I think that we should analyse
their tax affairs
disturb and sift the little truth
from all the lies and then
we'll see
just how they've cheated
you and me.

But would you bother?
ask yourself, or
leave the ledgers on the shelf
to gather dust?

Dodgy dealing?
what they do is classed as stealing
ripping off the system
claiming while they're unemployed
but they're working and
that gets me annoyed.

I pay my tax
I pay my dues
why think that I'll be quiet if they continue to abuse the welfare state?

The outcome?

Well we wait to see
what's in the store
of apathy.

It's Sunday,
shall I perch on the edge of a pew in the church and be bored by the drone of words said to be set in a stone?or
shall I turn on the pages of that rock of ages and be battered quite senseless by the relentless epistles sent off by apostles or just whistle a tune because the pub opens soon?
It's Sunday and the weather is fine,time enough to pray on any other day
and today is not like any other,'oh brother' you'd better believe,better receive it into your heart,this is the start and
it's Sunday.

The last train to lost dreams,
is at the station, leaving soon,
if you ever wished upon a star
you ought to try the Moon,
it worked for me.

Anyone can see,

if you miss the train you'll lose out,
there's no stopping on the way
it travels blindly through the sleeping night
and wakes you up next day.
I've got to go,
just got to know,
what is hidden in the corners where
my eyes fear to look
like the pages full of autographs
I've got to have a look
and see who's there.
in my dreams I dare.

The last train to lost dreams
is a million miles away, through
the silence of internal night
into the light of day
and we don't pay
the ticket's free.

I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.

It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,

all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.

What then will man become
but the lengthening shadows
dancing along the edge of the sun
and when the day is done..
will it have been worthwhile
will those moments we took in the hook of the light
become more than the minutes that look into the night
or will we die
with your name on our lips?
Will you smother me in the pillows that slip through the fingers that want me to touch and you want me as much as I wanted you
Is this what the dancing of shadows will do
as they pass
do you dance with the light
did I do it all right
did it make you want to kiss me and hold me in your arms would you enfold me
would that I told you I loved you
but that's not what men do
and who is the loser
who chooses the wrong road
and the load that we bear
would not be heavy if only you were there
and where am I
where?

Red-eyed and tied to a railway sleeper
someone have mercy on her,
Stop the train.

I watch these silent movies which lack the
pain of sound but ease the brain and
she always escapes from the train,
the hero,
inevitably a man canters in and frees her from
certain death.

Breath fogs the lens with the cold mist of time,
I forgot the lady chained to the line and tried to
make Miss Pickford mine,
she refused me I think, now I drink in
these movies which move me to tears
where did all those years go.

Two cherries on the cherry tree, hung there quite enchantingly
and anyone who looked could see
that the cherries would
blush so easily
when tickled pink to think of pies
and twinkles in each others eyes.
Two cherries on a cherry tree
tasted very good to me.

After it is done and we are spent
like cartridges,after we
began,begin,became the firing pin,became,become
again the bullets in the gun,
in and through the blackened chambers run,
we killed the sun and kissed the night,held
it tight to let it know
but it knew well that it could go
and went,after
we were done and spent.

When the ampersand means more to men and the sword
becomes much mightier than the pen
it's time to leave Mesopotamia alone and
travel down the river, home
to the sea.

Here's the story told to me about our glorious infantry.

Louts,rapscallions,friends battalions
arm in arm and full of glee
marching off to join the infantry.

In the rear lines drinking fine wines,hock,moselle,some burgundy
and some drinking ginseng flavoured tea from some far flung idea of Empire
while only half a mile along the road the whole world was on fire,
were the fat arsed generals with their horses, waiting on their second courses,
crepes and franzipans and to a man they didn't care that the war was waiting there,
'let the ******* wait',they'd say,
after all that was the gentlemanly way.

The bullets striped us left to right and falling into our own falling ***** we'd call for mum and dad
aye lads
aye lads
war is bad
but for the buggers at the rear who never so much as once came near the sound of a gun,
war was fun a chance to socialise,
society is full of lies and leaders they were not.
But death's got their number on his shell,they'll soon be joining us in hell,
so ****** them and sod the lot
were in a spot,we'll not get home,splintered bone and mangled limb and corporal thinks it's still a sin to swear
well ****** him as well,we no longer care.
As we share a final smoke,Johnny tells his favourite joke about three generals and some place called,but I forget the punch line as the time has come for one more bullet,one more gun and silence.

