You
take me, break me,
stake me down
you
make me smile
you
make me frown
you
tie me up in my knots
and then you reunite my soul
you're
all I want, all I want
repeat two times and hold.

Mandolin please play for me
a Neapolitan melody.

Sit and talk or walk with me
unto the ends of jeopardy
until I see,

be there in the morning when the
light comes flooding in
be there when the Sun goes down
to let my body in
be there in the quiet times when
silence locks me in

mandolin please play for me
a
Neapolitan melody.

take and make or break me
pluck me to your heart's content

heaven sent you maybe
play me
Neapolitan

one more time.

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

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

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

With a little tightening round the waist the skinny day comes out to taste the fatness of the light
I am in sight of something great but I'm hungry ,cannot wait
so I make my move too soon
and am swallowed in the craters of a Moon so cold
so very,very old with its yellow hardened crust that would lead me into desperation with gnarled hands and beard and face as red as any rust turned into dust
I would become
the dying of a dying sun
no matter fat or thin or if I wore a belt or braces
the many faces I would see
would only ever face the end of me.

I try to modify this future that only I can see by praying to a God I can't and never did
I wonder if that God is hid among the craters on the Moon and was it that he made his move too soon?
If so,
we'll have much to muse upon as we wonder where our lives have gone
and would he tell me how to live or would he give a eulogy
prepare me for that long journey?

I've come ten million stars through another thousand corner half lit bars where girls would sell me ballerina dreams that danced for me on spotlight screens and how could everything that seemed so real
be whisked away?

The spinning wheel came to a stop and zero popped up on the marker board where rich men ****** their eminence
and all pretence was stripped away.
Any other day the Lords that lorded over us would break up parliaments and owls would hoot and say
Wit and to whom would we deliver it?

A bit of eccentricity electric elementary educationalists get me fired up again as if I ever learned from them old men with old ideas whose only thoughts were to get young men up off their rears and into wars
more ****** who sold a bill of lading to trading partners who shot us down in front room parlours on council housing states of minds.

A kind of beauty in this fractured glass where through osmosis I can pass but not pass away only into some other uneventful day.
I lay my tortures on your brow
you know how to soothe this pain
before I go off scale again and read a riot act to those, where those who have lain their lives in ***** fields and barn houses full of hay
would have me say,
that we should not have to live this way.

In the craters on the Moon
I see that all is all too soon and will always be
another eulogy is read
for the dead undead who do not know
that here is where we are
there's nowhere left to go.

You can try to justify your policies
that is not what bothers me,
what bothers and is bothering me is
the fact you can decide on a policy
that affects our liberty,
is this democracy?

I cannot decide nor decipher whether
it's hot air or just bluster, but
buster
you'd better be aware
we all live here and I don't care if
Sunil speaks Tamil or gobbledygook.

I suspect this is not about the language
and more to do with the way people look.

j

I wondered if we'd live it slow
I wonder every day I grow,
what's the deal with living fast?
life is finite
it will not last.

In that shop atop of harbour hill
they still show prices in old money
it seems that time just passed them by,
it's funny,
but it makes me cry.

Feeling that an even keel is the only
way to bring to heel the
fast and loose,
we fashion nooses from the castaways
and hope for longer days
or longer lives and shorter days or
maybe longer nights, better lives, shorter
wives, taller men and never satisfied
I write it all again,
in my head this time.

What you can do
if you can
is get through this
as a man.

Easier than it sounds when the ground's
always opening up to swallow you
and you
want people to follow you?
you must be joking.

if you look good you'll do good
and I could believe what I've read,
if I sat with a bucket on my head
I really could believe it.

But we do as we do or
we don't
and more often than not
we shoot the messenger
not
because we don't like the message
we
just don't like the messenger.

What bothers me is
what part of art and I
wonder where do I start
to paint the
picture.

If only they'd videoed the nativity
that'd be proof
that Christianity was based
on a real life case

but
it's a bit like that programme
CSI
you're left wondering why
'til the very end and then
the battery would go.

Only a video
could show the truth
it's a shame
the birth of Christ came
too early for that.

In the midnight cafe where the smoke dances with steam
where I once had a dream of being the creme dela creme
when the day was still young and unbleached.
I sit sipping tea bought for me by the waitress
largesse it would seem but hardly the dream I once had.

