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.

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.

A thousand unclimbed chimneys but the soot lay heavy on his half starved frame,
and the woman,a name he could not pronounce waited in the darkened street to pounce upon unwary boys and men,
and then the clinging of the silt at low tide on the Thames, where the lens of greedy eyes would spy out,hear the cry out of the mudlarks
but no larking there.
The gears that grind and inner wheels that wind.

Northern towns do not exist
they're just a story that persists in our collective memory,
a nightmare that we waken from.
These mill town dressing gown like nursery rhymes
designed to make us think we live in better times,
wrapped us up in cotton wool.
Until
we were just as full of fear and fantasy
as our collective memory.

Industrialisation was the sow that suckled pigs,
look at them now,
Swines
don't talk to me of better times
don't talk to me at all.

She,

skipped over the paved blocks
and came to a stop.

Are we playing tag today
or are you going fishing
again?

I wanted to say
tag
but I was ten
so I said
fishing.

Oh.

but you can help me to dig up
some worms
for bait.

Great..she said.

When it started to rain
and the
fish weren't biting
I bit my lip
and said,
wished I'd played tag.

She smiled and said,

I know.

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.

Under the arches
down on their luck
tucked up in bubble wrap,
troubling no one
minding their own as
the cold day goes on,
are the outcast,
cast out by a time but
not the hands of the clock.

And when the fingers are too numb to
pick at the light that glistens like
dew drops on the windows of night, there's
a light frosting of snow and momentum is set,
moving close to each other to get that
bonus of body heat, the weather beats their faces,
like a whip it leaves traces, lines of its passing
etched and each line surpasses the last,
where they lay wrapped  in the day of the outcast.

And if Summer should come, some never see when
the chains they are bound in are unshackled but
she, Jenny Wren, who used to fly with the best,
unrecognisable now, dressed like the rest in
bubble wrap vests,
will see,
the freedom of the sky from
beneath the blue bridge,
will reach up her fingers to pry
yesterday from her eyes.

Under the arches,  there is a silence,
a reluctance to cry, the
outcasts know but
nobody asks why.

The field gun
hidden behind a grassy bank and flanked by trees
manned by two men and an officer up to their knees in mud
did good!

It fired simultaneously
with a charge by the third infantry
Death stamped on the base of the eight pound shell
it smiled
into the face of Ben Fazackerly who came from Coventry
and Ben fell dead.
(and it has to be said..minus his head)

Perhaps Ben had seen some premonition
that he'd be killed by enemy ammunition
so on Wednesday the week before
he'd decided not to take the chance
of losing his new false teeth in France
and posted them with two weeks pay
to his wife and lover
Betty May

And Bet began to understand when she saw the postman
with the telegram come past the garden gate at ten past eight.
At five past two
the crying through
she went and made some tea.

With the teeth that Ben had sent
she turned the gas on
and bent with grief
she went to sleep.
Forever.

There is nothing to fear
I don't even think we'll be here when the oceans return to the sand and when the water you drink. coloured green, blue and black makes you sick to the stomach and you fight back the urge to be sick,
pick any number an Unter den Linden, sing me a song of the tree, sit for a time and recite me a rhyme but let me get home for my tea.

There is nothing to fear if we're here when we fall we won't feel it at all we'll be doped out on nuclear fizzics, physically incapable of escape from the inescapable we shall sit and we'll all have a ball.

Another light heart
day start
start to
amalgamate
concentrate on not being late
for the sunshine
in time
whatever is to be
will be mine
and then
when I start to fly
and watch the World go by
I may wonder why
I am alone.

One Summer on a Wednesday in June
when the Sun had sorted out the moon and shone
John..(that is I) thought I could fly
so I jumped off the bridge that flew over the railway lines
I admit
I have had better times and my grand designs were slightly flawed
but getting bored with broken leg and arm
and seeming to do more harm than good
I thought I would
just learn to knit
which is a bit like tying knots in spaghetti.

Now me (again that is I)
am waiting for the sky to lighten
up the day
then I'll go and play
hopscotch on the motorway.

Some people never learn
but Sunday schools are just for fools
and that is fine
I only go there
for the bread and wine
and that's fine too.

Feeding tigers in the zoo sounds like fun
anybody like to come
with me?
Talk to tigers
set them free?
Something might be wrong with me
but I can't see how just a little cat could be
so dangerous.

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.

