I once kept some fish
I called one Pythagoras
He swam round and round the tank
And to be frank
I thought he was working out the cubic capacity.
To keep them fit
I fed them on flakes because that's all it takes
But he was a sod he took out a fishing rod
Caught all the others and ate all his brothers
I was a bit peeved but then I conceived
An idea..Oh lord what a killer.
In his tank I put a mirror
Well.
When he saw his reflection
Section by section he ate himself
And finished with his head.
Now Pythagoras is dead.
You didn't expect a happy ending did you?

Another deadline
headline
it's about time
they
sorted it out.

In that telepathy where the tincture of you flows across into me
and two minds are as one
and the linguistics could be any language they please
where we understand everything
amid the teasing of the tone
and where the home I have made
is the bed upon which we laid
there is a playing of games across the Ocean whose name I no longer recall.
but no matter of that, in my mind,in my flat you are here
with me.
telepathically speaking until still seeking connect
I elect to a meeting
a fleeting of faces
a mouthful of places come up for a rendezvous.

Do you know where the flowers grow tall by the hot dog seller next to the bandstand in the parkland up at Hampstead hill?
You do?
good
see you at three twenty
and I have got plenty to say.

Later in the day after hot dogs and soda I told her let's move on,the evening has brought on a chill
will you come home with me?
I waited to see what her reply might be,
'that could be good'
and I knew that it would
so we
tootled off scootily
and she tootled quite beautifully
and on this bed that we laid we made
another nightshade.

Computing
A laser beam for shooting dragons off the wall
Falling
Into one more hard drive night
A bit
A byte
A slight adjust and then you might meet Mario
and off we go
into another game
A frame of mind upon the L.E.D
The screen that blows a kiss to me
In any colour I can see.

How free I am
Google and spam for tea
and I will be
whatever the computer can desire
set ladies hearts afire
with descriptive text
and digital ***.
Who is there that does not own
An IBM or mobile phone?
We're all without
within the worldwide web
Laying in the spiders bed and waiting
to be fed to her.
Press share,
if you like.

For each flavour there will be
one for you and
one for me,
feel the flavour of the sun as
it trickles slowly down your tum,
does it feel quite real,or dreamy,
soft or hard or sweet and creamy?

I never tasted midnight like I tasted it last night,
sharp like a pin
sticking,picking at my skin,
don't like that flavour overmuch,
it touches in the awkward places where
memories and faces join as one and
leave that acrid taste upon the tongue.

And as I lay me down to rest,
I see and understand, that the flavour of the
morning is the best.
I say goodnight with the flavour
of what might have been,
(which tastes of Cornish clotted cream)
on my lips.

There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns,
young guns.
The police don't have a clue, but you know what?
they're all tooled up too, and what for?
for a war on the streets
blood down the drains,
making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains.

Reminds me of what's behind me,
back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete,
I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains.

Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.

City
almost  done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.

Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.

Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.

Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.  

It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.

I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.

I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.

The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.

I asked the dragonfly why it flew,
it asked me,
'who the hell are you to ask me why I fly?'
and then it flew away.
..and it was like that every day,
it seems like my life flew away.

No one to say " wait I'm coming"
No supergirl or wonder woman.
I might as well go home
Pick up the phone
Look in my little black book
And try to remember her name.
But after so many years the names all run together..
..and they all look the same.
Seems like I lost at the game
Of love.

I wrote a love letter on a tamarind seed
And watched a bird fly down to feed
Upon the fare.
It took my letter as it flew up in the air
I hope it took it somewhere
Where the sun always bleeds
And someone reads what I have wrote
Although on a tamarind seed it is of necessity a very short note.
I may even get a kind reply.
So every day I watch the sky
Waiting for the bird.

We can all spit on those tablets of stone,
the trinity's on hiatus,
the devil's alone,
School's out for training
it's raining hell fire and the bishops
are recording the antediluvian choir.

Noah's going to Goa,
A lot safer than here,
they say Indian beer's the best.
With his wood and an axe and
several packs of cool Cobra, he sails
into the wind and ends up in the Gobi.

