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

point 2 of a gram
shooting the man is the plan,
a needle
a spoon
citric and soon
you're joining the moon
out in space,
a spaced out man
point 2 of a gram.

There is no light at the point of a 'pin', there's just night and you might bear that in mind the next time that you find a plan,
point 2 of a gram.

'So easy'
some would say,
the one who never had his day spin in a silent night or turned
his back to find he looks upon himself.
So easy,
like the spasms of the first ****** the beginning of the fall
and in the falling getting smaller, smaller but finding as the crow flies South in fact you're getting taller and the circle that you're in is the thing that's getting smaller, so you flex your limbs and climb and it's easy climbing over, getting over walls that try to keep you in, they never get to teach you that in colleges or seats of learning,
it's like they'd rather leave you yearning, wanting more and burning with the want of it.

But you never pluck your eyes out to see what lies behind because those learned fellows tell us that to do that makes us blind and if that's so and we take heed we'll never know, I'd rather bleed to death than waste my breath and then again I know that breath is just a roundabout of which a death is just one turn-off,
several light years, where the teardrop drops and all time stops to catch another breath and death is just a taste on the palate of some ancestral waiter,
I wait another turn foregoing all the pain and pleasure of that once in a lifetime final seizure,
I am my own and I am Ceasar in my home, a caliph to sit upon the throne and who can tell me no?
even so
I fall and fall and small or tall without a doubt it evens out
in the end.

On my pony and trap with a pipe in my mouth and wearing a cap
I am gaining on evolution
a solution I see
revolutionary
in the eye of a storm laden cloud I will be
restructured
cut down to base and relaced with the strings of a heavenly bow
and you
will
narrowly miss the arrows of kisses I'll fire because evolution's not perfect and things need direction a bit more perfection and two minutes on the slow cook
according to the book
written by monks with tonsures and placed into the trunk of an elephant
elegant really
totally unexpected and something else not quite perfected but we try as best as we can.
I feel that Lear lingers near me and peeps over my shoulder
whispering words in my ear
that's Lear
and he's getting bolder with tales of mad cats and of men smoking pipes sat in pony and traps
he's quite mad you know
but friends are hard to find and you've got to take them as they come
mad or not
Lear is fun.
So off I go with my bow in my hand and another in my hair just to complete the ensemble
and they all clap me on except Lear 'cause he's gone
fishing for raindrops.

Instructively abstract,
backed into illusion
where reality fuses the
lights.
Naked in fire where the flicker of
flame brands upon me,
your name
on my lips.

Cobbling the letters like nails into shoes we could use,
we hobble confused
hammered
abused by the thought
caught in the flow and words as we know
are cruel and kind, like
silk lined sows ears sobbing like tears in the dust but we must
continue to hammer away
cutting into each day as we cut into our heart to impart what we think and the ink turns to blood
because we knew that it would.
It is our life.

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.

We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.

Keeping quiet in this blanket of loop holes while groups of snoopers mill round and try to fathom me out,
I've scooped the jackpot in here where I've got my solitude and sanity,please leave me be,let me alone because I have the home I desire,
I require nothing from you and you need nothing from me,but you're determined to uncover and see for yourself what it is,that makes me tick,you make me want to pick up my bed and do the biblical walk,
I am silent not sick,you cut me to the quick with your questions so blunt,it feels like I'm being hunted,pursued,cant lose that feeling that somehow you're stealing a part of me,
I want to be,
alone in my loophole, nursing my lost soul finding my own way,and in my own way I'm happy,I jangle along and even though I can't sing I know the words to the song,
I have a freedom of sorts and my dreams teleport me from those who would try to see and uncover,
unlock the real me.
let me be.

Beads drop
spots on skin
evaporating
in the heat.

There be no morning, night, no light upon the breeze, no leaves left fluttering in the branches on the trees, all these gone now far away and just a tenant here, a remnant of some yesterday when it was clear to me that something had to give.

If i should live or I should not then tell me is it worth the things I thought I'd never got?

Why does Jesus put me on the spot?stuck up there
high on the cross

can he not see
the shining of this agony?

But it is dark and how
the workers end their day
trudging home and
cannot say,
that this looks sad.

