Heading west from La Pesa to the streets of Calabazar for a trip to the markets,
a dance through bazaars.

The lighthouse in Cayo Guano lit the way to the end of the day as we snorkelled deep off the archipelago.

The night filled with Hemingway's stories being drip fed a litre of ***
as the moon slipped behind old Havana awaiting the birth of the sun.

Enzymes
eating fat stains
they're
land mines.
The tools of
macromolecules astound me
they're all
around me
if they ever found me
I'd be cleaned away.

If the beautiful pea green boat had been painted battleship grey,the owl and the pussycat would have stayed at home and not 'sailed away for a year and a day',but it wasn't and they did.
The story ends quite badly some would say quite sadly,the pussycat got rid of the owl,stating in his defence, that fowl was for the eating of and not for spouting like a whale in Edward Lear's fairy tale.
If only the boat had been painted battleship grey the owl might still be with us today.

He shambles along picking the scabs off the street,
meet
the pauper
likes
Cyndi Lauper
and listens on an antiquated walkman
and he walks the talk man.

I met him in Stepney
a proper old Cockney
he asked me for cigarettes
I gave him
a quid.

Some say,
better to be rid of them and
by them they mean the poor men,
but if we did that who then
would pick the scabs off the street?

Like an arrow from Cupid
making some people stupid,
Age comes a calling
but no one is falling in
love.

Though age be a temptress,
relentless,
it creaks up on me
to sneak up on me,
always cruising for a bruising
it uses up time.

Never get old I was told,
useless advice,
when our days
are as written, on
one grain of rice.

It holds me spellbound in
its withering looks
creeps into my skin and
paints wrinkles therein and
therein or thereon
lies the tale.

She casts a spell on me,
believing the runes to be right
I expect that this spell will last all through the night,
tomorrow I'll see
if she casts another spell on me,
and the succubi wonder why
I smile.

We fail
only to make
success
taste that much
sweeter.

Nelson
gives that wry kind of naval guy smile as he watches them all down along
Whitehall and
I,
the bystander standing still until the last casts another look, wide eyed to see the gay pride
festival,
best of all,
no looting
no stabbing
no shooting just the hooting and the hollering and the crowds of people following
enjoying all the fun
dancing in the sun
on Saturday.

I need the beach
sand in the places
where
it's hard to reach

the sea
clotted cream and
strawberry jam for tea

You
at my side when
the tide comes in

bingo and
sin, oh!
the devil
says no
so

sand eels
fishing reels
catch of the day.

B and B
you and me
double room
ideally.

I wonder where the time went,
did I spend my sixpence for three minutes of idleness,was the less of me all I could see or be?
From Another Time by John Edward Smallshaw
it never came free
never lent itself to me
I had to fight for it
put up with,
oh
let's call it ****,
but where did the time disappear,year upon year and now,
now
comes the winter of bitter regret.
I bet you have them,
the me in the men do
amen
is all we do
when we think this short life is through,
yeah?
fuckyou
I have no regrets
all bets are null,
pull up and put that in your pipe and smoke it out,my life's not about what might have beens,it means so much more to me than what I think time might see.

'From another time' is from another time and yet another rhyme and did you read that?

Sanded down,
handed down
heirlooms
for boardrooms.

Directors prospecting for
antique positions,
commission based,
cyanide laced contracts,
small print that annihilates,
dilating the pupils ,restrictive
and
pencils that scribble out names in
a ledger.

Forever indebted,
a debit individual.
All residual profit
reinvested,
future proofed
heirlooms.

.
Sometimes I want to say ******* to anyone and anything
discard everything and
get back my share of the nightmare,
slide up the two mil'
ride down the long thrill
and slowly so slowly ****
every waking
moment
every waking
thought,
sleep walk my way through the..
..sometimes the day is like that,
flat.

Seduced by Debussy
In music I lose me
When notes float on staves
Rolling in with the waves
Of pure sound.
The music around me surrounds me
Enraptures and captures my heart.

