the glass
get in the way.
Thankful for this little mercy I take
another sip of coffee and
wonder
what to do.

The flames from the coal fire
drew pictures across the ceiling,
I
was held spellbound but earthbound by the stories
which grandfather told,
tales of pirates,lost gold and the Raja's from India,
tigers and paintings like I'd never seen
which danced in the dreams that I took
with me to bed.

He said to me,
'lead or be led
be one of the flock or the head
the choice is within you.
Grandad was wise and I supposed that he
knew almost everything about everything,
he'd been everywhere where there was anything
to see
or so he told me.

Grandad, dad's dad went away
left me sad
but dad said,
'don't fret
he's still with us'
and yet
I don't see him.

Could have been a rockstar up there on choctaw ridge,
tallahatchie bridge, but just a song that flew so long back then.

pen a line and you're flying
or dying for to pen one more,

I could be her with the hair in my face
or me with myself out of place
could pump iron or jump
either way I am flying.

Choctaw was just a bridge too far
and they made a film of that.

A pig sat in my back yard
seventy pounds of lard
thirty two pounds of gammon and ham
and bacon for the frying pan.

There's a chicken that I can see
and she's laying eggs for me
but I really love fried chicken
so I'll have her for my tea.

A duck with pluck came for a look
at an orange on the tree
I put the two together
and I'll have them both for tea.

Once more into the pews I snore
the vicar reads what he's prepared and doth sermonise on those who dared to sleep while he was spouting verbs.
If God has seen me, he'll know how keen I am to come to church and listen to a boring man,
I'd just as soon eat all my toes and this I'm sure God also knows,
but
into every life the sun must shine,it's Sunday so I should not whine but stay awake and take my medicine like a man.
Another plan and one more prayer,another layer to oxidise,to find the truth between the lies,here's hoping that my eyes stay open.
So,dear
God,please bless the Pope,palmolive soap,Rogers rangers,total strangers and all who sail at sea and if you have some blessings left send some of them to me.

Reflections I feel.
Reflections that steal like a thief in my eyes.
In a day full of highs...reflections are low.
Sometimes I wish those reflections would go.
Another wish unfulfilled like a dream I once had,when things weren't so bad and all I could see when I was looking at me was a young man on the make.
If I could take back the years and the time that has passed,the ref...lection I see couldn't possibly last.

But now I see deep inside..where Devils and Angels play games and in those hide and seek names they remind me of Heaven and Hell.
The Sunday School bell.

I look for a while and realise all is well and that this is the way I suppose it to be..
..in reflections of me..
...I can see shattered stones,mountains of bones and dry river beds, uncoloured sky and a time that won't die..a peace blown apart.

A start an an end
A refusal to bend
A message I know I must send to apologise.
In a day full of highs..
..Reflections are low.

Amelia from Lostralia found herself in Belgravia where the opals that shone reminded her of some place she had gone long before.
Through the doors of pretension where belief is suspended and dreams never ended she defended her right to keep hold of the key,
and the key was the key to set Amelia free from the shackles and anklets placed on her by the withered old aunts who were once debutantes in some place she had been long before.
On the skeleton coast of which Lostralia is famed for,she once went through one more door which led to another or rather an exit,a way out to find out just who she'd become and that wasn't fun,
when you look and you see through the ways that will be and the ways that they were and there's no one to care for,when the doors disappear and the trembling fear is all that you own
and the way back to home is shrouded in mist and the list that you made of the good things you had shrinks into nothing and everything's bad.
In Belgravia her saviour a man from the East or at least East of the beckoning hour,showered her with praise and saved her a reckoning with some higher power which she had seen long ago when locked in the tower by the wicked old prince.
When she woke someone spoke and asked,'how are you my dear'?, fearing the worst and feigning a thirst she replied with a dry throat,spitting cobras and omens and opals and amen's,'I'm okay,I was dreaming of my home in Lostralia and Amelia was back where she'd started from'

Only the bones on the plate
remind me
I ate.
I think I drank tea, but
I'm not sure anymore,
only the bones
remind me.

We should just sit back and manufacture Krap
and put a sign on it that tells you that
the ingredients which are within
are detailed on
the ******* bin.

Why not,
we buy Krap everyday
don't listen to what the products say
in advertising.
'look at me I'm appetising'
you know it makes no sense
when twenty sausages cost fifty pence
you've got to wonder how they're made
Krap
laid on the line
Krap we get it all the time.