I guess he cannot see
the emptiness
emotion in the
turmoil of the endless
friendless
sea.

It was in the time of forever
when we lay there
naked.
Unbound we unwound,
the sound of your heart
the way that you parted your lips,moved your hips,
like a snake wide awake,
coiled in sleep we could keep what we sow in this ocean so deep,
in this time of forever
in the place where we're never
apart.

Whatya waiting for?
let's go to war
it's written in the stars
and was foretold both by Jupiter and Mars
that men would die in furtherance of their own greed.
So
feed the fires
light up the skies with tracer shell
we'll build another hell right here on earth giving birth to untold grief.
Belief?
what belief is it that turns and knocks the whole world flat
and with its tongue that flicks the switches on a gun would run to break
the men that would attempt to take a minute out
to survey just what is being done
in the name of God or someone's son.
It's all as one
and as one we all die
So let the rockets fly.

But there is this
some will profit from the death
and with hot breath and hotter hands will arm those bands
that would seek out those less meek and waste them
yes
some men become the unseen ****** killing as they please and if it pleases them then the men who profiteer
cheer
'hurray
more money in the bank',
they say.

It's just another day for some underneath the threat of the burping gun
and they run
how they run
can't beat the bullet from the gun
too fast
too fast
I pray it doesn't last
but my God appears to have gone for lunch
which is not a bunch
of roses for anyone.

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.

You don't see many medallion men
I wonder at times
what happened to them?

I watch movies
eat popcorn
scorn *****
and once
off the Horn of Africa
in a force nine, I
was washed overboard,
thought I was toast,
but the coast guard
on the least guarded shore I know
saved me.

That paved the way for God and me to come to an understanding which was
he understood me and I understood nothing
which again I understood having been an understudy
to a life of no study.

it was good he knew that.

Woolworth's went too,
like a paper shop it just blew away

but the high street's a low point on some graph
that the merchants have made for a laugh
it doesn't make sense
you can't spend pounds and pence
when there's nothing to spend them on.

I'd prefer battalions of medallions
and shops by the score
an army of high streets and
two armies more, but even the
Army and Navy can't save me
and they used to be good for me,

God you see
takes precedence
dislikes things like
impediments
experiments
and all things that
debunk his
glorious
magnificence,
likes to be called
his eminence

I
still can't find many shops on the high street though,
it's a miracle that
I don't understand.

On the knocks.
I take them
slowly,
on the rocks
drink them swiftly,
let them trickle
away.

Like taking a bite from the night
and tasting each day
like it might be
some
poisoned apple,
grappling with this, who'd
want to kiss
a witch?
who might be
the tree from which
all things will spring.

On the knocks or on the rocks,
over easy
just to please me.

Feeding the ego,
a tiger on nitro' or
a bird in
the hedgerow?

Einstein hands me a relative,
a way to forget the negative.
I give him a big hand for that.

Catching bubbles which bubble within me,
to burst on the walls of adversity
where heat rises as
if this life's a chimney
and I am the one
being smoked.

It goes on for as long as it will or as long as the will is quite strong and when the will fails
everything tails off,all bets are void and whatever it was that buoyed me up disappears,
for years I have wandered through wills which I've squandered and thoughts such as these bring me to my knees and my will falters.
and for years I have searched,have lurched here and there to find someplace where my will can be free,
not to be
for we the proletariat have decided that all wills will be held in probate .

Then let them fornicate or ******* I ******* hate them all
I am not we
I am me
me alone
my Island
my home
******* ifya don't like it
I don't give a ****
I am
me.

These words written,
have bitten,
and leaving the scars of ***** ink,an untied as yet link
make me think
of
tomorrow, and when will it come?
will the Sun ever rise?
is the promise that's shown in your eyes,more lies
more bites
more lonely writes?

I'm flying my kite in the breeze and thoughts like these I don't need,so I'll write them away,like an act 1 in a play where's there's so much more to say and I,
being the audience will stay 'til the end
until the curtain comes down.

A king and his throne,nowhere to call home and this sceptre I hold is a cold, cold pen,
tomorrow will come
but when?