Underneath the shadow of the
old Yew tree
where the dead men sleep
in the cemetery,
there's a woodpecker pecking
constantly,
so much for
'Rest in peace'

Wash the windows,clean the floor,do the laundry and don't ignore that ***** mark on the front door,
Is this what Wednesday is for?
One more,one more,one more chore and isn't housework such a bore?

I should get a 'Daily' who could come and work for me twice weekly,keep things ***** and span and do things neatly,
but I could not afford her,it seems to me I'll have to do my own share
of boring work.

Where were you when the operation began
were you watching me
through the blackened glass
did you see me pass out
did you watch the gas meter
did you count every litre
they ran into my chest?

Did they test you as well,
well did they?
Did you tell them
to ******* and go away,
did they
do that
did they?

And why stay anyway
what's in it for you
what can I do
for you?

And I'm clear
did you fear
the disease?

Did you think if I loved you
I'd bring you
to your
knees?

Please
leave
and relieve me
from guilt
Tilt
game over.

I forgot what happened yesterday, and tomorrow will forget today
It's the only way,
a coping strategy to free myself,
but memory remains
like blood stains on my skin
getting into every crease.
There is and will be no release,
memories are police to catch me,****** me,bind me,search me out and find me, then they grind me into dust.
If I must remember,
let me remember this,the first kiss,the first bloom,laughter in the bedroom,the groom, the bride,
but these memories hide
and I forget again.

Walking through the regiments of
old red,cold,dead
tenements
giving compliments
to the planners who put spanners in the works
of parliaments.

The ghosts of raggy arsed kids still play football on the grass,
not caring a rats *** for the 'no ball games' sign and
lining up for 'nitty Nora' the bug explorer,
lice ain't nice even in the afterlife.

The liquefied glass through which an Angel can pass or
look solemnly on,
is an impregnable force but of course
not for Angels I see.
I have yet to be an Angel.

I walk on the edge of incredible dreams and it
all seems quite plausible to me,
I have yet to be an Angel.

In the fullness of time when
the glass is half empty
she comes with a refill
to fill me.
I have yet to be an Angel.

There are tracks laid down hard in
the marshalling yard and the
marshalling yard is me.
I have yet to be an Angel.

I'm in no hurry, I'm aware that
time chews on glass through which
Angels can pass.
I have yet to be an Angel.

I want to play truant from this
Want to give it a miss and go down by the lake
Take off my kit and go in for a dip
I want to give this night the slip.

Disappear without trace
and just in case the night does have eyes
want to change my appearance
don't want to be caught by surprise.

I shall dive in
thrive in
the cold ink black.
Float on my back
breast stroke
butterfly
looking at the night sky
Can't think why
I would want any more
but to skip in and out
Along the long lake shore.

I want to play truant from this
want to kiss goodbye to today, bring on the night

I know why
my ears ache and my chest feels tight.

I'm being restricted
constricted
crushed by the rush of the daily plough
to the office and shop
I wonder how
they can live.

Give me my lake and the take that I have
on this fight
Give me my lake in the night
Give me a minute to make my escape
The truant can't take
any more.

I thought that I could walk on water and as the son of man
I should have swam with big fish
wish?
I should have wished the World away
stepped into another day of Saints and sinners
losers
winners
who brought hope and misery to
us
the peasantry.

Presently
pleasantly surprised
I find myself under clear blue skies
on a desert dune
whereon I rise and call out to the stars
the sun
the moon
who if they hear at all will tell me all too soon
just to whom it is I should pay homage.

I reflect as the heat reflects up off the sand.
Is this land fit only for those castles that would blow down in a storm?
what form does man take when the breaking of the bread
is taking bread from starving men?
When?
And then these thoughts that take me hostage are the homage I must pay
To live and write and fight
a ray of sunlight
and in it wrapped tight
another ray
the simple way of it
to sit and wander through these thoughts
and I thought
I could walk on water
can't even stand on my own two feet.

I'm going walkabout
It's time to get away to the outback.
I've been here for years.
It feels like I'm seeping into the seams
of the stitching of yesterday's dreams
And I've got to go.

No one will notice,no one will know
If I don't turn up for the show they'll just think that I passed.
My turn has come to get on the road and to run as fast as I can.
You can't catch this man he's to quick.
Tied to the past though I maybe
I am no baby when it comes to a race
I set the pace
And I'm off.

