Why Sunday?
no sun
just day,
call it day
pick another prefix,
call it dullday or
pullyourselftogetherday
anything but
Sunday
no sun
just day.

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

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

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

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

******* your smoke rings and bring me your gold rings
we marry at dawn on the green.

I love you like I loved no other
your smell
intoxicates me and
smothers my senses
I am dwarfed in the
the shadow of you.

Through portholes of morality we search for immortality and fight for our own sanity against the turning of the tide.
Chide the weak who fear the end, for them we'll send a sedan chair
to carry them off somewhere there,
where mountains melt into the sea.
To live forever
I would be invincible but mortality is  not for me
for I exist in second phase in parallel to all the days I spent,repenting of my sins and never winning first or second prize which went to heathens who told lies and pretty girls who fluttered shadowed eyes against the shadows cast out by the sun,
and anyone with half a brain, which counts me out because, I never was the same as clever clogs,forever bogging down while running on athletics fields,
who could have told me,rolled me up and sold me in bazaars and market halls,if only they had,had the ***** to make a stand against the pious and the hypocrite who never once thought to give a ****
for poor men and girls who swirled the waters by the dock and those with pockmarked,stark and staring faces trading several places to shuffle lowly in a line as once again the tide will turn to drown the scorned and those who spurned the helping hands
and the hand of fate can kiss my **** and wait for me
I'll stand with those and shuffle slowly to the end,
send a sedan chair,pay the fare
make sure it's at the end where I can see
that mortals and immortality are a crock of **** and we're only here for a bit of fun,
more shadows cast out by the sun and left to haunt the alleyways
and all the days I live I would not give a **** or seek out weak men just to help them pass beyond the pale
let them find a holy grail that suits their needs as Moses too was found among the reeds and stolen by a dynasty
A mortal,immortality still eludes the holy man who scans the heavens for a sign and yet shuffles slowly down another line
we'll all get there to share the silver chalice, if only to find that Christopher Robin divorced poor Alice and run off to where the piggy wig stood
Nothing's good that cannot last
and one more shadow casts a spell
we're going to hell get used to it.

I was shooting spitballs at the stars in my eyes,
difficult to do,
but anyway it's a Saturday and
who
was to know.

Not the beggar who sat with his hands wrought in iron.
I have my eye on him,
he sits there
quite prim
like an old English gent,
but I sense the pent up frustration
the doggedness of situation,
if anyone has an algorithm for that, tell him,
he's sat by the stairs on the Jubilee crown which was placed by the Monarch on her way down to the palace,
a place he'll never see.
'Coppers for me,
coppers for tea'

I just shoot spitballs,
I'm getting quite good, but it won't pay the rent,
if only it could.

I need a shift,a move,a lift to lift me out of this,to raise my consciousness and unless I get it and get it quick,I'm going sick,I'm sick of it,it's a crock,a lock me in,a shut me down and shut me up,strap me tight and ***** the night,***** the day and that's the way of it.

I need a lift,need to bridge the rift that's opened up inside of me,the chasm that threatens to swallow up and hide me,
I need a lift.

Failing that
I'm heading back upcountry,leaving all and sundry in my wake,breaking ties,leaving lies as hostages against my non return.

In the heartland where I roam where my solace is a home and where Satyrs sit and sing I shall bring myself to book,take one hard critical look, and then decide if I'll hide in gaping chasms,swallowing in spasms whilst licking tics and twitches from my eyes,or I might surprise you all.
I may take the vow of chastity,live my life in poverty,flagellate in privacy but what the hell,I may just stay and wait to see
what happens
next.

They told me dip your toes into that hell
Go
and make a daisy chain as well
and each daisy represents a body slain
a ****** great big daisy chain.
So I went and built a wall of sweat and in it tied the lessons which I tried hard to forget
but as these flowers on the wall began to bloom
the chain wrapped me into the doom
I saw a mountain lit in blackened light and on a white horse
there sat
a knight of olde
Taking notes as if foretold a history would need be taken
of lost souls who
forsaken by their breath had daisy chained into their death.

No Camelot
No Camelot
King Arthur has forgotten us
as we forgot the writings in the book
and took it on ourselves to delve into the fiery hells
that live within the hearts of men.

When we learn to make a daisy chain
when we learn that each man or woman slain in the name of God above
will we ever learn of this thing called love.