Arabesque,clair de lune take me off to the moon
And again I'm in rapture
Trapped in the capture of music.

We,
the uninsured
being inured to this,
the will of gods.
Our lives doled out in tablet form
from birth to breath by those pharmacists
with death proscribed,
prescription wise.

My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake
foundations,
three times a day we pray again to all the gods
to open up and swallow pills and god just nods
his head,agrees that we need medications.

The ***** top bottle throttles me
but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls'
the greens and reds of fol de rols
a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say,
take the pills three times a day.

These games we play, I'll say,
are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us
from ever having to face the facts,
but we're inured to that and so,
on and on and on we go until the end is reached.

I plead,
just one more pill,
it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist,
I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and
so that's just as well.
I wait in the wings to see
what tomorrow brings.

Eventually we'll get implants
to sedate and
make us compliant.

There is no choice here
we have to fight them,
be defiant
buck the system.

These city lights look for all the world to me
like some spellbound amnesty
but in reality
they are the building blocks that bring the nights
so I can see
what is to come and what will be.

Like ships at sea that head to port
we're caught
and cast upon the waves like bread to be dispersed
saved ,reborn and nursed by those well versed
in maritime and chandler's stores and sending those back through revolving doors to drown again,
and how the night pours down on me
slipping quickly through the city light where the building blocks become another knock,a twist of fate,and being cruel would stand and wait,while I, the traveller stand and hesitate
to go on
to stay?
an end to an end or a beginning that would send me some hope,no pope here to bless me or you,just another city night to fight and fit tightly through until the morning comes and runs my fears away.

I stay and am obliged to those contributors,interlocutors who saw me,spoke, and watched me as I broke upon the morning shore,
score one to me and city nil
until tonight
when we will fight again.

I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.

Making a date
to meet in
Jerusalem
on
Palm Sunday.

Plastic engineering
quite fantastic
so endearing.

But we make no bones
you can't live lives
in plastic homes
eat plastic bread
drink plastic tea
plastic honey's not
for me.

Let's try and be
the reality
we look to find
but seldom see.

If I take the fall or give
up hope and hang myself
with a plastic rope
how would it look in
years to come
when an archaeologist
(From Lancashire)
says,
'eeh by gum
I've never seen the like before,
plastic face, plastic eyes, plastic ears and plastic jaw'
and you're wondering what all this plastic's for,
but you're not alone, not on your own
there's lot more in their plastic home
thinking the same.

It's all in the name
if they'd called plastic, gold,
we'd all have been sold on
the idea.

Down on the South side a
tube ride away,
out in the Borough
where some people stay and
some people say,
it's a nice place, a
well-lit place, a somewhere
to sit and deep think place.

but

there's another side, a ride back in time
when the streets were caked in
horse **** and grime and the urchins
searching for somewhere to stay,
some nicer place
on a much nicer day.

And the Stew houses
but no stew inside,
known to children and
no place to hide,
Goose, oh goose
let my children go loose,
cries far away from
the Borough today.
js

The following text is taken from 'Goodreads' reviews of John Constable's 'The Southwark Mysteries'.


'For tonight in Hell, they are tolling the bell
For the ***** that lay at The Tabard
And well we know how the carrion crow
Doth feast in our Cross Bones Graveyard.'


In 1107, the Bishop of Winchester was granted a stretch of land on Southwark Bankside, which lay outside the law of the City of London. The Bishop controlled the numerous brothels, or 'stews'in the area, but the prostitutes, known as 'Winchester Geese', who paid the Bishop licence fees, were nevertheless condemned to be buried in unhallowed ground. For some 500 years, the Bishop of Winchester exercised sole authority within Bankside's 'Liberty of The Clink', including the right to licence prostitutes under a Royal Ordinance until Cromwell and the Puritans shut down the bear-pits, theatres and stews of Bankside's pleasure quarter.

