Twenty years locked in this cell.
well
unwell
but what the hell I could have done another twenty more behind the safety of that door and that being said,
I could have done it standing on my head.
Dead is just a state of body and not of mind, a cell that's lined by circumstance is not a cell in which one wants to dance,
but one can think as one sinks into solitude and your eyes stay shut,glued against the lid that's put upon the day.
Twenty years,enough to pay,I paid and I get out today,break free so I can break away,
well
unwell
what the hell
we're all inside
locked in the cell.

It's all about the date and time and
how you crossed the server line
that marks the bad from good.

Where everyone's a wizard
to be a wizard is commonplace.

There's a lot of *****
in a cricket match,
don't fancy catching them.
There's a lot of bats and
batsmen,
and batsmen bat the *****.
An umpire calls the shots but
he don't bowl the ***** and
a wicket keeper keeps no wickets
but he looks after bails
which are not ***** but
if the bails fall
the batsmen do too,
are you
following this?
A no ball is still a ball
and no ***** are still *****
which is all *****
if you ask me.

Today is flint,
I spent all of yesterday
and now I'm skint,
it's tough but
so am I and
Friday is worth saving for,so
I can spend a little more
time.

We all need that social inclusion
The man at the top
The outcast in confusion
Bruised and abused and begging for some form of input.

The social media is shut
For a few.
So we have to go out and walk while we relearn how to talk
And to interact.
Backed into a corner we have no other way
But to get out there
And make somebody's day
Whadaya say?
Are you in for the long haul
Or are you going to bail?
Back to the laptop where friendships don't fail
They're just discontinued.

I allude to myself
When I talk of friends off the shelf
A Twitter,a Facebook commodity
An Oddity.

We need the contagion of spoken word orations to retain some form of relations
Or we might as well just grunt and give life a groan.
Moan if you like which you can in the zoo (Facebook to you)
But we have to converse
Yes,I know it's perverse
But what else can we do?

The night draws pictures in my mind,I find in them a poetry that lines up perfectly with me,
and I look carefully,don't want to smudge the artistry of pictures made from poetry.
The night can please me,slow and easy,one step at a time and each step I take is mine alone,
they echo down along the frame filled walls within me and fill me with such confidence that no pretence could mask.
I ask only this,one night time kiss,one more time around the block before I knock the light off.

He meant the giant in the beanie
so I know he didn't mean me,
an easy mistake to make

and the giant in the beanie
who knew he didn't mean me
took me for a Chinese
take away.

and today I said goodbye to him.

If only I could slow time down
go back once more for one more
night in London Town,
see Hoxton Square
where witches flew with angels
watch the angle of the sun
become acute
shoot the breeze again
drink one more glass of beer
with him again,
but
that is not to be
and the giant in the beanie hat
becomes a treasured memory.

When the evening finds me weeping
underneath the curled umbrella of a tree
and the Moon looks down on me as if malevolently
and the stars up there refuse to shine
when what was mine is no longer mine

and time fades into shades of grey,

I shall look forward onto a day
where all evenings fade
and I shall sit with a glass of tawny port
caught
between the joy of this and
the kiss that life had given me.

We did it,done it, do it and each time you take me through it to the other side,
and side by side as if we're tied by bonds we lie.
You sleep and I keep watch,
and watch the spiders web that holds the cracks in place up in the right hand window pane,
and I have lain awake so many times, concocting lines and rhymes and words that stimulate,
but every time you wake,
I forget,
and take you once again upon the lover's train and the tracks we make,make the moves that take my breath away.

feeling so so
is sometimes
as good as
it gets.

I have always found trigonometry helpful,especially when boiling eggs,my maths teacher who was himself somewhat of an egg head,said,'it's all about angles,I read it as Angels and ever since then have been trying to plot a course to heaven.

I found Geography extremely useful,although I can't find my way back home on a Saturday night after a few pints of beer at the local inn,my tutors words come back to me,follow the spot on the end of your nose and you'll always go in the direction you are heading in.