If and when we start to live in peace again
I wonder if we'll begin to see
daisy chains are not all they're cracked up to be.

The mirror spoke before it broke of another reflection back in time
another line
another chain
another hundred thousand slain
and told of not who was to blame
but pointed wearily
at me.

Well being, being well and seeing as that's okay make me well as well, but a well can be deep, can it not?
so with that in mind I've got a long rope.

Also
and there's almost always one also to add to things that I also don't know
so
I put also into the algorithmic mix and get
answers in the form of equations which mathematicians expound on at length whose length is as long as the rope for the well that is possibly deep

I keep going round the houses to get to the place that I want and the place that I want is well being and all being well I will get there.

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.

Think I'm melting
and
belting hot or not
that Sun
has a soft spot for me

haven't felt in
this frame of mind
since Winter came
and went.

hanging loose?
well all men do
ha.

Now I'm drooping
well all men do
another ha.

But I am melting.

Ice cream might assist me
and as it's a medical emergency
I should call an ambulance
that'd be a performance
unpaid
because of my amateur status

weightless now,
I am melted away
left it too late and
ain't that
always the way?

wishing I had gone fishing
instead of splish splashing
getting a rash in
an awkward place

always the case isn't it?
complaints about the heat
complaints when it's cold
complaints about most things
especially getting old.

Sunset soon
can't wait for the moonlight
it might
cool me down.

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.

'let's skin up a spliff', said Joe, as he sniffs up the last of the coke,
'Okey dokey', says Fred.already out of his head on the ketamine cocktail,
'Sue wants some too', said Sue from the floor who'd had a bit more than Joe.
That's how the day goes with the highs and the lows when you're blowing your mind, and it's a bind doing much when you're so out of touch,so you sniff a bit more and join Sue on the floor,
then
skin up a spliff.

The reflection came too late
and now
I must wait,
for the mirror is
fogged.

Dogged by the memory
of the years
that passed by me,

I see shadows,
halo's of lights.

I fight my way up
no use staying here
not when the new year
is on the horizon..

It's funny.

I always trust being
on the cusp.

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.

Wars will totalise
and if viable are liable to add up and destroy communities, where opportunities are few and far between.
When things are seen beyond belief and death comes creeping like a thief into the square where people wait.
A demonstration of great power by powers that watch as people cower down in fright,
Night has come and with its gun will cleanse the state,
no one left to demonstrate
no one left to state the case
and freedom cannot show its face.

In God I place my trust, someone must
lest justice not be done.

Is it agreed then that we
feed all hungry children
educate them
and teach them without trying to
preach,
then
perhaps there will be a world
fit for the free,

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.

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.

Another ship sinks.

So
drinks to the helmsman who knew only too well
and sailed us all off to end up in this hell.
and the Captain turns to the crew
who were blue with the cold that was coloured by the sea
and with a voice we could not only hear but could see
said,
'drink up your *** boys and don't look so glum boys
your sails will be filled up tonight
with delights from the mermaids who've laid on a party so drink up your *** lads and be hale and hearty
and the devil takes care of his own'

Turn the sound on your
dressing gown down
douse the lights
listen to the night,
rustling leaves leave lots to the
imagination and
all the time in creation to
Imagine
monsters hiding under the bed
in the bathroom
in your head
wake up
one day you'll be dead
and
was that the Moon that I saw
hanging on an unlikely thread?

Answer me this,
how can salmon run without any legs?
a fisherman's story and another unlikely
thread.

Behind the bike shed
I kissed a redhead
an unlikelier thread?

Sunday is the unlikeliest
or so the trick cyclist
tells me.

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.

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.

If I was me which I'm sure I'm not
because somebody else got the body I've not got.
in any case
or in another case which is not the same
I am game for the game that is played
and I should really have stayed in the home
where the medics took care and never left me alone.

But I didn't
I wouldn't or else I couldn't have followed.

Manny Fandango
he's a poet you know
a philosopher too because that's what some poets do
so spoil yourself
read some of his stuff
Lord knows he's got enough of it
he'll tell you it's sh*t
but then
poets will say just anything.

As each ball falls
I juggle less *****
in the end there'll
be none left at all.

Try to do right and
keep perspective,
my sight
is injured by the
onset of night.