It's time we tied the food chain up in knots
we've got the brains
but no
we've flushed them down the drains
with imperial measures
remember them weighty treasures?

It's like a game of pick and mix
those advertisers miss no tricks
to lead you down the garden path
but we will have the final laugh
we'll make Krap by the metric tonne
and give it free for everyone
and everyone will see
what kind of Krap is fed to you and me.

I live this peace like I once lived in pieces,like I once held the lease on the heartbreak hotel.
I wear it quite well but I once wore the gumboots,the glumboots that rooted me in hell.
That was another time,another line and where no signs could guide me,I had Beirut for brains,a war zone as I slept in the carriages on even emptier trains.
Peace is the bonus where the onus is on keeping it,
I do well to remember it when I think that my life is ****.

Keep your religions,your sanctimonious politicians with their maladministration,I take care of my own needs which are few,
I who have nothing,want nothing,it is you that wants affirmation that you're a force to be reckoned with as you praise Gods creation with one eye on the stock exchange floor,
what for?
We shall all end up as bleached bone with the coast as our beach home with no mortgage to pay and every grain of sand will have its day,only the dogs left to **** on us as they play with the bones.
I live this peace but it's fragile and while it lasts
I'll enjoy it.

Oh to be a rich man in the storehouse of society or in the the cellars where sobriety is but a ***** word,
and the words are drinking Bollinger that trickles through the silver sieves and no one gives a second thought
to those, whose labour bought the feast.

But they don't care,not in the least
the nature of the beast runs in their veins and frames the have not's,pigeon holes them,
what men these riches make that would serve to overtake the moral due to me and you,who slave away for men like this most every day, excepting Sunday when we go to pray so we may lay more fat underneath their belt.

They,
who've never felt the touch of ice that spikes the hair and freezes breath,
for whom death is but the interlude,
between the courses chewed
and we,
who have never seen such food that ends up in the pigswill bin
will watch in awe and later in the cold of lamp lit living rooms will tell the story of what we saw,
and not be
believed.

I think I'll sink into the pit
return to take just one more hit
and another bit of
jazz.
Has anybody felt the same?
when thoughts of overriding shame override everything except the name
of the Devil that resides inside the syringe.
Does the thought of thinking make you cringe?
It's not a game
it's played for keeps.
When sanity sleeps inside the light and shades unmask the hidden night
where demons dance on a fingertip
I slip into a self destruct.
There's no saving me
the man inside the man can see
the killing of the man that was never meant to be.

And when everything looks so familiar,
the shouts,
'I'm coming out to **** ya'
don't worry me.
It's only what depression brings
When sad songs sing
when I can't suppress the hopelessness .

But I do confess
I really do.
Usually when I'm feeling blue and drained
I reign myself in tight one more slip into the night
and I am lost forever.
Never-Never land just isn't real
the deal that was laid upon the table
was a fable
unable to live up to my dreams
It seems it was a joke at my expense.
Though not dense I'm none too clever thinking I could live forever
in a tube
in a fix
a bit of jazz just does not mix
with life.

I imagine
that if things do not change for the better,
of writing a letter to the Queen.

Have you seen where she lives?
what gives?
In a palace fit for a King there's a Queen, not that I've been,
I
was never invited to those black tie affairs,a statement it seems of my position in line to the throne.

I was delighted to hear that Prince Philip likes beer and Prince Charles likes a nice glass of Hock,then I was knocked for a six by one of those polo sticks when I heard who was third in the order of pecking,
let me tell you sincerely that it wasn't me,
not that I'd be averse to the role,I could see me in ermine,those robes made from vermin but that's a bit cruel, guess that's why I'm eating gruel and not freshly grilled trout,
and that's about it
though I'm not a royal, I'm loyal to the crown and though Liz let me down, I'll smile and not frown
but have you seen
where the Queen Lives?

If I could buy just one more day..I'd pay the Earth.
To open up my eyes again and feel the loving pain of life and stretch my arms up to the sky..

..But here I lie..Alone in death..
No Angels came to give me breath to breathe in paradise...and let me tell you..
..it aint nice.

So..

If I could buy just one more day I wouldn't waste my words to say."what time is it"..****..I wouldn't care.
I'd nurse each second like a baby in my arms and handle gently every minute..as if a cry would spoil the spell and send me screaming back to Hell and if I heard the clock at all that echoes loudly, I would fall again into despair..
..Something I care not to do.