Religious instruction was fascinating, who would have guessed there were so many thees and thous and sacred cows don't get a mention at all.Idols and idle men and prophets who preach for no profit at all,seas that part and fishermen and romans who rule are they the rowmen?

Sports was good.the physical exertion of training,the rugby field in the pouring rain,and the medicine ball..which we used if we needed no medicine at all. I climbed up the ropes in the gymnasium and expected to disappear,like some fakir in the backstreets of Bombay.it never happened and I'm still climbing

#English lessons. why is the language of my fathers all greek to me,past imperfect,present tense,commas and the colon,what a bleedin' carry on,Keats and Shelly and what the hell is poetry,my English teacher who was called Gupta Singh taught me all I ever knew.

Music, food for the gods and food for the cats and the piano never played in key.teacher said it was me who couldn't carry the tune,the oboe,bassoon,the flute,lute,triangle,the jingle jangle of mediocrity is everything that music means to me.

Art,the only lesson in which I really took part..loved the splashing of colours and the butter of words on the sheets,loved the wisdom of wordsworth,the delicacy of picasso and then,in the factory when I left school there was art in the furnace,in the pig iron and ingots,the melting of iron the fire and the bellows...but I saw none of it because work took it away from me,artists are only ever free when they're painting or writing and not working to stave off starvation.

yes school taught me so much but now it's all gone, as the headmaster told me....'you'll never be anything if you don't make something of your life' or is it that the headmasters gone and life goes on,...

Philosophy was good too.

Biology taught me that we come from eggs and we could have been ducks or platypii..and pi is not a platypus but a mathematical equation..education may help us to learn but it can be very confusing.

History..it's always good to know that we walk on the bones of the dead as we wander through The battlefield of history.and that Mesopotamia which is historical is also biblical, two lessons in one,

education on the cheap.

Paint tin blue sky
red faced white guy
and a *** of tea
for company.
One chintzy plate to hold the toast
and porridge
I like that the most.
Paint tin blue sky
red faced white guy.
Dresses up in finery
to oil the wheels of industry
and the only thing that he can see
is paint tin blue sky.

At the end of the rainbow
where only gnomes go,
a guru appeared,
a man with a message and
a helluva beard.
'More colour', he said
from his bed full of nails and
the gnomes all complained until
the guru explained,that
only colours could light up the sky,

Oh
why didn't we think of that? that's why
the rainbow is flat and the gnomes
were in agreement that the guru there
was heaven sent to show
just how their rainbow could shine,
you know it's all about the little things
that make each day and each day brings
another guru, another teacher and the trick is
in the learning.

I should navigate
perspiring inspiration along the lonely streets
which are bottled desolation
but I stay here,
where once the candelabra shot sparks up to the chandelier
and that in turn shed tears of light which danced along the the gloomy walls
in palaces where ***** were held.

Spellbound I am shunned
outgunned by the desperate and dissolute
who eye up my shiny suit.
I've got to get away
pass my day among those who have passed away
sat beside the tombstones of yesterday
but I stay here trapped by my fears
and the years slip through my hands.

From the graves come two choices
in loud voices I'm told to take hold
and hang on
then the voices are gone
there's just the fluttering breeze as it whispers through the leaves
and the trees are silent.

I brood acquiescence
nod my head and arise
wipe the dirt from my face and my eyes behold
all that was told
and it's empty
blank space.
I've got to get out of this place
but the candles burn low and then, where is there to go?
and again I am trapped by the years that are wrapped
and draped over my shoulder.

Me like a likkle of what ya got

'Cause I a zero not got a lot

I talks to me pastor

im a serious Judah rasta.

But me lives alone in this zone

I got to find I a way back home.

Me know me got life a wee bit wrong

And me never listen to da Masters song.

But now I got I a brand new deal

Me praise Jah 'cause im is real.

I gwan to church and say me tings

Jah he answer......me telephone rings.