On the edge of a rainbow
'jump Noah',
'don't go',
two people are shouting,
somebody's outing the sailor.

The choir got wrecked on microdot specks and
suspecting the worst, the bishops in Rome
all spit on the tablets hacked out from rough stone,
it was a quiet day in the Vatican, no miracles pronounced
in Perpignan, no Lady of Lourdes, no shroud of Turin,
only the blessing of Geneva dry gin.
Angels with harps all ****** as farts and
the devil sits alone.

The workhouse door is open and
you know that Christmas comes,
the sons of sons of father's mums all
congregate and with
not a *** to **** in,
with one voice all begin to sing,
'Oh tidings of comfort and joy'
comfort the poor boy 'cause he ain't
got a bean
not seen a meal for a week,
see more
see more
take a peek through the workhouse door.

And for some and sometimes for
more than some
Christmas is just another chore to do
another happiness to struggle through.
'comfort and joy'

I knew time stood still but it flew faster away and off into the wide of that terrible day.
At the graveside they cried and I watched as
they left,
bereft and bemused,confused by the sounds that came silently to me and observing surroundings so new, and so clearly my focus became

Someone called me by name,someone stood in the doorway framed by the light which shone as bright as the sun,and to look back on it all just did not occur to me,as time flew it freed me into that which could not bleed me any more.

In the door was my loved ones,memories gone and not gone and I found they live on,and this terrible day did not seem so sad.
Though I lost I didn't lose,to choose and not be chosen when the warm blood stops flowing like the ice bound we are frozen
and yet we are freed.

At the graveside they needed some solace
I can't turn back to face them and so I place them in a memory,knowing they will remember me and I will live on.
At the wake they raise a glass and the sadness, it will pass as all things we know will,
for each and everyone time eventually stands still and flies so quickly away.

In the shade
where the pain of fading out
is all about the colours sat light upon the leaves.
Where each blossom grieves
where the rosebud bleeds into another day
and snapdragons snap and snap away
I shall stay.

Watching honey bees at play and dragonfly's that do not snap
but snap back at snapdragons that take a bite
of the slight breeze that whispers through my hair.
I've been here before,
here is where the dream began and in this dream I can
believe,
that every petal on the bloom does not have to grieve
and that 'Shiva'
does not destroy the beauty to be found
silently sprouting from the heavenly ground.

The foxglove that was never worn by man nor beast
is not the least and most of all
when snowdrops fall they do not drop but droop.
The bandicoot
who does not care watches the wind blow through my hair
and then retires back to its lair
Soon I will be back in mine
but one more time I'll stand and look
before fading in again
to the pain
of fading out.

I sit here at the crossing of the ways amid and with the passing of so many days,I rest awhile.
No hurly burly,girly, girlies here, just me,the man,
sitting sketching out another plan, and one that won't **** me to another stretch of lonely roads
or heavy loads to carry
tarrying too long,going just that extra mile
for one more smile or kiss pressed like wilted flowers on my wanting lips.

I sit
still,
the crossing of the crossroads will occur and there I'll be
watching each and every wrinkle that appears and when the mists that roll around me clear
and the fear of moving on is gone
I'll go
back
to travel once again the empty streets and this time with the plan I have
I hope to meet
on equal terms someone like me,whose stomach used to churn at any thought of being any closer than arms length.

Sitting here silently,
weaving strength into my hands
to gather up my bag and with a certain sense of swag
swagger on.

Let us begin in the factoring of gin where the malefactors and blaggards try hard not to show us a grin.
and begin.
Factor out taste and factor in waste in the factory, in any case nobody cares,and the gin could be anything from nappies to ****** toys for the big boys and pearls for the girls,but we call it gin.
and begin.

They're all scammers,flim flamming their way from the start to the end of each day and we pay,through the nose,for **** knows what,(a touch of soylent green),get your brains on toast,shin for sunday roast and the marketeers,new age buccaneers blow us out of the water,someone should have taught me how cruel this life can be.
and we begin.