I went out there and met you where our Sun don't shine,
what a waste of bleedin' time
all I found was cold dead ground and
the broken down statue of liberty looking at me
quizzically.
(Planet of the apes)

I have to go but before I do
you should know,
it was great,
it was the moment that fate will recognise as the time that it opened my eyes before it was late enough not to know that stuff.
And now I know.

Like the time I was fast but was really so slow that time all but stood still,
and the more that it stood still the greater the hill that I needed to climb, got bigger and bigger.
I could hear the clock snigger as time slowed to look,abandoned I shook with an internal pain,trying to gain what was lost,trying to catch up the life that was racing away.

Someone screamed,
why bother,just stay in the rut,that was just me wanting to say an 'ah but'
but that didn't stop me from this life completely
it spurred me on.
I want to say before I'm gone
it was great and it's never to late for a leopard to alter his spots or to thank those lucky stars that he is no longer a part of the 'think I have not's'
Fate dealt me the hand that I play
each day a new deal
each day I can feel
lucky.

There's a fantasy and
she follows me,
it may be a reality but
that's just a technicality,
I see her as my fantasy
it's easier like that.

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

The end of the road seems to melt into the sky,
now I walk,
learn to fly and the ground passes under my feet but I try to stay friends with the interests of the,
end's in sight.
Nothing escapes me,
the things that grate on,I put a stake in and make believe I'm vampire hunting, and when I'm punting down the 'Cam' in the riverboat of man
how happy I can be,
and the road's now melting into me.
No need to try anymore, to fly anymore, can't die anymore
I'm there.

We,
if we were good
got an Easter Egg
from teacher,
she said,
it was donated by,
William Smith,
which surprised me because he was
old and didn't know us at all.

But
it was at the Giant Axe on Easter day
where we jumped for joy at
the three-legged and
the egg and spoon race,
five a side, the football teams
girls and boys from the North and South
streams of chocolate on their chins and
in their mouth and Mother with the
kids in  t'pram looking at t'stalls
full of home made jam and books and things.

Me and bro' just out from the Saturday morning
matinee show at the ABC
pretended to be
Zorro,
we used to borrow the entrance to the
back door of the cinema
to get us in, to sit in sin and watch the screen
then with sixpence saved would buy ice cream and
still have change for a bag of chips.

How time slips away but Easter day,
stays forever young
forever fun and
tastes like chocolate
fairy tales.

Any sugar plum fairy can come in and dare me to play like Tchaikovsky, but I play with words not with chords or with keys and though the ivories please me I am sure that Tchaikovsky agrees with me,
that elephants should hang on to their tusks.

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.

It's Shangri La on mescalin,
got no drugs
you don't get in
but paradise is just as nice drug free
at least you'll see
the fuller colours of your life.
believe me
it is true.
I once flew the underground with sounds of eagles in my hair but I realise now, I wasn't really there at all
but trapped behind the sliding walls and door of wanting just a little more than life could give.

I stand now,in some cool reception,waiting for that flash of inspiration,perception alters as we age,
two more words wrote on my page,
Getting wiser.

Here we're on the verge of something absolutely marvellous
me and you
the two of us
can you feel the moment of the minutes ticking by?
you can cry out in amazement
doesn't make it less amazing
just a little bit of more of what it is that we're here for
and I like cake
I want to take a slice,so nice
and put it slowly in my mouth
want to feel it pass my lips
and I slip into another mode
the mother lode of all there is to all we'll be
can you see me smile?
I walked the extra mile and just to taste your cake
I want to watch you bake each and every day
please say,
you'll let me
get me just another slice
you will?
oh you're so very nice.
Shall I come for tea?
I can be so civilised
as I look at cake within your eyes
ha
just call and let me know
before I go
have you baked a cake today
did you make it specially
is it just for me?

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.

In the looking out at a semisphere
through the high tower window it feels like I'm pulling free of gravity, feeling it leaving me.

Some time it can be a fancy of mine to be fancy free and think gravity is not meant for me

and some time when the weight of the world decides to drop in
gravity stops and everything's lopsided.

This is me in turmoil
son of the soil

and whether to pull myself together which I fancy is another fancy
is some time a work in progress.