In Croydon,Roydon and North of Watford Gap,families are spoon fed some wholesome krap from drip fed Sergeants,battle,shield and argent,honour King and all the other little things that the senselessness of death brings home.
Let them keep their fields filled full with glory,we know the ***** **** filled story,
war is bad
war is bad
I'm glad that I cant fight no more.

I come with memory stick attached
plugged in, locked on and then
dispatched to unsuspecting
housewives down in
Brighton by the sea.

Memory
can find the darkest place inside you
chew you up and spit your bones out

This memory stick is
SICK
and sick means cool apparently
down in
Brighton by the sea.

anyway it's workaday
and playaway
for one more day to
hold tight and win
for more than that I
cannot say

Brighton by the sea
for housewives,
definitely
not for me.

Pythagoras
was
a man,not a fish,
how I wish I had never been so clever to suggest otherwise,though he swam he's a man not a fish for a dish,now I wish that the ground would swallow me whole,it wasn't my goal to be remembered for slating a national figure who knew more about figures than I ever would,
could he forgive me in some algebraic liturgy?,well maybe he should.
I mentioned him once on a radio show, though he may not have heard it,he's been dead quite a long bit, and if you've been waiting for a motion that's stating I'm right
you've a long way to go,
Pythagoras knew and now I know too it's not what you add up, it's what you add up to.

We British tend to take no notice,we just put a poultice on the sores.
In this town some back street evangelist, half religion ****** was banging on the jesus beat.
I meet his eyes which blink quite black,frontal back to total war and what's this for?
The beggar man can't understand why God with his almighty hand cant hand to him some slim hope of a reconcile,to reconcile the frown
with the riches of a smile or two but that's what beggars always do,expect what's more than what is there and want to share what they have not, is this the order of the day?
I've not a lot of hope that a poultice of green soap and sugar,however hot will do the trick,
this society is sick and medication is the order of the day.and we the slick play xylophones in the hope of finding keys to homes.
We're British and we tend to do,
what others would not ,
and would not see through
unless they're ready to and what do you the British do? but
pretend that it's not there.

Counting beads.

...and now on their way to tomorrow, today, and who is there to say
cease fire
someone will turn in to the driveway of hell and burn in eternity for these iniquitous deeds,
it's a deforestation of souls, a population control by those who have sold out to Satan,
the only freedom out there is death from the air and it comes in screaming as if it's a baby leaning into life and falling,failing,tailing off and dropping,
dead,
like the scrolls unrolled that wither away on their way to tomorrow,today,
to cry and to die without understanding why,
population education?
I'd sooner be stupid,
play cupid to the factions but
it's destruction not distraction
they want.

What will become will become of this day and I wake up to find this day's been taken away by the thieves of the night,is this right,
does the night carry on even though it has gone,does the day have no say in its dawning?

It is morning in my head ergo,I am not dead or maybe I could be.
If the night doesn't see me does the day really free me,do I carry the can for the sins of mankind?
I find in illusion a great deal of confusion,a smelting of fantasy,a melting of freedom.

This hit and miss in me really disheartens me and although I keep trying there's something inside me that tells me I'm dying,it's a shame.
There is no fortune or fame for the runners up in a game just the harsh feel of failure,but if the day should return and I am still awake,there's a chance of a part,a starring role in the affairs of my own beating heart,
is it here
do you know
did the day really come and the night really go?

In cahoots with the Pole Star, I map out a route that will make me fortune,the moon makes me a beggar man and the beggars just scowl,
I'll be free soon not out of tune with my peers,not retreating from the advancing of legions of years.
It's all relative or so they say,
and what will become will become of this day.

Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community

Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,

I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face

That place is reserved

In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe

and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.

If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?

I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and

erasing my body chemistry

I can see it
if that is it.

I asked, 'will you'
she said, 'I will',
and the thrill of that sound lifts me up off the ground
'til I'm floating on air,
with her.
Kissing those lips until the tingling in my toes reaches the tip of my nose and then kissing some more.

Saturday would fly in
when it's a day for a lie in,
it's like a witch on a broomstick
casting spells, and I feel sick.

I wake with a coffee and cigarette
my eyes open but I can't see a thing,
can't somebody take me to a day that would make me feel happy and gay?
and not
I repeat
not
make it a day like a Saturday.

I sleep now in monochrome
On a mono bed in a mono home
And in those blacks and whites
Of my monochrome nights
I dream.
Technically in faint hues
Of reds and greens and blues.
But she who left
Was the colour on my page
The spoken word upon my stage
And now in monochrome
Like the howling winds outside the door I moan
And comb through the echoes
To hear her voice.

Fleetwood was good
but not as good as
Blackpool and her golden mile
Blackpool made us children smile
Fleetwood gave us fish but
Blackpool made us wish the
day would never end.