All we were is what we wore
now and then
way back when

twenty score of memories..... come flooding in,
shiny pin tacked in your hair,
somewhere there.



looking back and in again
silver sun and
shining rain.....
....on the rec' with
Shirley Stiles, a
million smiles..............,

never knew a kiss could be, a
part of it..
the memory,
tasting sherbet on her lips
nature trips..and we fell free
such a time and what we wore
more and more and memory.

dreams may come and dreams may go but
memory runs wild and...see..

..we..

..all we were and what we wore
things we did and what we saw..

you can't buy that no matter how you try,
blowing soda pops underneath
the sky,
bubbles everywhere
somewhere there
now and then.

Boiling in oil and roasting my nuts
shuts out
the shout.
At times I need to relax in those
panic attacks
it makes me,
who I am.

I am the indigestion of man,
the hiccup that won't shut up.
The attitude that chews me spews out only to abuse me.
I call it the shout.

That's why I need to get out or need to get in
to stop or begin,finish or start,it's
all
in the heart of me
or in the oil that roasts the nuts,the if's and buts
but that's what
shuts it up.

The rolling of the sea rolls over me
a swallowed thought,
a hiccup in the mightiness of nothingness
it waves goodbye below the talons of a storm grey sky
which grab at me as I roll and roll in the rolling sea.
If I land I want to land on the impermanence of a present
tense and move towards that which rewards me,
towards and to the rear of me,
atop and underneath the rolling sea,
I roll along,bowling to a future who knows what
that can be?

I am falling in love with the blue
..Because that is what falling in love people do.
And when I fall in your arms and am charmed by your charms.
Will I be...
Who..
..just someone who has fallen in love with the blue ?
Do..
..You think that it's right
Do you think that you might..
..fall in love with the fallen one too.

A springy thingy though I be
a thing in spring I'd like to be
this thought I think springs out of me
as I spring into Spring.

It was the busted times
it was the worsted times
a time of tweed
a time of need.
I wonder where the mice and men came into it.
I read a bit of Steinbeck just a titchy bit which itched a bit,he had a lot to say,and in turns it turned out he ripped the title off from Rabbie Burns,while the cat's away it seems the mice and men will play.
So we learn and at each turning page,each burning rage we must endure,I am sure it's for some greater good.
I wish I could
believe that.

I drift
slowly
comfortably
the silence surrounds me.
The ocean around me,thus trapped I am wrapped in the Mother's embrace,a softness that fills me with salt and with the sea,and I am free from the trappings,unwrapped from the scratchings,released from the longings and drifting,
slowly
to and through the endlessness of tide times,silence in the way I agree with the ocean,the sea.
She lifts me to be
the drifter.

Fanfares at the funfair for the children we took there and candy floss crème for the time in-between the dodgems and ducks.

Steinbeck played halfback on the quarterdeck of a cruiser,
not an enviable position, but they enhanced his pay and with two rations of *** every day he didn't really care.

Time jumps about when you're about to get down to the real business of living
I'm about to do that but I can't find the time.

Wild in our childhood we are savaged by our adulthood
what chance to have peace?
there is none.

It's a fashion to be
or it could be it was
I get lost in minutiae
and tend to shy away,
but only
because the side track is
my best side and my best side
is the side track
I'm on.

and anyone can learn how to drive.

..and then she kisses,
sets me free
unburdens
takes the weight of me,
whispers in my ear,
'there,there dear,
don't get upset,
we've only just started
and not there yet,
be patient,
and then she kisses.

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

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

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

You might think it's a social commentary
but to me
it's just a bit of poetry.
If I rant and rave about saving the whales or
some jungle in Ecuador,
they're just words and not for
dissemination,
just for you to read and it's all in my
fertile
imagination.

I write as I feel,I
don't kneel at the feet of
Shelley or Keats,
if you want that instead of my kind of writing,
the right kind of,bright kind of,tight kind of,
then go right in and read.the
difference is in the breeding,the reading is all of the same,
I won't change my style nor my name just to be,
a tick on your checklist for your friends to see.

This is not commentating
this is my heart remonstrating with the soul
that's inside me.
this is my poetry
take it or leave it.

The bitter pills and the ruins of cotton mills where dreams where played out on looms and woven in the semi gloom of a half lit room by children so old,who were told to do as was told or don't do at all.