In 1996, those working on an extension to the Jubilee line of London's underground, unwittingly began to dig up the bones of the outcast dead of Southwark, extimated to number 15,000, and John Constable began writing the Southwark Mysteries and later became part of a campaign to preserve part of the cemetery as a memorial garden.

I can't resist pasting in an article from the Daily Telegraph that appeared after the performance of the Southwark Mysteries at Shakespeare's Globe and Southwark Cathedral on Easter Sunday and Shakespeare's birthday, 23rd April 2000:

The Sunday Telegraph, May 14th 2000

"DEAN REJECTS CRITICS OF 'SWEARING JESUS' MYSTERY PLAY

A religious play staged in an Anglican cathedral has provoked fury after it featured a swearing Jesus and Satan wearing a phallus.

The Southwark Mysteries was produced by Southwark Cathedral and Shakespeare’s Globe in south London as part of the capital’s 'String of Pearls' Millennium celebrations. It mixed ***** medieval scenes with modern imagery and referred to bishops engaging in homosexual *** with altar boys and priests visiting prostitutes. The character of Jesus, who rode onto stage on a bicycle, was shown apparently condoning a range of ****** activities, while Satan told scatological jokes and ordered Jesus to 'kiss my a*'. At one point Jesus was admonished by St Peter for his swearing and responded: 'In the house of the harlot, man must master the language.' At another, Satan, played by a female actor, strapped on 'a huge red phallus' before using it to beat his sidekick, Beelzebub.

The play was written by John Constable, who said that he had deliberately wanted to challenge Christians. 'Profanity is a theme of the play', he said. 'The point of it was to explore the sacred through the profane. ' Mr Constable said he had worked closely with Mark Rylance, the Globe’s artistic director, and the Dean of Southwark, the Very Rev Colin Slee, who conceived the idea of a joint production to mark William Shakespeare’s birthday falling on Easter Day. He said the clergy had made a number of suggestions about the content, but he had not acted on all of them. 'They did ask me to make sure that Satan did not wear the phallus in the presence of Jesus, which I did', he said.

The first section of the play, which contained much of the ***** material, was staged at the Globe, and the final part, 'The Harrowing of Hell' in the cathedral. 'Colin Slee was very robust in keeping me on the straight and narrow', Constable said. 'The play is a new version of the traditional medieval Mystery plays, which were religious in nature but accepted human imperfections and took place in a carnival atmosphere. It seemed to be well received by most people who saw it.'

But one member of the audience, Simon Fairnington, has condemned the play as 'disgustingly offensive', saying that it 'revelled in the glorification of vice'. In a letter to the Dean he complained: 'Had the play been a purely secular production, one might not have been surprised at its treatment of Christian belief. What was dismaying was that it was sponsored and performed in part within a Christian cathedral. The cynical part of me wonders whether this is simply a sign of the times, and the way the Church of England cares about its Gospel and its God.' Anthony Kilmister, chairman of the Prayer Book Society, said: 'This is not the sort of play that should be performed in God’s house. It is quite disgraceful.'

But the Dean, who was the centre of controversy a few years ago when he allowed the cathedral to be used for a Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement celebration, defended the play. The performance was in keeping with traditional Mystery plays and 'portrayed graphically the life and history of the area' which was 'where the seamier side of life was to be found', he said. 'The message was that even the worst sins are not beyond redemption', he added.

Most of the audience responded positively to the underlying message of mutual forgiveness. Like the Dean, many accepted Satan’s *****, blasphemous words and deeds as part of the Mystery Tradition. The theologian Jeffrey John was of the opinion that, despite some obvious heretical tendencies, Constable was presenting 'remarkably orthodox Christian teachings going back to the first century AD'. Constable’s Harrowing of Hell is closely modelled on a play from the medieval York Cycle. His version shows Jesus’ spirit of forgiveness triumphing over the letter of The Law. Jesus’ ultimate 'Judgement' is a verse paraphrase of Matthew 26: 35-45.