When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.

His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.

Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,

It
sounded like someone was clearing their throat
that awkward sound that sounds like
I sound when I'm getting my coat.

It could have been Arabic, Yuruba, the
language of Myanmar, it could have
been German or Russian or it could just be me
with a spot of concussion.

Dropped on my head I hear languages,
some still living, some long dead
but it still sounds to me
that someone is clearing their throat and
getting my coat sounds a better idea.

I have the 'flu and it's Wednesday morning and my bones are groaning,but am I moaning?
YESSSS..
it's what men do when they get the 'flu and the world as they knew it comes to an end.
Please send for the medic,make it quick 'cause I am sick and while you're about it can you make me some soup.

In the final selection under funeral direction
I shall lay at my rest
Hopefully dressed in my best
Because I want to look good when I'm laid out in the wood.
At my wake some of you may wonder why you came
Some of you will not even remember my name
But that's alright it's just a part of the game.
Then as the vicar says his bit and the fires are lit
I wish I could sit upright to give you a fright.
Alas I am finished and gone and soon I'll be ash
Don't worry about splitting my cash
There is none.
When I reached fifty nine I decided to have a whale of a time
I fed all my needs and paid a lot for those deeds.
And now I'm not just dead I'm broke
But oh,
I died such a happy bloke.

Laying naked on the chaise longue
and the artist's taking so long
to get the colours mixed.
I have fixed myself a pose
looking quite good
without wearing any clothes
then Picasso starts to paint.

The lights are strong
I perspire
the artist murmurs
'I'm on fire'

and late so very late Picasso takes a break
and I can stand and stretch
I fetch a cup of water
take one crafty look behind the canvas
and I am slaughtered.
I thought this guy could paint
but that ain't me
he's painted monsters rising from a sea
with blackened eyes
and skin of verdigris.

If this guy could paint by numbers
he wouldn't get past number three.
Look at what he's done to me.
I'm getting dressed and going home.
Tomorrow
I shall have a bone
to pick with him.

A winter day
filled with colour
yet grey and damp.

The street lamp cast a shadow as bright as a moon that invaded my sleep and lit up the room where I sat,
thinking.
Of this and of that as the elderly do and a cat called loudly,proudly stating that 'Tommy' was waiting for a feline companion,
I thought on,
it all sounded grey to me,the colours of the day to me,making a *** of tea (for one) a buttered scone with some cream,I woke only to dream of the summer time,when the ruby of sunlight turned into wine and the ladies I saw looked so very fine,
until then I shall wait,
in the shadows of street lights,lighting my way through the dark nights and days that are grey,
sat on my chair,drinking my tea,eating my scone and watching the colours of life moving on.

Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.

Sometimes
life's about the bigger things
like,
when the Postman brings
a telegram
from Uncle Sam,
and sometimes
but only sometimes
the little things
are bigger

It was blue and I knew it could not be a sea
and the waves that I saw were not people
waving to me
I
drowned in it anyway.

Seeing things in colour when the colour's not there
and it's all in the mind which is slightly unfair,
but definitely blue

and no plastic bags.

If I could swim on a whim or
a wing and a prayer and the
colour imagined
was the colour of your hair
and the waves were just curls
when you crinkle your eyes,
I'd be happier.

Making sense of some nonsense
and much of Nonsuch
touching all of the bases
is
the one-legged man
and his crutch,

they say,
'he's as mad as a hatter'
aye
and that a' can believe.

So
it's bedtime and book to
be read time,
sleepy head's having some
me time,
some time later I'll sleep.

Time to enter
time to leave,
they'll give you time to check out
time to breathe
time for this
but none of that
how to groom your dog
or cat,
rules to rule you
rules that school you
how not to spot the fools that
fool you.

Regulations
that they send
and each brings us nearer
to the end of
civilisation
as we know it,
but we're
regulated not to show it.

I'm not sure which way to vote,
something else they'll regulate?

but
undecided while I wait
I'll read the rule book.

I am one of the swans that I watch on the ice
and
being a swan is quite nice but
it's a bit of a ******* keeping my feathers fluffy and clean
and already the Winter,
I mean being a swan is quite nice
but it's a bit of a ******* when you slip on the ice and
you can't sit on your *** because your *** gets so numb.
Them ****** ugly ducklings don't make it any easier either.