But what I have is what I've got..a six foot plot..and lost somewhere along the way was any hope of buying one more day.

So I will lay.Wishing I could gaze once more upon the sky.
Wishing I could buy..
..Another day.

I wonder as I often do
who's spinning in which grave
and with who, or
perhaps it should be with whom,
but
I didn't have the room to put that in

which is such a lie
why do I even bother to try?

When I die
no grave for me
I will not spin
with an unnamed
entity
even if she
or he
is as nice as pie
when I die.

On a brighter note
a Thames lighter boat,
where the rivermen between the banks give thanks to
tidal waves and wave across between the shores,between the puritans and ******,
Southwark never bores the citizens,pitting them against the age where Shakespeare plays upon the stage and Chaucer sits in Tabard Square,
awaits the pilgrims who are milling corn atop the bridge.

Cromwell sells the tickets for his latest gig,to dig the graves and inter the raving lunatics who switch from bedlam down to palaces in the minster where the spinster out of place knits balaclavas for the faces that she sees dropping from a guillotine,
these things I've seen a thousand times, written in ten thousand lines and acted out below the chimes of clocks that stand before the sway of one more 'down south london way'  or anyway what do I care if it's share and share alike or not.
I've got allotted but a short spell here,time for dinner,one more glass of beer and then my dear I'm on my way,
to stroll through more of yesterday.

You can choo cha, doo da, hula with a hoopla,
It's all an oil on canvas by the man that they call Dali and you go sail away like Raleigh with the Queen and off to Bali, but your Sheila and the Children wait for you in
Basildon.

It never makes a rhyme when you ******* every time that the debts start mounting up and it shows in the starved faces of the cold and golden places in the eyes and on the lips you leave behind.

You,
the star now
going far now
and forgetting who you were,
are you aware in some false state that this love can turn to hate?
are you bound so tightly to the dream, does it make you happy, can you hear the scream of fate?

The kids are still in Basildon
but Sheila met a soldier boy and moved away to Warrington, long gone the Queen and dream
you're getting old, can't hula hoop, but you seen it all and now you fall into a reverie.

With Dali
and
a cup of tea.

If it be true that
fortune
favours the bold
and
like Midas
all
that you touch
turns to gold,

what will you eat
for breakfast?

It's not what you know what you think or what
you might think you know but don't know and the
man in a rush that was known as George Bush,
told us all that we know
what we don't and we'll think what we won't
or we don't think we'll think but we think,
as thinking goes
that's **** near perfect.


and this is for Uchiha Johnny who is poorly and needs a laugh.

..and it's riff raff paddy whack the bank will take your home and we'll go off a wandering into the twilight zone,
so raise your glasses they're half full,
we all know what that is,that's a load of bull.
It's one for the master another for his wife and poor sods get ****** all,I think they call it life.
so it's, knick knack a sack for your bed and under the bridge you'll lay your head,
a wandering,a wandering,pondering on the words that you've read.
but when you're down in the tomb there'll be no room because the homeless society are massed in the gloom and it's knick,knick knack,a pipe full of crack for the junkies on the corner who don't like 'smack'
we're all better than what we think when we can and when we think that we are we'll be far away.
so it's a hi jolly ** and off we go..........

She was up to eyes in deception and lies
and yet I was blind.
Kind friends had informed me
forewarned me of her treachery
but I could not see
that she was having me on
stringing me along like a dog on a lead.

She played the part well and I couldn't tell
what was true
what was not.
And how could I know that the status quo was in fact
the state of woe I found myself in.

If I had been more vigilant
less hesitant to believe what was said
I could have got her out of my head
by now
but to live in the dreams where the girl that you love
seems to love you as well
is maybe worth a bit of Hell
on Earth.

She's gone now
left me and somehow
I survive.
but I still see her eyes every time some one tries
to get close.

This is the clock that stood stock still
as you swallowed
and took up a job down at t'mill
there was the time when your dreams were like mine
and not folded away as they were on the day when you signed on the line at the old cotton mill and there's no time to go back and alter what's done
what was fun is no fun and the sun will not shine
like the time that it rained on the day out in July
when it was there that I wondered and wondered and why
you didn't try
to kiss me
bless me for I should have known that you hadn't grown then
some men are slow men and some men stay boys
and toys for the taking
but making the move to the mill is still the lamest excuse that I've ever seen
we could have been
good
together
whether you believe it or not
I have a lot to give
you'd rather live in your bolts of cloth
but I am a moth that is after a flame
and if you won't light me
I'll find someone else
to join me in my game.