  JESUS
  My blessed children, I shall say
When your good deed was to me done.
When man or woman, night or day,
Asked for your help, your heart not stone,
Did not pass by or turn away,
You saw that, in me, they too are One.
But you that cursed them, said them nay,
Your curse did cut me to the bone.

When I had need of meat and drink,
You offered me an empty plate.
When I was clasped and chained in Clink,
You frowned, and left me to my fate.
Where I was teetering on the brink,
Did bolt and bar your iron gate.
When I was drowning, you let me sink.
When I cried for help, you came too late.

  RESPONSE
  When had you, Lord, who all things has
Hunger or thirst, or helplessness?
Had we but known God a prisoner was
We would surely have sought to ease His distress.
How could God be sick or dying? Alas!
When was He hungry, thirsty, or homeless?
How could such things come to pass?
When did we to thee such wickedness?

  JESUS
  Dead souls! When any bid
You pity them, you did but blame.
You heard them not, your heart you hid.
Your guilt told you they should be shamed.
Your thought was but the earth to rid
Of them I am now come to claim.
To the poorest wretch, whate’er you did,
To me you did the self and same.

I could bask in the sunshine
and edit Alaska,
climb Kilimanjaro but
I let others do that and I go into the deep
on my own rhyming rainbow,
watching colours keep dripping,
I should be tripping,stripping the acid run
and taking more out of fun.
I should edit Alaska.make the ice flow much faster,
I am a disaster but
I haven't happened yet.

In the nitty gritty of the city where details bog you down and you frown at the rats,wonder where are the cats and you need to get out of this town.

There's a light in the dark somewhere where the cars park but it's just some young lovers who are out for a lark and then there's no light at all as you fall into a sleep,some place above in your dreams angels weep,
you toss and you turn,wonder how you can earn just a crust,
life's a binge and a bust and we all end as dust,
swept up in the city
with the nitty and gritty and ain't it a pity
that nobody sees.

(More than in the mire from the central line poetry tube)

Well, it was *** for a tat and a tidbit that was the last draw for the last straw and the camel looked on.
I've gone and happy about it, the pills help me out just a tiny bit, but the Toby jug thinks that I am the mug, so it's *** for tat and oh how I laugh and the camel is there looking on.
She takes me to water, the Devils own daughter and forces this man to partake,
but
the man is his mountain, his cataract, fountain, from whichever who wants to will flow.
So a tidbit a tat for a bit of all that seems a very fair price I should pay.
The camel walks away with the ****.

I was sweeping yesterday and its heartache under the mat
but I stopped when I got to that
part
where the pieces of my broken heart shone lightly in the morning sun.
Then I carried on
what's gone is gone and it's no use me crying now.
But how and why it ended badly
left me weeping sadly
I don't know.

One of life's mysteries that show up now and again
to drown you in a sea of pain
strip you naked like a jain
what a shame
I really like her lots
but she liked lots of other men
and that could never do
it was me and you or nothing
in the end it was nothing
and nothing I could say
would make her stay.
She'd just stray again
leave me sweeping yesterday again
I can do without the pain.
Shame.

I never wanted to go splashing and crashing over the top of a rainbow..
So..
Julie and me sailed off across the jellybean sea to a land..(and here I'll agree this sounds a bit grand. )

But under nursery rhyme trees where lollipops grow out of grandmothers knees and lemonade pop,pops up out of the ground with a lemonade pop popping pop kind of sound and where chocolates galore can be found on the shore by the lakes of cream cakes..

..here we will stay to play every day...and the night never came and each game was brand new..

Wouldn't you want to stay?

Well..wouldn't you?

But the time finally arrived though we had hoped it would not and wiping snot on my sleeve (because boys do that)
We built a matchbox boat and got ready to leave...ready to sail on the sea of despair
I will,I will be going back there to the land of sunshine,funtime..

..and whether it's the jellybean sea or an ocean floating in marmalade tea..
Julie and me will cross it together..

..eating love hearts and living,
Forever.