Walkabout
Talk about a jape
This jackanapes is making his track
And he ain't looking back.
I am gone as soon as the sun makes a face
In the morning this place will be history.
That's me.
Gone in a flash.
Now I must dash off and pack my walkabout sack
With a brolly and boots,two suits and a pair of old jeans.
That seems about right.
This time tomorrow night
I'll be far away.

The Sun
Sol
following Winter

chasing me into the shadows,
In those
who knows
what lurks?

I am pedestrian
Lancastrian,
but the good Lord
he made me
a Geordie where they
still talk of that
'Jarrow Walk'
as if it was
yesterday.

They march on to haunt me
in what was and what
could be
history repeats
but we knew that

and many times before by some
lake or on the shore
when I've looked out and tried to
make sense of it
I am hit by the oddities,
life's ideosyncrasies

I feel that
my insecurities
secure me.

No escape
you
either love or
we hate.

It's all so nice and clean and bright
they've even tarted up the night
how wonderful it is to be
a part of this
machinery.

I'm going to do my best for them
pay off my debts to faceless men
work my life in penury
a part of this
machinery.

and just before I die
I'll really
really try
to clock off

wouldn't want the miserable ***** to pay me overtime when my time's done
would I?

Wednesday taps me
on the shoulder
wakes me up
to remind me that I'm
one day older

*******.

Beads drop
spots on skin
evaporating
in the heat.

I see an army of boatmen of bowmen of old men stretching way back into time,
on the Thames and the Rhine a long line of troops.
The Crimea's not here I shout in disgust but my words turn to dust
as I knew that they must.
Recouping some strength and at length, I go searching the files which file past me,for miles I am searching,a lost little urchin looking for Captain John Kyle.
And in some style he appears from somewhere in the rear and lends me his ear for a while,
I complain,
you're at it again and they're going to war,I don't understand,can you tell me what for?
'Orders',says he,'I know not or care why,I joined this army to do or to die'
Then the line carried on until the troops were all gone and somewhere on the Somme another rose smiled.

David
and
the 'daughter of the oath'
both
knew it was wrong
but did it
anyway.

Stood for a century,
shattered windows
crumbling balcony,
earmarked for
new construction
a site for
mass
destruction.

The house has seen,
the old King,
the older Queen,
seen men cry
stood while bombs fell from
the sky and
now
the end has come.

Some might say,
the house is old and had its day
but it was built to last and
sadly
our future becomes its past.

I shall mourn its passing even
as I watch the rising of the new
which will never last as long or do
as much for me,
as the house which
stood
a
century.

It dawns on me at ten past three that I should be asleep and this thought that breaks into the dreams that wake me,makes me want to close my eyes,close out accumulated where's and why's,and I don't want the thoughts that dawn to ever have been born,
but
I know soon after three,thinking I'm awake I'll see,me staring at the hour in reverse,through the window of my mirror,it's perverse,I only want to be asleep at ten past three,when darkness flits across my drooping head,I see the batwinged angels with hardened hearts who with withered tongues once said,

'He's not dead,he's just pretending nor does he even think he's ending,just pretending,that's who he is and wants to be,an anonymity'

Batwinged angels have no heart,they like to stop you never start to help in any way,never have the day,just the night when I would like to tuck up tight and sleep,they keep me wide awake and take the dreams I'm in,pin them onto cartwheel dart boards,lords of mayhem that they be,
I really want to sleep at ten past three.
I really do.

When the economy heals and
the scab starts to itch
just scratch it and sniff and
you'll smell
like you're rich.

I wanted ice cream so I asked for a cornet
they gave me a trumpet,
it's always like this
people just take the '****'
but I fooled them,
I started to lick
the trumpet.

In the catchment zone
where you catch a school if
you have a home
the fishermen roam.
Rods at the ready and eyes on the wheel just
waiting to steal your place.

Some o' that
Would look quite nice upon the walls within my flat.

With the mountains all around me
I sit in silence.
And I am free.

The valleys far below where I no longer go
Fade.
Underneath the overhanging rocks
I find the shade I need
Vestiges of a former greed.

I look towards and to the sky
A blue glass ceiling.
I wonder why it's so.
I think I'd like to go beyond and wander,yonder,far away.

Here up high there is no fear
Just solitude, which I have chosen.

One that came so long ago to play the game and could not know
The end was always near
Up high,there is no fear.

And my thought is nought against the mountain stone.
Alone,there is no fear.
But my mind would squander distant lands of which I've seen but few
Yet know the sky out there is also blue
And peopled just the same
As I, who came to play this game.
What difference then? I ask
That their task be so much greater than mine.
Another line within this platform game.