And you lot harangue me,
you'd strip me
and hang me if
you had your way.

But today I'm the juggler,
the word
I'm the smuggler
the pirate that sails in
with the goods.

Not if you
but can you
and do you
want to?

If you can but you don't
and you do but you won't
where does that leave me?

Not in ecstasy
but you text I see,
'see you later'

Well okay then
see you then
when
after ten?

I look on the mobile
She says,
'I'll be home in a short while'
so I sit and I wait
it's a quarter to eight and a long way to go.

After an hour or so
I got bored
(don't you know)
and I put off the lights and went home.

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?

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.

The hotel we booked looked breezy and bright
just as well
as we planned on staying the night.

But the Doorman named Stan,said this,and deadpan,'you ain't coming in because you're not wed.
'Aye 'we're over the brush' no rush to get wed', 's what I said,
'well
you ain't getting in, get that in your head', is what Stan the doorman then said.

So we to and we fro'd 'til I punched him in the nose,a bad move on my part,got carted away to spend that night and the next day in a cell.

And she gave me hell when I got home.

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.

Locked in a Minotaur mode
bull head and key code
hauling the overload
getting down to some serious
business
on the B road.

eating the miles and
watching the dials
before eternity gets me.

The china shop beckons
but
my heart isn't in it

a new start
a new day
a hundred ways to say it
and
only one way to do it
the
right end of the night's end
and
the sunlight for the off ramp.

'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.

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?

This is our very own '84
they watch where you've been
they see what you wore,
who you were with and who's
given who what,
recorded and sorted
filed and reviewed,
I wonder what kind of a camera
they use and
when do
they choose to use it.

This is our very own '84
we've been eighty-sixed.

Born and bred into poverty to
end their days confined in the Marshalsea,
in debt for a penny
to the Aristocracy, who
with
Jeweled eyes were unable to see
the poor people
living in poverty.

With silver and gold, they paved streets so we're told
olde England with
riches
overflowed,
not that you'd know it amid the tanneries and
horse ****,
but that's just the way
the thing goes.

Among the harlots and ****** who scoured the shores
of the river when the tide was in ebb, were
the living though dying,
the failures and those trying to survive and
Dickens picked stories from the dead eyes
of Shoreditch in the 'jago' where they go
and he went.


In The 'mansion house' the banquet goes on for
the sightless unseeing but I am already
fed up.

If we rip out the heart of the sky and try to build
scrapers that make the sky cry
then we're right off the scale
Fail
I'll say
never seen a fail that won a day
and lost somewhere along the way were notions of mortality.
Corporeal hospitality and the thanks of the dead
wine to the head
and grist to the mill
The devil will take you and use the abuse you have settled in
for sin and corruption
a demon concoction
drink hard and long
and the wrong becomes right in your mind's out of sight
and we're all for the knackers yard
hard to take in
**** the world and we've been here and done this for Sweet F.A
Never seen a fail that won a day.

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.

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.

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.

When even the ironing is ironed out flat and the world is still turning,(no doubt about that)
I can sit here and wander through roads so familiar and realise it's so similar to how it used to be.
Still raining and damp which gives me a cramp or a touch of arthritis,but I'm not complaining,it's something to do with the year I was born in.
There's a cat watching me from halfway up the tree,it seems he's been there a long time,sometimes his black eyes meet mine,sometimes I turn away,if he's there every day then so am I.
And we both go along as indeed time goes by,
both watching
both waiting
the cat up the tree
and me.

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.

I blame it on the radio,
Hancock and the Navy Lark,
listened to quietly in the dark
but then along came the
TV and Looby Lou crashed right into me as
if she didn't know that she ruined my blame
on the radio show,
now it's 425 lines and the TV Times
and pics that flood over me, it's
like living but being buried alive out at sea.

What can I do but watch ****** Doo
and wish it weren't so, wish
I could blame
the radio.

If you wanna deal out life then deal me in,
I've got a longing to begin something that never ends and I wanna hand in that.
Let us pass no compliments we both know how to play
If you wanna deal out life,then deal me in today.

The cards fall as they will,upside down,down up until they spill the spots and then,and only then,
will I see what's dealt to me and understand that I would be.
More to come said the angel with the gun who tried to rob the diamonds from the sky, so unlikely this and this is why I walked on by ,my hands full with the pull of fortune and a hand of hearts that came to soon.