When my height is matched only by my age,the sage told me, 'that I will have found an ecstasy so rare,that no one will ever, have ever been there.
I count the rings as if I am a tree
but ecstasy eludes me, as I knew it would.

I could have counted grains of sand and after,started on the rice or carved upon a cuckoos egg,something very nice,just to let the cuckoo know,that we know why she builds no nest.

I have festered long enough and boiled up in the glare of a staring midday sun,it's time and time has just begun to interest me,
never mind the ecstasy, that will come as surely as the night begets the day,one day my day will arrive in all its splendour.
This is the agenda that I look towards the sky and pray for,
a gender difference in her magnificence and I would bow before this maiden,laden as I am with all these wantings in my head.

I read once in a book,
that all it took was just a look and then we're trapped,wrapped inside her spider web,carried off and eaten in her silken bed,but I would like to try it anyway,come what may my day will run before the settings of another sun and I will taste that which is fun or I will die,
in contempt and contemptuous of my inconsistency,I allude again to my search for ecstasy and is it that my eyes or indeed my body fail me,when she hails me from her sanctuary?
and I see only what I want to see,
something that the sage had been careful not to tell me,
fruitless.
On the tree of evolution, I am just some insects ignorant secretion and as I wait for some predetermined 'who dares wins'completion
I count again the rings.

Othello knew that she blew hot and cold and
though not told I knew that
Desdemona was a loner and could not
figure in the pack.
Each plays upon the rack of hearts
stretched and snapped
broke in parts and in parts whole,
one dance about the Christmas tree
another
by the Queen of May,
A soul, an art and each a part to part
as friends,
it ends as all things do, but I wonder if
Othello knew that she really loved him too.

It's always on a day like this
When morning kisses me awake
And I
Upon the magic trip
Slip into shirt and jeans.

Then leaning into a cup of tea
I open up the world to see
The news.
So many views (Not many likes)
I choose to enter
Exiting my door
I fall away into much more
Than commonplace.

She looks nice
A face I'd want to look at twice
And so I do.

A bus..a walk..a talk with Sanjay at the Paper shop
Where I often stop to pass the time
And then the park
Stark
A contrast to a month ago when the flow of leaves
Became a river on the ground.
Now
Not a sound except the cracking of a nut
A squirrel but it scampers up the bony tree.

The day I came to see
Has seen it all before
The seasonal shift..the lifting light
The shortest day and the longest night but to me it's new
Or just another look at the same old view
I decide
And provide myself with the truth.

Hedgehogs with spines
have it very hard at times,
trying it on with female type
and finding the females have a gripe
with spines,
at times.

A hedgehog I know and have often seen
coats his spines
in poly..sty (a) rine
he finds this a boon
when finding the females swoon at his feet
which just goes to show that you cannot beat
innovation.

It's a twenty/twenty world of plenty
so what you moaning for?
you're getting everything you'd ever want
and who could ask for more?

Alas,
my vision grows quite dim and any chance there
ever was, of me getting some of anything
is growing awfully slim.

In a twenty/twenty when there's plenty
some get more than their fair share
I get none
but I don't care.

You'll find me at the bring and buy
where I buy some,bring some
find some,win some
but in a twenty/twenty of lots of plenty where life tramples me and I feel empty
I go gently
into the night.

One hop and a skip
one tab
one more trip
and I slip into dreaming
effortlessly really,
effort, less me,
seemingly floating while
swimming through syrup,
my feet in the stirrups
on a horse called
Winchester.

Laughter in the cloisters and
the toaster pulling faces
while the priest catches monkeys
that swing through the
door.

If life is for anything it cannot be this.

It's that train again
The one that takes away the pain
When you jump.

The platform flatlines
Timetable times
Appear in your head
Four thirty seven it said
It was late.

You had to go
Other things on your mind
Who was to know that trains were so kind?

On another line at another time still there
Unwilling,unable to share
And anyway nobody there if you did.
Another beat,another pump and the train's late
No jump
Not today.
You go away and get on with things
See what tomorrow brings
Maybe the sun will shine
Maybe the railway line
Will disappear.