Fly away childhood
'fly away paul'
I'll find another one and we'll have the ball that you and I should have
and life's not so bad
if you have the the life that I should have had
It's a mock turtle soup with a loop round the group and a fix on the past and getting passed by the mill is one more or less bitter pill
that we ought not to swallow
and if swallows don't make a season then that isn't a reason to despair.

ps..I love the way you wear your hair
I like the way you dress
wish that I had impressed you more.

Each town that I walk through
every person I talk to has the hue
of dull grey.
This day is no different from the last
another town passed
another chance wasted
my taste buds are chastened
I have hastened too long
I should settle down in  the next town
or maybe
these feet will betray me
again.

Footslogging ******* the days
finding the pathways that lead me nowhere
and I share this alone
in a muted tight groan that issues deep in my soul.
The hole that I've dug has become the shawl or the rug that warms me
warns me to go on
don't stop
not for no one.
The whisper that chants in my ears
seems to have gone on for years and for years,
and for years I have listened
lay in the dew that glistened as it dripped off the end my nose.
In a field by a road with a rose in my hand
I stand by the signpost that reads,
forty miles to the end by the bend in the lane.
I can't explain what that means
but it seems like I must go on
perhaps I've come to the end
or the place where they send
wanderers.

I wonder about this,
is this life giving me the kiss off
the big fix
the deep six
or is this a test?
Staying in the last town would have been best
but I've never been good at being that.
With my cane and my hat
and my clothes in a sack
I don't look back
never did.
Whatever is hid behind the shadows that slip behind hedgerows as I pass
shall remain secrets
and the towns which I slipped through that never knew me
saw through me
remain
unknown.

Who is it then that dare disturb the chantings of old men
and hear the lamentations?
who would care to listen to these evening walks through chalk filled mouths
and canyoned craters?
Brave, but who would that 'true valiant be'
to stand before and beside of me and hear the litany that I prepared
who has cared to shelve the sleeve of time
and in his own time mindful of these needs that speed along the ruptured streets where each beggar meets his alma mater
and in yet one more canyoned crater
would hear as if his very life depends upon the pen that penned the prose?
who knows that just as life is so unjust yet each man and woman must as time allows or pray to fattened sacred cows and anyhows I ask again
who is there out there to give their pain that I might lead it
bleed it into the dust
where the rusted franchise of good old fairy tales and bigger lies
stands in abandonment
and in an army surplus tent which being pegged out in the Sun
where we old men
would run if only the old bones would agree with thoughts we think but no longer see
come look here with me and lend me eyes that I might see that all is lost.
Another chant and one more rant
I shan't be needing this day again
this day I filled with a rain of unformed carbuncles
and Uncle Joe's mintballs
with just a hint of wintergreen
which soothes the legs which in turn have been
a million miles and then come back
Don't worry
'I'm alright Jack'
Back to back and moving on another singer one more song
and just like that the pain is gone
it has to be
I see that now
No sacred cows at all
just me
in the fall
where the leaves leave me alone
and I go home
to emptiness
the pettiness of the old grey cat that scratches
I'll get rid of that
one day.

Then the day came along with a new song to sing,and the clouds disappeared the nearer you came to me,
In the seeing,I was relieved to find that I believed in it all,
The Winter,the Summer and Fall with that synchronisation that springs forth and calls out our names in the mid light of countryside lanes
and where hope builds a nest from what nature gives best,
I shall wait here and ponder about the wonder around me,as the snow drifts shall blind me,where the Summer's are kinder and in the Spring and the fall I shall find a,
pathway to the next day and the one beyond that.

This is my country
the one my fathers fought for
the one they went to war for
the one they ploughed the land and lived and died for and
what the **** for?

So those rotten wheeler stealers and ***** dollar dealers and some half bent bobby peelers could rip us off and laugh about it,
leave us shovelling **** and forget about it?
My old man did not fight for that lot of ***** in the city men,those with no mercy or pity men,
but then again my old man's dead and gone,shuffled off his mortal coil and now ploughs six foot underneath the soil.

But
this is still my land and sod that band of thieves,one day there'll be no crime,no criminals and little time for them to rob us blind,
sweet shangri la and ***** me sideways near and far 'cause that ain't going to be while those city men steal from you and me.
And your dad my dad went to war,just ask yourself,
what the **** for?