Some escaped to the drudgery of the great hall where Lord Diddlywhat would squat and pass praises like water to some lacklustre daughter of a man in the town,
half a crown a month and eighteen hours a day,threepence in the offertory on a Sunday to pray for deliverance.
Though none would come for the sun didn't shine on me and mine,only on them,
lardy arsed gentlemen,willowy ladies with squawking fat babies and nannies,grannies in every nook and cranny who fed on the fat of the land,
took the bread from our hands
took the love out of life and the life of our loves,
iron fists in silken gloves.

Now finished,
the thoughts of those times diminish with age but the rage still holds true against the blue stockinged brigade
who would raid on us,put the shade on us,despise and degrade us,use and then beat us,contused and confused we would still go and labour,
wrap ourselves in the looms and in half lit bits of the day,we thought it was the only way,
'til the war came
changed the rules of the game
it was never the same after that little spat
and we spat at the gentry
who stayed behind to do sentry duty as their duty demanded.
We branded them
the landed men
wouldn't work for them no more.
Let them go hang and sing for their supper
we'll scupper them yet,
but I forget
the fat don't get wet
they float.

It's not for the want of wanting that I wish I wanted you,
but you make it easier to make my mask and disappear into the blue.

I could wonder all the wondering what this wonderful life has been and I'd never know the half of all those things I used to dream, but you thought of me in sepia, someone old that fades too soon while I thought of you as crescent shaped like the beginnings of the moon.

We have to live to understand yet can't stand ignorance and yet again we wash out pain, pretend like Gene to sing and dance when it's pouring down with rain.


We're all the films that we used up and time just clicked away and now the shutter shuts with a final clang and
the footman comes in slowly saying,
'was that you that
rang'? but
I never called for the thin man in the black car to come by and it's not for the lack of living that I found my time to die.

'Don't waste a minute', said the miser, 'in yer bin', the cockney cried and for the want of wish of wanting I curled up and then I died.

...and now you come to mention it
I know,
that most of what I write is ****,but
among the dross you'll find occasionally, a real gem
written by
me.

When at last she wakes, I'll make breakfast
and then
as we sit beside the window munching slowly crunchy toast with marmalade or cherry jam and drinking English morning tea,
she'll look at me and say,
'no eggs today,no eggs today,the chickens decided not to lay'
because she thinks she's on the farm where she grew up
but now grown old
her hold upon reality has slipped a gear or two
there's nothing anyone can do, it's just one of those things but I bring her breakfast everyday whether or not the chickens lay,
I love her everyway even if she wakes and thinks it's yesterday and what she thinks means everything to me.

She takes me and shakes me,in contours she shapes me,subjugates me,sublimely educates me,
and I am free from the bonds that have shackled my mind,
in her warm embrace,
I come face to face
with myself.

Of no persuasion or opinion
with no bias or
particular bent,
they swing on the stem,
slender and
when the
combine's away from the fields
how they play
chattering into the ears of corn.
The titmouse, the dormouse, the brown mouse
I
adore mice,
but I am a cat
so I would.

I am the jumbling
the mumbling man
escaping gas of thoughts that pass into the night.
I burn the midnight sun that oils the gatling gun that chats incessantly and I believe that this is me.
I am conquistador
Quixote wanting more
I am the situation needing close examination somewhat of an exclamation mark
I am the dark.

I got home at ten to three and she
has waited up for me
to see
if I was capable or not and I forgot what love was for
until she closed the bedroom door after dragging me inside
nowhere to hide now and did I want to hide anywhere anyhow?
wow
a night like seven summers rolled in one,the heat of it still lingered on long after she had left and gone.

The milkman knocked at ten to eight, a bit late for him but I let him in and made some tea,
inconsequential but you see,
I'm coming home at ten to three to see the summers come and go and throwing cautions all aside
I won't hide from her,will share her wild abandonment and this is what is meant by marriage vows and how's a man supposed to know what makes a woman tick just so?

I think I'll go and join a clan become a wilder sort of man or just stay meek and mild,
but I love her more when she is wild
and she knows me well enough to cuff my ear
say,
get over here and kiss me,
I miss her when she's gone but not for long because she comes home and I am like the dog that chews the bone
woof.

I got scars by the score
The ones outside don't hurt any more.
But the ones deep inside..
..are like a road map from which..
..I can never hide.

Buried deep in the seas of my mind and my heart..
..like sunken ships.
And sometimes..I slip on the remains of a hurt
And blurt out a cry..a sigh..