Well
it could be or not what you don't want you got and what you need is the need to get more, but the shop shuts at noon which is far, far too soon so you make do and mend, I'm not defending the right for the greed though I might if the money was tight and I needed the rent and that's the bent thinking which sets me off drinking, work at four, drink some more, a cycle I try hard to break, but the wheels keep on going as I keep on throwing the beer down the back of my throat.

Shall I get my coat?
shall I?
or wait because my mouth's dry, do I do it or not, is it want what I got and do I need another monkey to feed?

..for every bear that ever there was
is gone today for certain because
illegal loggers are flogging the guts
out of nature.

it's hard enough to shake yer bones awake and get into the game and that name,
Monday,
one day gone day, try and get your mojo on day

Monday plays like an old fashioned song
scratchy on the gramaphone's
trying to make you shake yer bones

I am just a bag of bones ready for the stewing ***

what's Monday got that I can't see
what does Monday do for me

It's full of dinosaurs
and
boring old men

I need the 'magic boomerang'
the one that makes the time stand still
then I'd wind back the clock until
it was Saturday night

The problem is this,
no one remembers
the TV show
on Australian networks
from so long ago

I do though
and

'I don't like Mondays'

Oh
boomtown rats?

Don't remember a bomb that
never had a boom or a rat in a town
that never found room to chew on a Monday

dinosaurs
gave
Monday a bad name.

Armed and rightly dangerous
religious and slightly pugnacious
on the sidewalk the talk's of the testament
the rent being due on a Sunday.

Molly, the soothsayer tells me
that heaven is mine if I could be
an acolyte of the almighty.

My fiance is the goddess I pray to
she's the light that I see
when the day's through and
the hope that I seek and
I cling to.

If I am to be where I should belong
I would be one or two words in an unpopular song
The squeaking hinge on the bathroom door
Or the missing tile on the bathroom floor.
If I am to be, What is to be of me?
Would I get swallowed in Ahab's whale
Crawl my days in the shell of a snail
Be the hole in the bottom of a dairymaid's pail?
And if I am to be what will I see?
The fires of dawn lighting up the land
The oil can drums of a Caribbean band
The countless whispers in the grains of sand?
If I am to be where I belong..If I'm not wrong
I should be here.

Ménage was a clever boy
his
scholarly pursuits
brought us lots
of joy
and
most things being equal
I liked him
e
v
e
n

i
f

h
e

w
a
s

F
r
e
n
c
h

Telescope
looks through the
distance
alights
on hope,
focuses.

Eyeglass,

I pass through the scope and
***** for the video switch
there's a hitch.
this is no prerecording
so I look back on in
to
the telescope
all hope gone,
dismal back on.

Binoculars are better
an 'i' is just
one letter.

The ghetto,
shallow,
full of violence,full of hate,
you dip your toe in but don't
stay out late,
you only see the surface sheen
the oily gleam of oily men.

The ghetto is when you feel you fail,.
when you're sailing close to the edge and
it is on the edge.
In societies ledger where you were written down as
an expendable
you are the price payable,
on demand.

In this land of the free, chained to the ghetto
I see
spirited men who with women and children are torn
from today and told they must stay.
Some play at the ghetto,sing of the ghetto but they'll never know
where the ghetto can get to,
as it chokes off the light and breaks up each day,
some stay and they like it while others stay and think life's **** but
the ghetto will have its way.

And it's the way of the dead end where your brother's a dead friend who you'll steal from and choke on the *****,
invoke all the gods if you must,if they hear
there's just a chance you will get out
but the ghetto is in
you and you can't
escape.

On the flipcharts and billboards and boardwalks where cash talks and greed stalks the unwary and where the darkness is scary,
huddled underneath moonlight that fades into the long night and holding on tight to their bedrolls along with the soup and the bread rolls and the mission bell tolls for the end of
round one.