Spirit beckons me
indifferent to gravity
virtually
reality
and quite so.

Before I go though
there
and where
who would know me
I shall eventually
conquer
gravity.

Talk,talk 'til you're blue in the face,you're talking yourself out of the human race,it's all blab,blah and babble de blah,I wish you'd stay silent you make me go argh.
You talk through your nose 'cause your tongue's all talked out and when your nose gets blocked up you talk off the top of your spout,you make me want to shout,'shut the hell up and go far away',you just talk and you talk and you'll talk off the end of this day and when you fall,
I'm sure there's even more you will think of to say.
You give me a headache an earache, I can't take any more so please talk yourself right out of the door.
Have a walk
do not talk
please go back home
leave me with some silence
please leave me alone.

She sings me to sleep and my eyes creep away to open in dreams on a hot Summer day and where the orchestra strings out another fine tune she sings me to sleep on the dark side of the room.

She turns in my bed
she burns in my head
my thoughts come alive and
she brings me back from the dead.

Under the arches and into the light
on top of a world we
created last night.

To sleep tight
we lock in,
to take aim
and begin.
She
sings me to sleep

Maxed out,taxed out,put upon,not asked out
lonely man with tambourine
was seen dancing topside.Tower bridge
and have you ever been so high that you could almost kiss the sky,but far too shy you shy away and dance until the crowds shout stop,
and then you drop
a stone
you're going home
back to the deep where you can sleep
without the noise from girls or boys that ring and sing,but in your ears one thing,and one thing water filling up the spaces that you ought to fill with something more,more like this
the kiss that one would plant upon the frozen lips of a sky that dies when you do,
do you
want that
on your conscience?
all nonsense of course, another horse a different colour
why bother
it's
Monday
anyway.

When I stand on the edge of the cliff looking out on the sea
doubt disappears,
everything clears and the future extends far beyond the tips of my fingers which always point the way to home,
and home is the resting place.
The cliff is just a launching pad,a space for me, to stand, reflect,inspect the ravage done by one more day of being on the edge,always looking out,looking in,more damaging,a massaging would not go amiss,instead I blow a kiss to the onshore breeze.
Times like these times two and still I wonder what or who stands on the other side,
I wonder too, who stands and wonders,who else but could it be,is there only this and me,
strange philosophy
I stand looking out to sea
on the cliff
cold and stiff
wondering if
the sun will ever shine.

They broke the fair trade agreement which meant
the poor people got
**** all,

I keep my eye on the ball and my feet on the ground
safest to do that when those thieves are around.

They'll steal our lives and our children, our wives and
what will we do then?

Be prepared,
that's the ticket,
stick it to them like they've stuck it to you,
**** 'em the same way them tossers ****** you.

Ain't that anarchy?
well,
****** me
I guess it could be.

P Diddy, ha
I remember him as Puff Daddy good or bad he
was the bom, but
P or not to Puff a point and be the Diddy play a joint or two down in Brixton town or up in Crewe,
do you give a krap for rap by any other name but puff the last out blast your brains out, sing and shout, his name, is Puff, no magic dragon drags him down, he burns the stage,  he wears the crown and I am still in London with a clown beside me on the number eight, a bus because I finished late and the underground was shut, but the clown tells me it's all a joke and then I wonder was it him that spoke or was it me, I blame it all on Mister P and puff my chest out anyway.

The public debate
a political *******
reminds me
why I hate.

But that's Eton and Harrow not
Toxteth or Jarrow.
I leave the politics to them,
the Southern gentlemen

Up in the shires where men walk on tight wires
and dance to a different song is
where I belong,
from the Midlands to the Tyne where
they drink beer and leave the wine is
another place in time
a place for me.

And while Atlanta burns the gentlemen shall all take turns to **** upon the fire.
but when the hands of 'Ben' unlock and count the votes there'll be a shock when some old lady gets the keys to number ten,
we all remember them old days, the three day week, the hide and seek, the suss', the stop and search, the powers that interrupt, corrupt and end in a debate,
a state of the nation more infiltration, less liberation, more *******,
the public schools have fooled us all,
we're *******, but we don't know it yet
we'll get the letter in the post,
the most that we can hope for.