I'm not alone..
..we all have that stone inside..
..upon which we crash.
When the lashing of life or the **** of a knife..
..goes deeper than the cut.
And we shut it away..lock down..okay
Not really.
Ideally we should talk..
..walk through these dark places
Meet,
..head on the faces that haunt.
Daunting that may be but I see it as the only way..
..to peace.

For the silence that booms in the night when I sleep..
..when I keep waking..shaking..it must cease.

Scars are a piece of the fabric I am.
...it was never the plan for me but that's how it's got to be
And don't think it was good..getting whacked by a 4x2 lump of hardwood..
..it was not.
Scars what I got..can't get rid..some are hid..some I put the lid on..
..but the signature of my days are shown in the never ending decay..
..Of the skin that I wear.
Whether or not it is fair..or whether you really care
It doesn't matter to me.
My scars are sunken in the sea of my life.

I beam as I scheme and who gives a **** if I duck and I dive it's what I have to do to get by and to thrive,while the cops in their cars the modern day tsars are grafting away,getting more than their pay in backhanders and doughnuts.
My M.P'S on a freebee and it's paid for by me,me, in the taxes they take and they're breaking me down,it's time to get out of this town and head West.
I'll take a schooner from Bristol,carry a pistol,become a pirate,a buccaneer,sail near and far and the cops in their cars will have no chance to catch me or give me an asbo,
does anyone know what an asbo looks like?
or I could take the long view,play the long game,get a good name.
No,
I'd rather be a privateer anything away from here,does anyone know how to steer a ship?

A coating of dust over the memories,
the rocking horse,
so silent now
no back and forth or to and fro,
no laughter to throw to the wind,
aloft in the loft where yesterdays go
and a coating of dust to keep warm.

(20 minute poetry)

Wish I was there in the clear where the light casts no shadow behind me,
wish it was so that if I could go I would.

But nothing good comes of wishing,
ask genie he's been listening to wishes for years .

I'll remain in this limbo wondering if time dies then where does it go?
When I know the answer I think that I'll know it all.

On the seventh colour run when the sun throws a rainbow glow over the wet pasture be sure to take a fishing net,
get an early start.

I see them
ten times ten of them
MARCHING up to York
and
If the glory of Rome could talk
what would it say?
' lions to the left
Christians to the right
someone play the fiddle
there's a barbecue tonight?'

These random scatterings are only the
Chatter of a loose tongue
Wrapping rhythms in bubbled gum
Shadows dreaming in the noon and
Soon the sun will go
The budget of my day will be spent and my descent into the rambling of night will begin.

Then we learn to crawl through the ramble and sprawl, if we were tadpoles perhaps we might wriggle a bit,
but we're not
We scrabble and screech in order to reach whatever is it that we need and we feed at the fast foods, watching the naked and **** being destroyed and it's us that we see.
If we walk we don't talk with our heads in a phone watching memes on the screen and the bigger the better, easy to letter your life if you like, A equals 5 equals a bee in the hive, but we're making no honey just plenty of green crispy banknotes and it's funny because you can't eat money, but it keeps us alive, us being the bee in the hive.

And through all of this, the tramping, campaigning and cutting, adjusting, abutting it's easy to see why we crawl,
why we sprawl on the sofa and think so far so good.
I wonder if I'd feel as I would if I could grasp every corner of life, fold it into a square, put it somewhere and forget it.

It's a chapstick
lip lick
hit of a day.
Winter has come and
it's planning to stay.
I shall write in my diary only
the words that will fire me
up.

It was ten hours in when I opened my eyes to watch Christmas begin,
Santa had been with presents galore
he had come down the chimney
and not in through the door.

And it was fun being there watching as Santa and sleigh flew here and away,
It was Christmas
I knew it would come.

Dear olive sitting in the tree
please make some olive oil for me
and I will be
eternally
grateful.

My credit took it hard and turned into a debit card,I never read the small print and now I am decidedly skint.
Cash will dash, if you don't keep it on a lead,or on a reign and money after all, is just the same as any other thing in life,it will knife you in the back or hack into a circumstance and given half of half a chance will run away and leave, like it left me today.

I could be brave and save but interest rates are very low and I don't know if a rainy day will ever come and sometimes money's just for fun,
I shall spend,send my money,bend it round a bar or two and in lieu of any saving grace I shall turn the Queens face on my notes,burn my bridges,sink my boats and have a riot of a time,

when I've bought a five minute slot in the bankruptcy court you can come and see what money did for me,
but until then,another ten will go on *****,a fortune on a midnight cruise and twenty quid will buy me high,
did I tell you,money's sly and slips away when least expected,I should have, or did you suspect that's why this man is wrecked and broke.