Hello who im dat? and im say it is I de righteous cat

Den I fall down and me tears dey come

But im say rise up man you is my son.

Den me knows dat dis is da time

Me knows me faith is bang on da line.

Jah Jah im see me right

Yea even thru de dark of de night

Im me saviour me know dat now

Im smooth da lines off from my brow.

Jah Jah rule.

Jah is cool.

Powdered eggs from powdered hens and powdered cars, Mercedes Benz and diesel, perfumed fit for use.
It's changing now and how it feels, like blood on cold water as it congeals and this sets the seal on what we are
perfumed in a powdered car.

Someone has to pay for this,
unload the bank accounts
and kiss the cash
Swiss the cash,
miss their cash,
goodbye
and quite rightly so.

I love the real in you
the deja vu of you
the outside shell of you
the feel of you
when will it get through to them
that powdered milk from powdered cows
is not the same,
never will be when a
real egg only comes
from a real live living hen.

My body rippled as I swam into the river that ran through the town,deep and muddy brown with water washed down from the hills.
And rippling, I got my wish and turned into a silvered fish with golden fins to help me swim, down, down, down and deep within and under water.

Glad I brought a snorkel tube.

With ruby eyes and skies that faded into black,I watched a rack of pilchards passing,no sooner followed by a schooner of gadding tuna who watched two angel fishes trying to copy flying fish and failing.

A sail appeared,quite weirdly in the deep which keeps its secrets free from damp,
and then a lantern shone on me, a voice boomed out,
'what make are ye,
starfish,garfish,cod or roc?

A shock to me under the sea to be accosted by a skipper with a lip of larceny and what would I answer,could it be that I should not swim in the sea?
A fish
a wish,
one unfulfilled and killing off the thought I'd ever be
a citizen
of planet sea.

Drugs that will keep you awake
or make you sleep tight,
drugs that will give you
a ******* all night,
drugs that will open the doors
to illusion,
drugs for confusion.

Happy?
take drugs
Sad?
take drugs.

Let's give a big cheer for
the chemical freer.

Drugs that will bind you,
drugs that will blind you
drugs that you find in the
back of the drawer.

For future reference
my drug of preference
is you.

We,the childhood delegation arrived at midnight in Lapland, to ask for the resignation of Daddy krimbo.
Only three months to go and the toys are not done,he's as drunk as a skunk and his helpers are having our Christmastime fun,
It's not fair on us kids,we've been good,we've been kind and didn't swear or go behind,any bike
shed and were not led astray.
If our prezzies don't come Christmas day, we're going to torch his sleigh,set the reindeer free and see how he likes it,not one little bit I should think.
Just
lay off the drink and get cracking,start racking up points,collect a few stars or we're coming back,some of us with iron bars,
You have been warned Santa.

Get me the telephone..
I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone..
..I hate being alone.

Get me the words in a book..
Give me a look at these things that are living.
Give me some giving.

Sometimes, late at night..when there's nothing around..the world's without sound..and I sit in the chair..
..it's like I'm not really there..
...like I've moved out in time..and I'm in a space that's not mine..and these moments go on..like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here.

Fear is a part of it..a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave..I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death..I have to save up to save for my next breath but that's cool.
I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool..in a rockpool by the beach..and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair..
Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere..and as I ponder on this..

I think of a kiss that I stole long ago..In the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips.
I can feel my mind slipping away..late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day..it's okay.

Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my minds wants to go..
I go too.

It was uphill and down dale
but make
no mistake it was a
'right how's your father'
of a day
nineteen degrees by the way
so no complaint there.

The language fettered me
I should've been able
to converse in the local
but
words failed me

Spanish,
I'll never be fluent in
but
dinner was good
(the wife said,
"No wine")
the water was excellent too


it's a nice little take on a break
when you break bread with
the one that you love.

I'll go shopping tomorrow
because the weather'll be fine
buy some paella and a big bottle
of wine

I'll have to hide it though

haha

she'll read this and
read me the riot act

I'll act innocent
that usually works.