So mountains rise to poke fun at my skies
But then they crumble
Dusting off their dusty feet they also meet the man that dies
Alone and yet in company.
A stone in my eternity.

Some o' that
Would look quite nice upon the walls within my flat.
Wallpapered and looking clean
The astonishingly textural mountain scene.
Alas the pass which I went through is no longer there
So my vision of a loneliness,alone,
I cannot share.
I bear the cross and show the shame
A loser,loser in
The game.

The poor men will rise with the searchlight of God streaming out from their eyes and the sinner shall have this day.

On the *** of the city where the fat cats and pretty boys walk,,where the talk is of bonds and debentures,diamonds in dentures and pearl driven breath,
there,
where the air lingers sad and the crazy man had all the luck he would get,and
standing tight on the floor calling more,give me more as if enough was not a feast,was
Jimmy Malone at home in the square mile and though crooked his smile he was as straight as a die,
he'd say, 'good morning my dear' with a grin or a leer and you knew you'd be faked out or taken down in the trading,but he was honest enough among the shylocks and tough boys who used to be hawkers down in the markets until Thatcher (the plot hatcher) showed them the yellow brick clique down in Threadneedle street,but
now they're just wide boys with big gobs,the new gentlemen fat slobs,pinstriped fat **** wipes who ain't got no time for their roots,all bar Jimmy Malone,
who calls mum and dad twice weekly at home and sends a cheque through the post to the boys club in Sligo where the young lads still go to learn how to live.
This is give and take city where nothing's given freely not even pity,where you're charged for your time by the dollar or the dime and the rich will stitch you sideways which only proves that crime does pay.
It's the sinners who win in the end,
while we're chasing geese they're fleecing us blind,I don't mind that's just life,sometimes I wish I was living it and
not shoveling ****.

We trap to feel the body slight
beneath the moon
is it alright?
you hush me,push me on,'til all illusion gone and what is there? two bodies without care,abandoned to the feeling set underneath the moonlit ceiling,
shall we dance through this or chance a seat beside the window pane,where we can trap ourself again in one more link that we will chain around our waists,
and did I tell you,you taste good?
I knew you would,you look so sweet,demure,petite and no less a giantess for wanting more,shall we stand beside the door and walk without,within the gardens you shall be another tasting test for me.
Or is it time to feast on what is most, and what is least is still the feast for me, the man
can you understand the need?
see the beads of sweat appear,nervousness,a touch of fear,and what is fear?but the moment when the time is near to consummate,a first date once more?
are we still beside the door?
I lost track of time
and we, now become what is yours and mine
and what is the time?
Time to dance again, to go but for the pain that does not release the chain and would I want to leave?
you can believe that I would not
being thankful in the nicest way for what I've got
I'll never let it go
so
dance with me again real slow and take me through the moves again,throw away the key and keep the chains.We are what is, and what remains will be
the two of us
locked into destiny.

...and then she hugs me closer to her
where her scents intoxicate me,
fate decrees and I agree
its been a lovely
day.

I see her in hues,romantic soft blues and in chiffon and lace
but her face tells a tale of ships under sail and of mountainous seas.
Storm tossed she crossed the oceanic trail
to look for and find her holy grail
all to no avail.
It was here all the time in her very own backyard
sometimes the lessons life teaches are hard.

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.

Give me some Tramadol
Panadol
a laxative
a fixative
just
give me some peace.

Give me a new lease on life
a wife
a home
a new hip
(just thought that I'd slip that one in)

Oh Christ on the cross
how do I live with the loss
how does one start
when the heart has been shattered
and what does it matter?

Let me be drip fed on a bed
and out of my head
give me indemnity
against
whatever I've said or am likely to say
Give me
Today.

There is always the square root
the road to nirvana
the mathematical equation
that solves the dilemma.,
the indigent integer that
itches my conscience and the
point that floats before my eyes.

Triangulating my position on the road to
perdition, at least I know where I am.

If the cat's in the black box and the white box
is bare,
is the cat really there?.
The idiot in me says it must be,
seeing's believing they say,
what colour is the cat that's meant to deceive?

Equations flow freely through the nearly enough now
and the answers flood in with the mail.

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.