Back in the factory buying up gin with a passion,the fashionistas get ****** on the fumes and the poor people are shown only crap filled back rooms where the gnomes sit to **** out, tomorrow we'll sit out in the sun,spit out what's home spun and make money from telling funny jokes to the poker faced liars and the gin filled flash buyers who have bought up our Christmas and resold it to China,
'and it's another fine mess dear Laurel,please pass me the bottle of 'mist chloral'.
'Why certainly' said Stanley who seemed ever so manly in the valley when the dolls had gone home.

Death waits beyond the gates and stuck on pikes or up on spikes,the heads of malefactors.
Eyes ****** out by greedy beaks and tongues torn by the laughing winds,ears that hear no rivers flow or travellers as they go to and fro across the bridge.
Skulduggery and thuggery hand in hand the outlaw land across the Thames,tarts and carts and herring bones and fish wives heading off to homes beyond the liberty,where lawlessness is more or less the way things are,
and a penny a *** of gin is a lot but for twopence you get one free,
the ribald are eyeballed and marked as fair game and as the fayre starts up on the ice,
everyone gets a slice of the quince as the fey boys mince down on mincing lane and head to the borough to join in the game.
London by nature and London by name and someone to scrub the bloodstains from the hands of those who hang loose in the
outlaw lands.

Suddenly surreal
I feel milk upon the water
blood and slaughter
Dada
isms
watching life through coloured prisms.

and it hits me
pits me
against
the lot of them.

The squandered dreams of broken men and I lay me in the gutter dying

( next verse )
why do I even bother trying
It's just a crock, not even gold

Violent Violet sold the story and got her fifteen minutes of fame
alas no glory, but
what did she expect?

I expected just a little more from these ****** where Babylon is gushing from their lips and all I got were camels,
ships to ride across the desert which was I and of my making,
can't fake a faker and so I take you down with me.

No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.

No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.

They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.

Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****.

so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.

I never won a thing
not even a coconut
but
I did have fun
though I watched as the sun went down
with a frown on my face
transitory
waiting for the next story
the new day
more play
fun and games
catcalling names at the girls
little pearls on the beach.
Yesterday
cannot reach its hands out to me
but I can see it
hiding in the corner
banging on the drum
waiting for some more fun
cap guns and candy floss
deck chairs
no cares.
Tossing and turning in these dreams I am burning
underneath the bright sky
with a tear in my eye I awake
ache
and yesterday breaks open today.
I stay
in the fairground
when everyone's gone home
and the dream is long gone but the dreaming goes on
and the memories return where I burn on the beach
out of reach of today
in the Yes
of the yesterday
I remain.

Imprisoned inside tall red brick built tenements
curtained in by cheap store bought accoutrements
and locking up the world outside within with a needle and a pin and sewing life away.
where we stitch up every day as if only cross stitching could show or say how angry that we are
and far above some half existent but quite persistent feelings that the life we live is what we get for being better than the dogs that line the streets with pockets bulging emptiness
is more or less the happiness that we were told of, when we read books in those classrooms dripping coldness from the cold lights,prefabricated by the councils to educate the poor and in this we have believed for fifty years or more.

But technograbbers took the high road
ripped the legs from under desks by which we sat
and then they spat on former teaching
teachers in the pay of local educational authorities
had no authority to intervene
and preaching texts that they had learnt by heart 'cause all the textbooks burnt far brighter in the fires in tenements
where former pupils with dilated eyes felt the cold much keener,much cleaner than the dogs upon the streets
and behind the curtained windows I weep for a yesterday when as a young child I could play outside and not wonder what the future held.
Held spellbound by the monkey man who turned the handle on his barrel ***** and put a flat cap on the ground which magically
naturally filled with pennies from the folks who had such things.

Sadness and the lack of more or less brings me nothing but the bulging emptiness
and the breaking of another spine
another book a former time
and locking in the world outside
I bide my time
and watch
the black and white
the day within the night
I'll be alright
just me and shotgun joe beside the bed
and nothing else to spoil nothing
that we never had but there are badmen in the badlands
roaming tenemental bands that would cut your throats
if you looked twice or even once at them
Like the dog down in the street I never raise my eyes to meet
anyone or any other
why bother
it's just the way it is.