A gill of gin to start the day and
then I'm in the zone
a hidden flagon on the wagon
I'm on the way back home.

Sometimes I make moonshine,
fire up the still only waiting to fill
another bottle with ***** for
one more light cruise
down fuddled memory lane.

On Sunday I rest
go to church dressed in my tux,
and get
a few funny looks from the Vicar.

I keep my eyes on the time
my head in the moonshine, a
couple of hymns, prelude to
a few more sweet Pimms
and the day comes to
an end.

We swim in broadband dreams and stream along the microwaves and no-one save the sentinel,
who stands alone,outside the gates of hell can see that we are standing on the edge
of cliffs so high
the sky is numbed as we are numbered one by one
fall off the ledge,
then we are gone.
Jamming,
gamma rays like gattling guns that break through chests,where hearts that raced and ran and man,
no longer plans to break the stars or wake cathedrals,begging Jupiter or Mars to stamp upon,destroy
for all is gone where suns would go and solar winds would blow into the storm and morning never comes.

I hear the boys that beat the drums,more guns that speak and then destroy, the boys a part of marching bands that occupy these foreign lands and,
the sands beneath my feet were once a mountain range
how strange that we as men would fumble yet mountains though eternal crumble and yet it's true.
The sand is soft and trickles through my hands.

I have stood outside the railway stations patiently, and I have waited for the morning train and trained myself not to despair
of arriving where I would desire to be
and I wait patiently
as mountains fall around me ,
as cities rise,
more than skies are numbed as beggars *** from fellow men a cigarette and yet,familiar as this is and always seems to be
It's just another streaming broadband dream to me,
the train will come
the sun will rise
or we as man will not survive
and no reward for this,no kiss of death for thousand dollar lives that strive and will, or will as will, will only be the will that will survive.
I take five
survey
lay my head
play dead
and cry.

It looks like them ******* got away with it
and we're being left to pay for it,
not one of them
has served a day for it.

That's a helluva club to be in.

If sin is not sin it seems
the greedy ******* win and
we get a dollar a day.

That's a helluva club to be in.

The cranks have taken your home
and the Devil and banks look
after their own.

It's a helluva turn up when
the crook in the city has
control of the kitty.

In the ghettos, they forced on us
the gloves are off.

She creeps into the corners of my mind,
I find her there waiting where
she builds our nest.
I rest my eyes upon her face,she faces me,I long to be a little nearer,don't know how to make this feeling clearer,but I try,
she wants to fly
I want to nest but
she knows best.
There is time enough for all of that,time to kiss and hug and chat and time to love a little more.
Tonight she wore a cocktail dress,not to impress,but just to show that she knows what I want to know and I know too,
she waits for me,
I wait for her
somewhere in the corners of my mind.

Hard men,yard men,tarred in the barrel of life men
Dad
was one of them men.
Worked hard
spoke little
drank a few with those he knew.
We knew him as a good man, a fair man,
a story sharing caring man,
never tough with us,never cussed,
never swore,
wore a kipper tie on Sundays.

Gran,
an old Victorian,
Dads Mam.
He looked a lot like her.
She ain't with us anymore,
wore away,
worked every day.
A good lass,passed her goodness on to dad
a good lad.

Memories are not always bad.

'peace in our time'
well
I'll believe that when the fat lady sings
when the liberty bell rings
when freedom brings me back home.
I see David and Goliath in rehearsals for riots and the river's on fire yet again.
God has gone to the Lebanon and he's taking a break
even he cannot take too much more
and as Moses reposes on tablets of stone waiting for his children to awake and atone
Beelzebub rubs his clawed hands in glee as he lights up the furnaces for the dead he will see,
very soon
under a biblical moon on a biblical plain
real people are feeling unbiblical pain
what a fukin state of play.
when we were kids if we didn't play fair we had to stand in the corner and that wasn't fair but it was right.We didn't fight it was wrong,the strong generally win in order to pin one more star on the map,what absolute crap we are grown now and should have learnt how to co-exist,but
it's just a ******* contest,a man thing and collateral damage doesn't mean a **** thing.
The King of Kings doesn't intervene and personally I find that oddly obscene,let him take his break in the Lebanon and when he returns maybe the problem will have gone,
somehow I doubt that and I doubt that I'll hear the fat lady sing or the liberty bell ring
there's too much money involved to solve this.