If the motivation is there and why wouldn't it be
I could hold back the tides
I could dry up the sea,
we
if we chose could close deals on the spot
we
could do such a lot
with
the right motivation,
reach the right destination without reading a map
zap any obstacles that obstruct our path,
grow mangos and lychees
bathe in the ganges
do as we please
with the right
motivation.

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

A box junction,dysfunctional miscommunication,down by the station in one more of its type,a shattered crack pipe and a broken down motormouth man,spanning the distance between here,over there,swiping the air,******* his pants,ranting at rainbows,begging from strangers,
he's just another of the night time ghost rangers,a shadow that falls off imagination and walled off behind solidified dried up and **** out hot dreams that appeared to be real,in the stealing of childhood in the big world bad wild hood,where the good don't die young but are used as the fate bait for just wait and see state, you get in,when you stick the pins in your veins,bleed drain fluid cleaner, how keen are you now?

How the mighty have risen to be crushed,cast aside on the mad ride to stardom in the Kingdoms of blinged up and blind men,
dazzle me, quick me,me brain's oh so sick me,
and sometimes I wonder
and sometimes I don't.

I won't make apologies to pygmy type minds who only find it within them to carp,criticise,and as I prise up the mountains to catch moles for my dinner,I ask of my god,just who is this winner that's wrote of on totems?
Poles apart
we start in the middle,fiddle the figures which figures not in the outcome and I come out fighting,
delightful in madness where the sad can't attack me,where the strait jacketed banality of life is finally flushed,where I'm not rushed in decisions,make insightful incisions with obscure ramifications and cut anyway,cut everything away and cast off.

A bit like knitting
but not with wool.

I love that line
'I'm a prima donna'

christ it's
like a Bonny and Clyde
bank heist
almost
perfect
always suspect,
use that raw ***
get away.

Another Sunday on the sauce.

In the realms.

My kingdom for a council flat,
keep the horse
can't live in that and
Marie Antoinette
will she forget me? not
as yet as if she ever would.

A Hyacinth in Hounslow
down low
avoids the flight paths
like the plague.

I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.

Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.

Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.

The census is a gun
and every  ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.

The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the  score?

If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'

Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.

It was a Victorian night where the streets were alight with braziers and gas lamps,when out of the shadows a man rose, in the sight of those poor waifs who were waiting for succour and a bowl full of supper from the sisters, and mercy they were,for the man wouldn't dare to buy favours from females,not in front of the saviours who went among poor men, whose behaviour was suspect and where the language was ripe.

The man sunk back into the blackness of night out of sight but in mind,a kind of reminder to those in the raggety clothes,that the streets were unsafe,and
a place fit for weirdos and those who looked through you and you looked for safety in the arms of the stately,but those homes were all shut,tut ,tut
The old Queens on the throne and you're thrown to the hounds and evil abounds in this Victorian night.

The morning breaks wind as you sniff at the air and wonder, just wonder why life's so unfair,
lice in your hair and you don't smell that good,a bath would be nice and if you could you would take one to relax in,but the morning backs into your face and let's face it,the life that you're living is not good enough to **** in,and we both know these oaths that pop out now and then are not spoken by you but are written by the pen,
and another page
an Edwardian age
but the rage carries on and Victoria's gone but it matters not
you've got what you've got and there's not much you can do about that.

I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.

Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.

If in one another's chemistry
a reaction occurs and
what was once hidden
our eyes can now see
then
take me to your laboratory
toot suite.

..and anyway
One morning long ago I looked across the Morecambe bay
To see the tide roll in.
It seemed the sea was on skis that day
It came in so quick
Perhaps an optical trick
Or not.

I did not change my day in anyway because of God or any other sod who poked his nose into my business
I got more or less but usually ****** all from sanctities sat in some easy chairs in hardship hall and telling me how to behave,
or pointing me in some direction expecting rehabilitation and perfection.