Money spoke and money speaks and money leaks away and no money means you have no say,
spending,saving,blowing it and raving we all need that touch of having not enough or as much as we need,
money feeds on us as we feed on it and slowly but surely a bit at a time,because a bit ain't a dime when a dollar only buys you a small tin of tuna, and the old lady would sooner thread needles than sew,
we'll all go quite insane.

Fathers's farther away
Mother's gone
and what do I say?

what is there out there?

I want to see what's beyond
when I stare into
the distance

and distant is how it seems
waking
and dreams roll
into one


They're still gone.

Tongues that collide, inside lips open wide,
you know what I mean.
When the whole world is seen through her eyes,the highs and the lows and the kissing goodbyes,still seen through her eyes which also open wide,
I died,you mesmerised me,I tried and you stood by me.
We kiss and you know what I mean,
You,
who has seen me in the raw
You,
who has laid down the law
and I want,
You,
even more.
Tongues that collide and eyes open wide and lips that divide, part for me
and she
knows what I mean.

It be like,
what song are you
love,
****** doo,
play,
Farmville too,
gamble,
the whole day through.

What the fluck is wrong with you?

Ifya want a friend that goes on to the end
you've got a fiend in
Facebook.

Born of greed and crooked deals,a wheel within the turning wheels sat silently in space.
Slowly it began to spin and swallowed worlds within its gaping grin and moving fast,at last it came into our view.
Those who knew the reason why decided there and then to die,while others waited on the street,
the seven seas were ****** up through the cracking of the sky and then the oceans were all bled dry and soon the ancient moon we knew so well,followed suit and went to hell.
Each man prayed as in a chain, as they were hoovered up to drain into some blackened hole,where no soul escaped their fate.

Around the edges where the blind and crippled wait for another slight of fate the wailing was intense and yet only weeping silence could be heard.
And in the silence cogs ground round the spinning wheels where crooked deals by crooked men were bent into another shape and then spat out somewhere,
somewhere I do not know
but somewhere where the crooked people go and the innocent went too.

To populate another planetary zoo and see the tigers howling now,with no teeth they become the sacrificial cow and priests of people devour their flesh.
The cogs re-mesh the wheels moves on and one more world,eaten and gone
and our turn will come
as surely as the sun will rise our oceans will spill from the skies and we will die to suffer for,
that which we have suffered long and before you say,'never in a million years'
ask yourself,
what is it that the bankers fear and why is it that year upon year their interests rise as looking into the darkened sky,they search for somewhere far away,where they can move to and play another hand,one more deal,escape the ever spinning wheel.
It all makes sense to me
but I already see the turning of the spokes.

Remanded to Risley
by the order of
her Majesty,
to give some pleasure
to
the treasury
I rattle my chains.

Blame's a losing game and you can't blame me for that, but we're all in eight by four cells and alarm bells keep on ringing.

They demanded life, I said,
'my wife wouldn't like me away for that long',
apparently I was wrong,
she's run off with a toff from down South,
and I'm down in the dumps
not to mention the mouth.

I rattle the chains and try all the locks,
they strap me to tables,
give me electric shocks.

The treatment becomes the punishment and the crime is time in fits and spurts it punctures me and how it hurts.

I rattle my chains to the sound of my pains
and it sounds like a Max Bygraves
record.

****** on by bonny dogs
and soaked by the fog
that clipped back the grass round its base
and the face of it
was a lamp that lit up the dark.
Standing soulfully lame
with a name quite generic
and in a cobbled street so specific to the
Lancashire town.

As night comes down across the Pennines
and the lads on the late shift go back down the mines
the warm light remembers more times than it cares too
now old
past its prime
it stands a monument to the time
when ladies in bustles
bustled past
casting shadows it seemingly grows
or is that my imagination?

If this Winter lingers just a little longer and the nights are drawn in tight about my shoulders, will you hold me just a little closer, take the candle and with flames of passion,
fashion me a blanket and snuggle under to see the winter disappear, and if the Summer wakes us with a nudge and winks a light into my eye,
will you be shy,
shall we wander down the avenue, just me and you and several hundred pigeons looking for a place to eat, breakfast and the heat of toast upon our lips,
If this Winter seems too long, will this song we sing bring unto us the joys of Summer?
on the bus?
the city dwells and in all seasons, well it would,
wouldn't it?