Along the shoreline
cigarettes and red wine my only company,
dry seaweed as stranded as me,
and yet.
I am surrounded by the sounds of the ocean and its waves and the crashing of the shingle,my spine begins to tingle and excitement builds inside me as I rush to write some poetry,
my only company.
Tide turning,stomach churning,bridge burning,more yearning and unlearning the past as the waters recede,
and like the ocean I need that respite from the constant.
I pour one more glass knowing that this time like all time will pass and await the return.

It was probably in Dubai at the Hyatt when I met her
or it may have been in Dresden at the Steigenberger,
I
can't remember,

am I just dredging up old memories trying
to keep some flame alive?

but there are lots of things I don't recall
in this season of my fall
and more things still
I left unsaid

Bedrest
so the Doctor says
what a way to end my days
and then it came to me as
these things usually do
I met her down in Sussex
just outside
Drusillas zoo.

In the library where Jaggers throws looks like daggers at Dickens for the invasion of his privacy,
for mentioning legality, I see
another story coming on.
The Maltese Falcon flies to me in pages where a mystery unfolds.

Holding breath, the long slow death of a twenty-something,
comes sliding in, Harry Potter, Slytherin.

All in books and in the looks of characters imagined by the author, chapter by chapter and at the end the wish to meet the one who penned such a magic on the pages of my mind.

bargain hunting,
as dangerous as
hunting for socks
that match

A dapper dog in a wow bow tie
could not bark and did not know why
he tried to woof but what came out was puff
and he wandered off in a bow wow huff.

He swam across an ocean to steal a concubine from a potentate,hauled himself ashore in some oil rich state.
Whitebait for sharks that roamed in the sand,fish for the cannery,what kind of a man was he?
His saving grace,her face which monitored each move he made until he reached the palace gates,
then flinging all aside he cried may God have mercy on this humble man who only tries the best he can and from the harem,a girl called Celsius ran into his arms which opened wide,time to hide ,time to run,
time to burn,the desert sun does not play games nor names the bones which bleach upon its sands.
Holding hands they stowed away on a short haul trawler out of the bay and here where fear was laid to rest
the best was yet to come.

Weird I know
but as I sit or stand and watch my beard grow
it seems to tell me of my days spent in an alcoholic haze or drug fueled cruise down motorways without an end,
yet through all this,my beard has kissed my face as if I,the Angel, was just another case of ,
Mistaken Identity ,and the beard becomes me, like it's using LSD and has a mind not of its own,but oh my,
how my beard has grown
as I have too
and all I have to do is reconcile this beard that stares at me through the mirror,I can see it's not an easy task,
but I ask in all humility is should I shave it off or wait and see and let it grow and If I do will the beard I see become the man that's me or something more?

I watch the shadow,seven o-clock, there's a knock upon the bathroom door and then it fades away along another motorway and LSD has got the best of me again.

Life fails,this I see and I think, let it be but the wheel continues turning where the home fires are still burning and this life should be for learning not for leaving.
I have followed flaming stars as they shot across the skies,leaving me with eyes so red and been led so far and wide,where I tried to make some sense,make amends,pay recompense,
and life fails me,what ails me so?
I am afraid to go where the moon takes her walks, in the heavens where she talks in infinite tongues.
I am afraid of the tomb where I'll comb through the galleries, not finding the pictures I seek,where the light leaks out slowly and my lowly existence is done.
Though life fails me, what tales I could tell and have heard,but the word,its potential is less existential,
as life drifts and then lifts me away.

The woodsman
is not always as
sharp as his
axe.

Win some,lose some
read the news some and then read more
what is it that we choose win or lose it's what we get
and I bet
that charity, though is about what is received don't be deceived
by gifts galore
the people giving want even more than an equal share
but that's not fair of me
I can see and but for lack of clarity I'd see it all
if I could only stand a little taller to look at details even smaller I'd be sure of what it is I'm trying to say
but that's not going to happen any time today or tomorrow
maybe I could borrow steps and step up a notch or two
see just who and what and where you are and the reasons why you're giving for.
I can't accept if I do not know
just where the giving's come from and where it is you think it's going to go.

You'll have to tell me and really slow I'm not as young as
not so much fun as
can't run as fast as years ago
so be slow and take your time for that is all I've got
and I won't be putting back the clock to please you
do what you do
what you've always done
you've got to have some fun
and win or lose
the news is just the same
just a pain
no win or gain it's
a prying,trying,lying game.

The headlines deadleg me
peg me out
and all my doubts are reinforced by forcible editorials and pictures which from a time what seems immemorial leer at me
from page three
I can see me going round the twist at everything they tell me that I've missed
I'm pssed off now
and pssing off to 'the brown cow'
to get p*ssed.

Would Rip van Winkle wake up to this or
go back to sleep and
give it a miss?