If you want a hand within the game then you must leave your name at home,the one you never knew you'd never known and come on in,
let's begin by making rules,no rules are great but we must wait and see what the dealer says the rules will be,
pick a card up from the pack and you are stuck,no going back to what you didn't know you knew,
the Queen of clubs begins to cackle,what a pickle,what a stew and who the devil's deuce are you?
pay no heed.
no Queen's for you
What you need's a royal flush to wash away, you wanna play again? no pain involved.

And I waited by the astrodome,the metronome moved blindly,not unkindly I could see,
a new game being played securely set in hands of stone another woe begotten home I never knew and just because I never knew, I know now that it's all untrue,the deck was rigged,we didn't get a fair shake,they took from us because they could take and we didn't know and if we did,we put a lid down on the fact and opened up another pack of playing cards,
you wanna deal in this 'ere life? then get a knife,be ready too, to find out things you never knew.

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.

Do you
promise
to honour and obey?
The marriage of yesterday.

You get what you deserve
and I reserve the right
to slip away at night
and go out clubbing.

I'm not the one to criticise
the way you dress
the make up on your eyes
but have you looked
lately?
Stately homes come to mind
are you mad or are you blinded by the factories that drip dry fripperies that you use as you please
and I never please you
excuse me
is that powder on your powdered face quite dry
and why use it anyway?

Girls today are quite insane lipstick on the brain
and more upon their lips
I slip into a reverie and see
the you of long ago before you went and spent each dollar earned
on cosmetically engineered potions for perms
At times I squirm with embarrassment
at others 'oh brother'
I look away
this is not the marriage of yesterday
or the woman that I know
must go and check the requirement for a retirement home
somewhere far away and alone
Can't stand the smell of eau de cologne
any more.

I folded up the sheets of rain as I walked slowly down the country lane on one wet Sunday afternoon,
it was late in June or early July,can't remember, don't know why
my mind was flooded with the same old chatter
pitter,patter on the leaves and from the trees.
I sat under the dryness of the ancient oak and lit a smoke which drifted slowly in the summer breeze
and ate a Branston pickle and cheese soft roll,drank some lemonade.

Days like this made me who I am
a soaked up,washed out yesterday man
but I exist
despite the persistence of the rain,
I play the game and play it well
the proof being that I'm here to tell the tale and smoke a while,
while the heavens empty of the sky
don't know why or for what length of time
days like this will be all mine.
Under the trees
out of the breeze
somebody please
stop the rain.

I am the crab
the star on a slab.
dying,
you're frying tonight.

When you take me
you'll break me
and **** on my legs
devour me
deflower me.
I am a crab
the star on a slab.

The reasons for seasons we thought to be true,
the summer so bright and so blue
and winter with splintering cold and the ice,
Spring bringing freshness and it's nice that the ice melts away in the warmth of an early spring day.
Thoughts turn to Autumn,I've seen them and bought them,brought them home and then sought somewhere to hide them,can't bide them,
but that too has a place in the race for renewal and it's cruel for me to leave it 'til last.

For me,
Winter will always be best
the most testing of times,
when men become men and build snowmen,with buttons for eyes and a carrotty nose
and if the wind blows which is so often the case
there's a space by the fireside,where cold toes wrinkle and crinkle and hide by the doggie that lays on the floor.

Season's
I adore all of them,the blending and bending,never ending of life mixed with death but it's the winter that breathes the
breath into me.

Thanks Graham Robinson for the idea.

I saw the dealing of the cards,the ace of clubs,the diamonds,spades
but I have made my pact in hearts
the one that breaks and heals and seals upon another deal,
and you
took me, through a left hand turn
shared with me
a love that burned my tongue and fingers,how the taste of you still lingers on the deck,on the table and on the floor where we dealt more than cards upon our suits of nakedness.
Then later clothed lest we upset the kings and queens we laughed,as if they'd never seen before,two lovers on the table,floor
and I adored you more and more than any game I'd ever played,
you,
my Queen,
and I,
your knave.

If I could save this hand I hold
If only I had told you how I felt
If only
I had knelt just one more time to taste the wine that flowed from precious lips.
I could carry on,
but the point is that you're gone
so there is no point
I no longer care
for cards,
I play
solitaire

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.