Those that smoke dope,
shove coke up their nose,
the crack heads
the smack heads,
the dreams of a horse, Ketamin of course
the acid droppers,
speed freaks,
amphetamine fuelled droolers,
the tin foil sniffers,
black bombers and eggs and all of it begs for attention,
not to mention,
poppers and
the coppers, who'll pick you,
the dogs that will sniff you out of the crowd,
the loud ones.the proud ones,
the dealers and stealers,
they'll nick you and stick you
behind cast iron bars.

No more twenty pound deals
no more chillin' in wheels
no more girls on your arm,just
the sensuous balm of
**** pots and stale air
and care worn faces.

It's
no place to be and
jail's not for me.

This lunatic nation bent
on self medication is slowly
shifting its feet,
When the comatose know
there's no where else they can go
they wake.

It was the tattoo that
did it for me
the one on her neck
I could see,
but the one down below,
the one not on show,
the one that she told me I
could go
take a look
took my breath
away.

Ticking like a timer
tick tick
on a timebomb
primer.

Dynamo or dynamite they both
light up
they both bite deep
tick tick
when I'm fast asleep
and one day
I'll explode.

Or

I'll settle in
get old and fat
forget that
tick tick
pick a card.

Chances are,
are chances few and far between,
chances are I've been the one
tick tick timer
prime a
timebomb.

One day,
it will be that other day,
the day when clams play tag before
they're collected in a bag,cooked inside
the cooking *** in the sauce of dreams,
and such a lot of sauce there'll be.

Even on the beach where sand runs free and
tides run low there is always someone who
wants to go and **** something,to bring the
dinner home into the cooking zone.

Clams are such sweet cutie pies as blind as bats,
and do they have eyes at all? but
they fall into the tender trap of
thinking thin when in actual fact
they're someone's fat.
That
is such a shame,
perhaps if they played hide and seek
no one could peek into their hidey holes and
they'd become the saviour of their souls.

Do clams have souls or does this question
open up a can of worms and why are worms in cans?

There is a certain charm attached to being a clam
and man would do well to understand
that each and everything's but a grain of sand
upon the beach,
sometimes we overreach ourselves
and shellfish are the things we take to
break upon the rocks of life.

I might have been King
were it not for that thing,
the noose,
nice and stretched, loose around my neck,
hangs well with Saint Christopher
and an old wedding ring.

I might have been King with the baubles and bling and a throne to sit on, I would have looked good on that but that wasn't to be, paupers like me queue up down the churchyard and the dead underground think that their lives are so hard, it's not good to be judgemental though when you've only got a bowl of lentils to see you through the day, woe to the man who scuppered the plan who thought up the plan to disinherit this man and woe to him too, I get this every time I kiss the midnight goodbye,
'up yours', says the King with his crown full of bling, my position's secure of that I am sure, well he can ******* too.

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.

After you're sixty-five,
you don't get birthdays
you get death threats,

when all bets are side bets.

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

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

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

(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.

It's quiet at six
Before the slickness of the easy day comes out to lay..
..its traps.
And I wrapped up in a dufflecoat
Sail out on the street as if in a boat..
..gliding..sliding..riding the waves of snow.
I shall not slip
I have a grip on things

Winter brings me so much joy
Once..
..I didn't like the cold..preferred the warmer climes
How times change..how lines rearrange the face of man
And now..as happy as I am and can possibly be
Free to build..freed fulfilled.
I listen to the sound within the sound of six o-clock
The quiet knock..
Which..will one day arrive to tap upon this door
When silence is the more or less
And I confess..I listen very carefully..a bit of apprehension..see

Today is not that day and that lays easy on my mind.
So many things to search..to find
The glowing of my nose tells me the snow's still falling
Calling me to play..make hay...Another day..
And again it's six o-clock.

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.

One thousand and one
and
falling slowly.

It was sad music,
sigh and cry some more music
we listened anyway
because the day was drab.

Night floated in like a dose of Persil
that washed us whiter than white
and
in spite of the day we became
happy and gay
I think the Cognac had something to
do with that.

A refrain
and the same thing again
reliving the past.