Blistered rubber hits the street,
'better that than my feet', he says.as he
sits and begs in the poundland parking bays.
He does alright,it seems that those who don't have much
are an easy touch for the beggars charm
but he means no harm,
he's not dangerous
doesn't make a fuss if you don't 'cough up' and drop
a few pennies in his cup.
He isn't moving on though,I saw him there a
long time ago,he didn't look so bad then
among the mad men,now just a sad man on
his own wearing
cross ply radials on each foot (minimal tread)
not such a nut,
he's walked enough through many rains and in
surfing through the pain of it,now he's had enough of it,
so poundland suits him fine,

She
is the flower
and I
the bumbling
bee.

It's better now it is today but let me say that yesterday was better too,tomorrow which is yesterday today or tomorrow yesterday, I'll look back kindly and will say the future's looking bright and gay.
I get tongue tied when I'm tired and this nonsense which is fired out has got nothing to do with what my life's all about,
which is a roundabout way for me to say,
it's better now it is today.

Who knows who would
'true valiant be'
when you can't see
beyond the end of your nose?
who knows?

It has to be Sunday some day
and today is some day for some
hymns and hers (towels in the bathroom)
down the stairs
toast and preserves in the conservatory
not mandatory
but it's Sunday.

God must be reeling in shock
wondering what he has done
Jesus is getting the backlash
it's always a Sunday for some.

I'm going to queue up for my
holy wine and wafer
it's
safer not to sit upon the fence
and where else can you find this
kind of entertainment
for a pound or even less,
for fifty
pence?

beyond when I pass into
poets corner
where the monks and Friars
sort wheat from the chaff
I shall laugh
I shall rhyme
have a ****** marvellous time
Who knows who
'..would true valiant be..'

It was the night before the night before the day that we were waiting for,
lots more time to sit and wonder what it was that Santa had hid under his belt,
anyway the day would come and we'd get up to have that fun and dad would say, ooh how nice, dark ***,
even though when he'd go out we'd have a tot or two,
that's what children do or what we did.

And all of a sudden,
turkey, stuffing and Christmas Pudding
mince pies and cream
trifle's the trifle a
dream that I rifle through now
and again when it's the night before or
somewhere around then.

On the left side of due diligence
by the lake that's called
impermanence,
is the one they call,
His Eminence,
and he stands
alone in ignorance.

The bishops look much finer with
their bibles bound in
China and feet soled in the
markets of God forsaken
foreign places.

Faces look towards him
and the penitent adore him.
but a score or more would take him
to the lake and then
desert him.

And on the cold fields of a calvary
where the saints survive,
it bothered me,
that the only thing that I could see
were the bishops in their finery.

Taming you
trickle by trickle
we're taking you
and
you'll dry
on the hot stones
we're making you
obso
so
obsolete
that's neat...

..and we have to
tame you,
prune you and make you
a ******,
you never had much of luck
did you?

When we're through with you,
we'll get a new brand new newer you
and you
never had much of luck
did you?

I am diametrically : opposed to the closure of night shelters,those helping hands that reach out to the disadvantaged,the homeless and those who have been savaged by circumstance.

What cost,the chance of some warmth,conversation,the realisation that all is not lost?

But
'we've gotta picka pocket or two...' Tory blue and Labour too,both are guilty in the dock.
The judgement said, 'we only followed where others led'

We have a way today to pay and finance those in poorer circumstance,we only have to open up our hearts and give a chance to them,the Women and the Men who have hit the harder times.

I've been there,done it,read the book and it is ****,don't let the press steamroller you and make you believe it could never happen,it's true it could be you out there,
and I don't care who you vote for but I don't like you if you close the door on those less fortunate because you've got more.