Head buzzing,hand shaking,skin flaking,brain taking,body swimming,belly swelling and this constant drinking's telling tales on me,it's time I packed it in and drank some tea instead,but maybe just another ***** before I go to bed.tomorrow, so they say is another weekday,weakday,bleakday,blink and take a careful look day and not a day to mess about with me day,I want a strifeless, lifemore,more than this an open lifedoor,it's what I'm aiming for,
just got to sober up.

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

You talk of love as a commodity
something to buy or to sell
but not something for free.
I don't think that love's for me.

Love should be light
a feather pillow fight.
A freedom to be
what you want
what you see
and love should be free.

The contracts we make and the promises we break
fade away.
When love is the light that lights up our day
and fires up our night
then what is the price
what should we pay?

Love is not tied to the small print
nor does it reside in unspecified charges.
Love is open to all
it's the call of the wild when the child in you cries
and love only dies when the price is too high.
Here am I
all alone
not a love to call my own but it's out there
just waiting
and willing to share
what I have to give
wonder when love will live in my heart
wonder when I will start to feel feelings apart from my own.
All alone
I am lost
paid the price and it cost
me the Moon.
Soon
I'll be gone
will love linger on and then haunt me
will each moment of rest
come back and taunt me
last eternally.
Will I eventually find what was under my nose?
Who knows the answer?
but I'll take a chance and believe that I will
Until the day breaks and the night takes me away
Love is for free
but I always
pay in the
end.

In the split of the separateness
enjoyed by the desperate in
their loneliness,
where her highness looks down on them
are the men called the building blocks.
.
These are the men that roll with the knocks
the men who say, ******* to you.
The navvies,the chavs,the spivs,
they're the lads that raised up this nation,
the ones we owe a due to.

Whitehall wizards.

The chinless and spineless in black suits are mindless
and we gave them carte blanche,
brought down an avalanche on our heads,
these are the saintly who praise me,
lie to and patronise me,
politicians are slimy
they remind me
of worms,
they take like the snakes that they are
and no doubt they'll go far.

We only see them as He Men,because
we've been hypnotised by
the old school ties, which tell even
older lies
I despise them all.

***** Whitehall and the mandate
become the revolution before it's
too late.

Here in the split
I don't give a ****
they can all **** orf
and leave me alone.

The House of St Barnabas.

If I ever elected to be selected
rejected then detected as a phoney,fake
I don't recall
that was before I took the fall
did the bird
before a word of mine was spoken out.

Around about two thousand and eight or was it nine?
the time is no great matter
the former or the latter it's no great shakes
but is it the time I made the breaks in continuity
the absurdity and futility
of this life I was living
and for this I'm giving credit where it's due
and you people know just who you are and what you did
what you achieved against all the odds
for you it was not a numbers game but a human life that was in the frame
and you're named just right.

I wonder what St Barnabas might have to say about the way you encouraged me
and would he nod his head and see just what you did?
You got rid of the one that had hung on so long and you opened up my eyes to the future and what it could mean
and I thought I'd seen nearly everything just about most things that a lifetime could bring
how wrong was I?
Why,
you showed me another route and with a 'whistle and flute' sent me headlong knowing what's right and what's wrong
and with a song in heart you gave me the start
to begin.

And I realise that the truth always lies somewhere within the within but it's how to begin and what method to choose or what direction to take.
Did St Barnabas really take time out
to worry about me?
I think you can see that he did.

In the house on Greek Street I think I could say that I met the real me and get this,
I meet a lot
but not what the house of St Barnabas got
and that's what did it for me.
Encouragement see
feeds the lost and the lonely
if only
there was more than just one
But St Barnabas goes on and it goes on in the makings of men who when they think all is lost and think the end is quite near
there's a Saint near here
who will help.

(20 minute poetry)

What zone be you?

They're homing in on me
zone three.

Sleep zone four
nothing here and

wake!
what for?

Zone two's the cut
why?
but
I go there anyway on the way
to one,
game on.

Friday
and the weekend looms
tunes to hear
pictures
beer
and I'll see her
underneath the clock at
Waterloo
zone two.

At any rate I won't be late
this form of transportation
takes me right down to
the station.

An inspectors call
'tickets please'
but Oyster cards are
all he sees,

I see kinks
thinks
Waterloo sunset,
game on.