I changed because of you alone and how you changed me,
how could one man be so blind with blinkered eyes and not see kindness,love and honesty, that shone from you and into me.
Oh
how simple it now seems when dreams come true and you are here
how easy to slip off that coat of nonchalance and fear and wrap my arms around the arms that wrap around a man like me.
This could be the reason why I want to fly,to float,to sing and shout and wave my hands about
this could be my making and I am yours,here for the taking,take me now and show me how to love you true,to be at one with you and we could be that harmony.
I was imprisoned but now I'm free
and now I see,
the plan designed for me
included you
and you
alone.

"I think therefore I am"
but
not this man who I see
whilst having my tea,

the bathroom mirror mimics me
and yet if I don't look
I won't cross the lines that meet
in crows feet.

Head's full of cotton wool today
and as if to say, I told you so,
cotton buds blossom
between each toe.

This cannot be real.

I watch as the faces
congeal and
set into one,
if I am
then it goes on too

Saturday mirrors me blue.

The wake up call
bells ring
rainfall.

It'll clear
and as I peer again
it has.

I still look the same
but different.

She holds me if I stumble,
pieces me together
when I start to crumble,
talks to me,
makes me see
that impossibility is
possibly,
possible,
when I try.

Jesus didn't go to Disneyland
didn't hold the hand of
Mickey Mouse,

he was
too busy cleaning rooms in the mansion
when he should have been cleaning house.

I never read in the good book
that we shouldn't give a ****
we're all children under the Sun
except them *******
who are crazier than ****
and **** indiscriminately
with a gun

Infinity is here today,
straight or gay
no way
did Jesus go to
Disneyland.

These morning clouds glow pink as
they dance across the skating rink
of the waking sky,which turns a glassy blue,
a classy, sassy hue,each cloud winks hello
to me and
as I look up the sun sets free
the glory of the day.

She sticks her tongue out
wilfully
I make her laugh
helplessly
she
gives in to me
endlessly
but we both know who's the boss.

I retire into the arms of a chair
there is nothing that holds me
except for gravity.

I take a book but cannot see to look
at the written word
I am not stirred by sound,
by sight nor touch,

what is left is nothing and
not much I can do about it
but sit and be held
in the arms of a chair and
wait.

Alarm bells ring
are you listening?
the policemen come and
catch someone *******.
It's Saturday night
the beer was alright
walking through the
West End wonderland.

In the doorway,
there's a stranger sleeping,
toes are peeping out from his old shoes,
a card that says he's homeless and he's hungry
he's just another person to abuse.

...chorus.

Facebook
as the
Godfather?
I'd rather google off this mortal coil
than
have it
as my
guide.

Of course, I lied
you know I lied
I tried so hard to tell the truth,
but to tell the truth I lied and
I tried very, very hard indeed
I am an addict and I need
my fix of Facebook's
social greed,
but as a Godfather?
I'd rather fry my brains.

'..and now the end is near'
Frankie sang it loud and clear
Did you hear..
..it?

Sentiments so full of sh*t..I could laugh.

This staff of life is full of go
But I ain't going nowhere yet.
And certainly not in a bereavement column
Them things is full of far to solemn.

And anyway..I got a date next Saturday
Can't be late for that
Can't be laid out flat
How would it look to her..?..
..who's had more than her share of half dead men.

When I hear that song..
I know it's time to move along and swing my feet
Not yet going to meet my maker.
Going to take her..out
Dance and then another laugh.

In the cafe my friends all sit
Waiting for the day to hit
But not me.

Poverty,
food in the reclamation yard.

Life's tough,
it's hard to be  full of energy when
the meter is empty and all you see
are the toffs who scoff at society.

Poverty,
cardboard caskets in the cemetery.

There's a niche between the have and the have nots,
the place they throw away food and it rots,
bread, bread but not for the dead and the mould
we can give to the weary and old,
it's share and share and **** them, they don't count
and we don't care.

Circumstance gives a fat chance and the fat cats get the fat other than that all is well for the poor and the needy who dwell in the dark because the meter is empty.