After the snow,with nowhere to go,when the streets are so hard,a yard thick in ice,it's not nice,
but for those with a home and a nose for some heat,the drifters can shift,because you can't beat a bit of selfishness ,
and surely them what has less, do not deserve more,or what the hell are we working for?

Let them eat cake, courtesy of this great welfare state who give benefits for,to keep the wolves from our door.
It's all give and take at the end of the day and at the end of the day they drift slowly away to some courtyard or bridge,ridges of ice on their brow,
how sad it all seems when the Queen's got so much and the dickwads in Whitehall are so out of touch,
such is the way of the city today,we bypass and pass by,some glance and some wonder why, but most of us really don't care.
It's not us who's there,no concern of mine and no time to stop and see what they do not
it has to stop.
We are the civilised and it's time that we realised, that it's not dog eat dog,we are all just a cog in the workings of life.

6:45,
this sounds a bit Agatha Christie as if the 45 is out to get me and the 6 being an innocent bystander had a gander anyway.

Well whadaya know Cockney rhyming gets in on the show.

Goosey, Goosey
where's our Lucy did Desi get his bride?

Okey choke me Arbroath smokies,
I love a bit of fish
I wish
I wish
and then I pop
will wishing ever make me stop?

Going down to Chinatown
A west end luxury
Peeking at a Peking duck
Which will in turn, turn around to be
a chicken.

The rigor morgasm
last bus to spasmville
will you rise to the occasion,take a ride,go on vacation or will you fail,sails up,head down,sink or swim,win out or drown?
These thoughts are what occur to me,when thinking somewhat morbidly about what age may do to me,and when or if it happens, will I see, or feel the loss of my virility,it really bothers me,it never did before,but then I'm almost at three score,(I'm talking years)
when fears of that impotency may be more important than what I think of as my potency,and I ask the lord libido to show me some high rise clemency and let me be the man I think I am.

Fevers of the mind when the motions of the body blind, slow,
you know,
but you don't say,
you love me anyway
I love you
sometimes and sometimes at times I come through,making love with you,counting calendars,dates and we are the best of mates,lovers too.sometimes you love me sometimes coming through,but always love me making love with you.

We may be old and often told that all is past,
and then we smile and kiss,
cast off our wrinkled skin and dive in to swim in each others winning ways,making it,sometimes at odd times of the days or nights and lights off or on,
and if this goes the way we think it should
I would not complain.

There comes a time sometimes when we have to read between the lines and tell the Doctor on prescription about the failures of *******.
I ***** a monument, to this my plea,
let the lord libido be kind to me.

Marry me,carry me over the
threshold.
Be bold, be strong,be true and I will ask if you will,
will you answer,
'I do'.

The air traffic controllers had gone out on strike
we arrived at the airport
but sadly no flight,
but it's sure to not spoil our honeymoon night,
and tomorrow
we might go to Bognor.

From the bottom of the broken heart
from those forced to go on workstart
from the one parent child
from the meek and the mild
and the refugees from across the seas
who sleep on the street
from them poor souls who can't make
ends meet
from the old and the sick
or the lonely at home,
take your pick.

They all wish Iain Duncan Smith a very merry Christmas.

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

Like a curtain being pulled across the windows of the town,
where no one steals a crafty look because they know
outside, it's lashing down but
in the snuggle at the hearth when toes are warmed and
marshmallows toasted on the fork,
the talk turns to the season due
and Santa's on the mind.

I hope that when this Christmas falls
the rain has stopped and
Santa pops in for a pie,
Mum and I have baked a few so Rudolph and
his reindeer crew can have a feast as they go on
into the breaking of the greatest dawn.

I have been good
I have been good
I knew I could
I have been good and
Santa better know it too
or his few pies are
going in
the dog.

I went to meet her in a town
just west of Kyoto
she was wearing a colourful flowing kimono.
She greeted me greedily
and she seemed to float ultra easily on her feet
which were tiny
petite.

In the bath house, a tub
an afternoon scrub
and some very green tea.
When the washing was done
Mah Jong
Oh what fun
as I bathed in the glow of the late evening Sun.