'On top of the world ma'
look how far we have come,
and the nanny state looks after its favourite son but as the sun sets on Wapping and the 'mint set' go shopping
for some the world's stopping.
(I want to alight)

The sun sheds some light as the night flicks away and for those who would lay in the doorways of shop fronts,who we think of as stunt men,the cut off,truncated and blunt men another day starts.

And in Whitehall they call for the tea trolley at nine.
A fine time for some and the nanny state looks after its
favourite son.

So we walked into a rainbow of the stars that made us stop and look in awe at what we saw
and I could see you in the coloured lights that floated through this ether light and somewhere this somehow seemed alright.
We stopped to picnic on a dying Sun and talked of when we would become a part of this creation
hesitant I kissed your face
which in this place was backlit by the moons that spun around your head
and you said,
'kiss me for the night is short
hold me and we'll move until we're both caught up',
and the heavens silent in their expanse watched this dance.
of two solar flares
two solo cares that came to life.
Though passion heard
through movement not a word was spoken
until the spell being cast was broken and the fading of the morning came
how could daylight ever look the same again?
In this the other pain I bear
I wait for her sat on the stairway going my way
and anyway
what else can I do?

Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that laugh as they scrape at the sky (they should bow)

It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we're back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no ***** should heed what we say,
we don't want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we're sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that's being eaten
being beaten
by us.

The lamborghini langoustine
moves so fast it can't be seen
now you see it
now you don't
will you catch it
no you won't.

We flew through
puberty and left a Concorde trail.
A signature of heat,
feats to fete the wonder in and the wondering
of where to begin.

But the Concorde trail tails off
eventually,
and after the screaming noise, of us,
the boys
when silence returns to the body, and it's
only the chimes of the clock that rocks us to sleep,
there is, I find a tiny piece of my mind, where
puberty keeps a notebook

I look at it, cringe,
squeak like the hinge of an old door,
look some more,
it fascinates me
consternates me
makes me laugh and cry,
the trying of and wanting to
and the wonder of wondering who.


The memory of most memorable events are
scorched into and run right through me,like
a stick of Blackpool rock,each name I've known
are written and imprinted on me.

Puberty and what comes next,will in the future,
I am sure be sent in hurried texts by
hurried men,who hurry on to marry wives,
have hurried *** in hurried lives
and after that,
who knows.

We wake to the chatter of guns and is that the sound of drums or the beating of my heart?

A song.
'let's start at the very beginning,a very good place to be'

one day they'll all be free.
Free from persecution although many resolutions have been made,none are kept.

'Jesus wept'
I believe he did but they soon got rid of him.
If it's a sin to **** why try? we are only here for a while then die so let us live.
I give each day some daily bread and each day more are being killed,
dead,
and the dead don't cry.
Silence.

I hear the bugle now,I
see the frugal how they scrimp to save,to
become the slave of lesser gods,to
calculate the weights,though even,odd it seems
that in my dreams all things being equal,
no one prepared for me the sequel to the sage
or wrote homework on the workhouse page, when
poverty becomes all the rage
I shall be rich,
shall stitch in all its finery with golden threads and count my wealth in binary code,
throw digits to the Kings of the road when
poverty becomes of age.

Blood stains and the trains roll on
over the dead until they're
buried, and gone were the fantasies
of castles and queens
gone were the happy dreams.

Torture and reams of confessions
the Devil possesses the means,
no happy dreams,
no castles or queens,
blood stains and the trains roll on.

A mad ride,landslide always surfing,never reaching, never beaching on the shoreline,
waves and cosines and the sum of my times are strewn across the ocean floor,rising,falling always calling me on and on,
summer's gone the storms are here,three cheers for winter, splintering the dashboard of the sky,looking reverse as I stop to converse with back to back and Jack, the frosty chap,doffs his cap at me ,then freezes up the sea,my home.

Foam and latte are the order of the day,the words are set,I'll get the tab you get the cab and let's go somewhere for a mad ride,landslide..
and so it carries on.

Wacks on
Wacks off

Miss Whiplash.