Poverty,
in the park, on the bench, what a stench,
why don't they bathe, why don't they shave, why don't they save the pittance they get or better yet why give them a pittance, give them ****** all?

Poverty,
call for ticket number forty three, your benefits have changed please come to booth B.

We are being outsourced to be the dampcourse in some old Etonian duck pond, all expenses paid by another raid on the 'workshy' who in any case will get by
because we're all in this together dontya know.

Poverty
is just a name they use to defuse the ticking bomb,  
castigate the poor, exonerate the rich,
build another workhouse and life's not such a *****.

We know differently, we who live poverty, we who see inequality but we still and will
**** for a dime.

I could have got an umbrella
from the umbrella seller
but saved my money.then found out
it's not funny
getting wet.
I
should have bought that protection
but
that's just another imperfection
in me.

Moving through to dance,
I tripped and fell upon romance
with you,
and you danced the
evening through as if you
knew this dance would never end.
A dance so slow as if we
hardly moved at all,as if the
ballroom floor was ours alone,
as if we cared,
you shared with me the magic
of your ministry,it almost
finished me but the symphony you
printed on my heart made
me want to dance once more
across
the ocean of the floor
with you.

The academy of hungry men
opens for business
only when
the night draws in.

The night is time for being thin,
Cholesterol is fat and won't get in.

I have a tin of boneless ham
A rich man me, in the academy and
where hungry men would hunger on,
I'd eat the ham
and then be gone.

No fees to pay
and words cost just enough to widen out
the mouth, which then tightens up a belt to say,
the academy is not a place to play.

The gravy train left on the boat or so the
hungry man in ragged coat
informs me.
Clever men in the academy
not me,
I'm just passing through and
on the way to something new but
the night drew in and
so I took a pew and with a pewter spoon
spooned up some watery stew,
it's what they do and when, in
the academy of hungry men.

How many windmills did you tilt at today
how often did you say that there's no
time left to play,
and what did the child that you are
think of that?

When the last of your life flashes in
the lens of your eyes and there really is no time left,
it'll be a surprise when you run through the images and see what you missed as you dashed off to work on the importance of you,
and you'll realise that it's not only in dreams that the windmills come true.

Being old's like being young
you have to listen to others and the fun in you's smothered by that motherly type of concern.

I fought with the wind and the mills in between and in the miles of the oceans I sunk in the green of the sea grass that grew when I was young and new and knew nothing in the every all of who that I was.

I tilt because that's who I am the boy that was trapped in the passing of man and the man that is passing some time 'til the next time and then, to tilt again
a joy
and the boy
smiles
crookedly.

Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of ****, backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.

Do you hear the trees that talk in whispers
see the leaves that fall as spears
can you feel the mountains breathe?

I am ice in flowing rivers on a journey to the sea

Spring came early
and
fooled me

drip
drip
fall off the ledge and off on this trip of a lifetime

my life's fine
I'm just melting.

Swearing to God doesn't help me
the sea rises up before me
and I
disappear.

Next year
I'll be ready.

The quintessentially British chap, in bow tie at
the table
with a napkin on his lap.
Will ring the bell for tea,
Darjeeling,
preferably.
And with a taste of the empire on his lips,
as he slowly sips the
golden brew,
he wonders
who he can *****
over today.

It all becomes retro
a bit like the sixties in a Parisian fashion show and
it's
all for one and I for one would like to go
retro.

Bakelite was alright and
crystal sets for the news,
but now it's crystal meths for the mad nights
and I have the blues. but
can't sing.
But
bring me a railroad and I'll lay down a track,
give me some retro
I want to go back.

I could wind back the clock for some 80's glam rock and
I could wind back in time  to the Maginot line or
I could wind it some more to the hundred years war, to the ships and the pilgrims who went to find fame in that country of which I can never remember the name, to Grimm and his tales, to Glendower of Wales and if retro's the way to go then that's where I want to be **** the modernity of the
21st century, all systems go
back to retro.