Then I woke up in Bow
East London, as if I didn't know
was it a dream?
And yet I was surprisingly clean
except for a tea leaf that clung to my sleeve.
Hard to believe but it's true.
I wouldn't kid you
and it's difficult to see how a tea leaf from green tea
can end up in my bed.

In a town West of Kyoto there's a story they tell
Of a Westerner doing quite well
and getting wed to the belle with the petite little feet
I'd like to meet
him.

I ride on her coat tails,he sails at odd angles and angels come calling,
stalling for time,pretending, I mime I can't talk and walk to the bowsprit to spit in the ocean.
In that slow motion of epiphany I see what will and can never be and it all becomes clear to me,I spit again in the sea,cross my fingers for luck,tell the angels to f.....
No,
I don't swear out loud,I want the good Lord's protection,in signs,more mimes,they get what I'm meaning.
The moonbeams gleam off deck boards as the pendulum swings,things are taking shape and the ship sings through the waters,but later in the doldrums where the dolphins knit sweaters and the daughters of sirens play canasta with mermaids while braiding dreams with the seaweed,
I need to take a fix on the noon day sun, a hand on my gun lest the latitude betray me,I lay in a course for the Island of Tahiti where the girls sway and greet me,the old dog from the sea.

It's easy to be a madman on the sea when the salt is your spice and I've never thought twice about the angels sent packing,just went on stacking up bookmarks to feed the circling sharks,stark and unfriendly would the sea ever lend me a bed to lay down in?would this ship that I sail in ever founder,I flounder and flail but I sail into the moonlight,on a bright night you'll see me until the sunsets will free me to the tidal eternity of the sea deep within me.

When I have carved into myself the name and drawn
flightless wings upon this frame.
I shall sit in shade to watch the game of
tame men and
their terribles.

The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)


Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova

While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks

The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease

So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings

Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.

Wagner and Chopin got frightened..

..and off they ran.

But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park

Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.

While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel

But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.

Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics

Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics

The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing

Oooh look.. the good against sinner

Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.

Cometh the day cometh the morn

Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.

Here is Joshua blowing his horn

And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets

Are the countless dead lining up on the streets

And the wounded and deathbound far far below

I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.

But Picasso arrives and cries

My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche

Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)

Then Pollack turns up totally ******

Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?

What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing

The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing

Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot

Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot

Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed

By Beelzebubs prototypes

Those that live in the black nights.

But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes

So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions

Take arms and do battle

Till we hears Satans death rattle.

And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.

Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well

Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.

Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part

Of something vast something grand

A spiritual war being fought in this land

I am alive and I shall survive.

PRAISE BE.

Worn away enough to know that it's time for me to go and tired enough to say,aw **** it anyway,what's the use I must let loose this hound or I must rebound,bounce back on track,
I only lack
the will.

The sweat from my brow is racing the shadows of a late evening sun
and somehow they both drip into the tightening grip of the night.
Though the night's still to come,we all know that it murders the sun every day
and gets away with it.
I'd like to sit in the gallery with Winehouse's Valerie and tend to her needs,if the night feeds on the sun why shouldn't I have some fun too.

If I flew into the eye of I don't know when why,would I know where I'm at,would it matter to me if I was where I'd be or in some other place I've yet to see.
Has the cuckoo flown, after been shown the error of his ways,does he feel the sweat of his endless days in the madness of a madness of being out of phase.

The sweat drips from the end of my nose which I blow
and the devil may go where the fancy will take him
I will sit and revolve while the world spins off with any resolve I may have had,not to go quite mad.

And the hammering in my head jabbers on,like some crazy woodpecker that titters at dawn and cracks open its beak to sneak into a tree
will I,or the woodpecker ever be free
does it matter to you,would it matter to me if I knew?

The day finally goes,falling under the spell ,and the bell for a midnight tolls
I roll my eyes looking skyward and there's nothing to see
except an image of me and a woodpecker
in a tree.

I want to be a pirate and sail the seven seas
command the open oceans
and bring
Poseidon to his knees.
Alas I suffer from mal de mer
the smell of salt makes me sick
I swear.
It seems I'll never go to sea
so
a pirate's life is not for me.