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'

On the production line a product of the time
and a time for busy bees
with beehive hairdo's and the permanent wave
not many dreadlocks
but that's something I'll save for a rainy day
I like to play my fingers through them
and when she gets a bit naughty and the temps reached about forty
well, things go on
but that's not for on the production line
a time and a place for many things
and she brings me most
then cooks me a meal,
sometimes I feel like a king
and to her who would love me
I bring but a man
with faults and defaults she can discover at will and she will.
and still I remain like a tomato ketchup stain on her dress
She, under duress tells me later
I wait on her shift at the factory but it finishes and me I'm still here
waiting to see her.

Her life is her own and I own none of it
not a drop or a little bit and as she has so often said,
'you can get that idea right out of you head'
She is strong and I long for her
She is weak and I comfort her
but these things she does for me
I wait and see what the next instalment will be
her and me
me and her
on the production line where love isn't fair nor is meant to be
it's the economy
got to blame it on something and that seems about right
got to make light of it and that does not
what she has and she has an awful lot
is what I haven't got
and maybe never will
and that's another will I can't fight
and another something that isn't quite right.

Life goes on and we get old
and maybe we never get to hold what we wish for
maybe that's not the way
perhaps we'll always have to fight for our day in the sun
or pick up the gun and demand it or take it by force
and of course as a pacifist
I would desist from taking that step
which is one step away
from the hangman.

The pan is bubbling merrily, the kettle's whistling cheerily,
I hear the clinking of the cutlery and only wish that I could be
that flamin' happy.

Stale bread
Yale bread
pouring its mould into my head
penicillin in my eyes
I am cured
the whole world dies.

Yesterday sits heavy on my mind
the chiming of the shocking blondes wrap
tightly,
bonds which make the chains and lies
I am cured
the whole world dies.

This universal remedy
this magic
of calamity
the panacea of which I did not see
cures me as
the whole world dies.

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,

It's only ever that day when it's my turn to be the one that pays on those Saturdays when the chicken lays fourteen Easter eggs and somewhere Peter begs,
'let me go'

Oh jeezus, don't you know we've moved a million miles from the Mount of Ararat and Arafat is dead,
Moses set no fire alarm, the ark was built from plans made in his head, caught light or set afire by some hot town gospel choir and sunk before it sailed,
it seems the ****** failed to float, no new world orchestras, self supporting lace trim bra's, silk lined half price cocktail bars and Saturday is the boat to blame.
we sink to fill ourselves with shame.

Jeezus,
you should have got your dad to build the world a bit less mad, a bit more ground to go around and a lot more love for crazy folk.

Confucius may have said a lot but he never said what I could not
suppose he found the narration would not translate
and in this state of mind over no matter
I wonder what is the matter with me
I can see
things that are not there and if I write about these things
I swear people think
I'm blowing bubbles in the air
but they can't pop them
can't stop them
I put my thinking where I want and is it not fairthat I should
could a minstrel shoulder less a burden?
in my garden everything's rosio
sing me a song and
I'll be your romeo.

Confucius confuses me with someone I used to be
and whatever he says
makes no difference I see
what I see
and if words could convey this disarray
I'd write them all day
but they don't so I won't
but who am I to decide that you out there should be denied
of my talented pen?
(me big headed..when?)
so I'll keep on showing you the slowing of what I do and in the inks you'll find links
to the something not there.

Does that man that he was and he was such a man
care about what I can do?
Confucius say
and whatever it was got lost in translation.

(20 minute poetry)

Hunched up and hemmed in
hacked off,
on the flamin' tube and
ageing rapidly.

This is not for me
I need open space and
a place to spread my wings.

Feeling faint
this ain't no picnic
unless
It's one that makes you
sick

smelling ***** clothes
wet stinking hair
I want to be anywhere
other than here

when a twenty minute trip
gives me the pip

I need to slip away.

Today is not good,
thinking the tube would be empty at nine as it should
be
fooled me.

I'm
looking to find escape velocity
hah
I can't even find a seat.

We all know that
sometimes we have to let go.
A case of,
'press and release to win some peace'
it becomes pointless to hold on to what's gone,a feeling so dull almost like
bottling sunbeams once they have shone and finding those beams do not shine quite so bright,will not light up the darkness if you stay in the night,
we have to let go,have to let yesterday flow with the ebb of the tide,inside the minds of some men there's a pen that writes queries,writing the forehead with lines,
the weary should know if they'll only let go they will find the blotter to mop up the ink,there's a link between here ,now and then, it's how you perceive it and when you believe it you'll know
that
sometimes we have to let go.

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.