Under the family banner
talking about my nana
who was not fat,
I would say more rounded than that and
a Victorian lass
pince nez on her nose and a tin of *****,a pinch of
which went.. but that enough..
Did I say,she was not fat?
she was grounded in the roots of
cotton mills and rolling hills
and hobnailed clogs and miners boots,she's now long gone but fair play to her, she lived a good few years after reaching ninety one,I guess it was the Mackeson that helped her to live so very long.
Grandad,dad of my dad fought in the great war which brought him ****** all except a medal from the military for being outstanding in the fields of bravery,he battled Passchendaele each and every day until like all good men and soldiers he faded,faded slowly,slowly,slowly and marched quite vaguely somewhere far away.
My dad was a great dad a wait and then we'll see dad,a make your Sunday tea dad,but you never see the greatness when you're stood upon its shoulder,that only happens if you're lucky when you get a little older and I'm older now,able to look back and see how this family handed down to me,that look back into history.....

How can I be hungry and fed up a the same time?
where's the wine that'll fix me
fill me
**** me
until tomorrow wills me to wake,
how I ache to take you in my arms and kiss you goodnight but you're there, and I'm here hungry and fed up it's doing my head in,but it's all smoke in the glass and these feelings will pass,
maybe it's just gas,
must go to the doctor.

Singularity.

Not wanting to assimilate
No need to ingratiate or even to populate.

In the alone wearing my clothes which are home to me are these things that are known to be,
my truth.

No one but one where one can be one and one can be true to oneself.

Selfish is singular too,
another one that is one and so true.

Here on the Central line there are twenty minutes, enough time to write and more than enough time to open my eyes and be overcome by the plight of us all.

On the tube wall, Rwanda, the fate of the elephant, the panda, the children, who wills then misfortune on women and always the children who suffer.

The next stop is my stop, how lucky to get off, but the world turns slowly for some,
if time is the gun,
It
is already smoking.

There's a silvery spider that spins deep inside her ever widening webs,webs of lies and deceit and I bet she could beat you at cards,she's a shark,took my heart and she swallowed it whole and my soul's deep inside her,it sits by the spider stuck in her web.

If you're burning to learn you'd better learn from the best and if destiny rules you then each day you live fools you so go out in attire suited to fire and learn from the best.
The faster I learn from the master I turn and become that in turn the fire to burn and in this thing I learn that I learn.
It's no good being hell bent on getting there when you're sent somewhere else,so buckle your belts and pull in your waist,feast your eyes on the taste of more speed and less haste and learn from the best,and when you're full to the rim and can't fit no more in then carry a case,put facebook in its place and learn from the,don't turn from the best

Tonight Guy Fawkes might get it right,
it's bonfire night.
Westminster,
the stage is set,
place your bets before the bang or hang old ***** high.

At Mansion House before fine fare,
sit politicians gorging there and getting fat from this,my land and I stand here with hand held out,
a teapot of a man with drooping spout and wilting will,
still,
Fawkes the hawk may walk the walk and then we'll see the ******* talk, when Parliament goes up in smoke,

Oh *****,***** take a match
don't let the watchmen catch you creeping,with lit taper,or you'll be 'sleeping with the fish'
It's bonfire night tonight
I do wish Guy Fawkes gets it right
and one more time,
't would be no crime
to light the fuse
and run.

We're antique and aware of it,
old fashioned and they stare a bit, but that's a part of the charm, a penny farthing to ride on with gaiters to tie on, keeping the spats nice and clean.

Home for some tiffin and the lady's been shopping down at Macy's for doilies, thank god it wasn't Tiffanys for diamonds, the wireless set goes off and the gramophone's switched on, a 78 Bakelite revolves in the room where the mood's right for romance.

We dance modernistic, the Cha cha's futuristic, they'll never do better than this
then we kiss and say goodnight, in separate beds we sleep so tight and a strip of carpet between them, keeping things nice and clean, men,
you know what I mean.