What would he see?
an abundance, a rag tag of poverty.
A land full of **** all with a mountain of knowalls
and a system
blocked up with
the system that's ****.

Well,
we'll give him some time to get his
head around it and
realise that the world has moved on
more than a bit, then we'll slam him
with fees,because
no one can rest as they please
in this land fit for **** all.

Lightheaded on fumes
running on empty
through rooms and
nowhere to go.

I know something's coming
that's why I am running,
can't stand still anymore
or fight
'til I bleed or
batter down doors so
I'll batten down hatches
and run on
empty.

Top hat and tails.

Fire and ice and bison graze the land,
man's hand desiring more and more until there is no more to feed,and at such speed and still we need that more than more, so dig down deep into the core of where we live,
we give ourselves an even chance when chancing fate but fate gives us a passing look as if to say,'*******,you do what you do and expect so much,to touch the stars,dig up Mars and plunder planets'
I wonder such as gannets fly across the worn out pillaged sky where aeroplanes shave micro lines across the sheets of landing times.
It's fire and ice and desert scrub, manufacturing gin in the old bathtub and guv'nor can you spare a time when if you ever spared a dime for beggars on the city street who graze the dog ends at their feet and look in kiosks for lost coins.

It's the road we're on,no going back now,we've ******* the world and have to live somehow with ******* crops ,unfertile ground,the world keeps spinning round and round,a crazy top,can't someone please just make it stop.

And then, when men become cave dwellers
why do we expect the fellers (sic)
to do or not become much more than what the modern man once saw,
we're in the spin
we cant begin again
can't beat the acid rain
just relax and revel
in the pain.

He became the unknown algorithm,
a figure defined in schizophrism
all hail,
the archetype has risen
and let us go to war.

An integer slung beneath a gun
crunching bullets
watch them stun,
all hail
the archetype has come
and let us go to war.

It's Friday did you expect some peace?

Nothing suggests a protest more,
than the smashing down of one more door
and the picking up off one more floor of another fallen crown.
Smash things down
let them be rebuilt
(one more tilt at a windmill)
still
it's nice to dream.

I seem to dream an awful lot these days
cast my life away into a gaze,another one thousand yard stare
but no soldiers there just prison guards that walk around with us in our prison yard
and don't we take it hard ,when the door is smashed and we realise that what we see is just the same as it will always be,
the dumping ground
make no sound or you'll be targeted and found another place and in your place someone else will step into your prison cell.

It's nice to dream?
like hell,excuse me I don't feel so feckin well
we've all been *******,used and abused by selfish men
who promise freedom but only when and if they ever decide to decide and in the meantime hide away on south sea islands
where they play the altruist,
well it ****** me off no end and no end to this I see
no confiture for you and me
we'll have to eat the crusts of bread,dipped slowly in the bowls of gruel and how could fools like us be taken in
and fools we are for learning krap in krappy schools where education is dumbed down and more fool than that
we then went cap in hand to ask employment of the man
who lapped it up
slapped us down and paid us half a crown to make believe that we were Gods, able to buy those odds and sods and settle in for one more Winter night beside a fire that barely lit, and an outside privy where we would sit and shiver.

The only joy I ever had was poaching on Lord Sefton's private river
and who gave that fat swine the right to steal a river as if a river might be ever owned.

I moan a lot and groan a lot but never seem to have a lot
the cooking *** lays empty on the range
not strange
just the poor of days we're in.

One more grin
wipe behind my ears
pretend that I have shed no tears and go out to the tally man, to tally up and he can tell me what is due
I am the few
the many of many who haven't any
won't get much
a touch upon my shoulder,
'Excuse me sir, there seems to be a fishtail poking from your bag,come with me to jail,become one more old lag'
more than enough of them and more to come
start smashing doors let's have some fun
God knows we don't get enough.

The
trailblazers
hellraisers want to learn to fly, but first must learn to try and not begrudge the birds their wings or beaks or things.
It's each to his own and birds have flown for centuries
while man looked on quite jealously,
until
Wilbur and Orville an unlikely looking pair, built a weird looking craft that flew into the air
and there the story lies.
Man
no longer separated from the skies but flying catatonic,supersonic,chronically intoxicated by machines that he's created.

It will all come to pass that when we run out of kerosene and natural gas,
we'll recognise that flying free is but a dream and then we'll see that wings are meant for birds
and no amount of whirlygigs,tornadoes,migs can change the fact
that we were made to walk.

The postman
walks past
my house
texting
home.

Copycat syndrome.

We come back to this
the things that we longed for
and no longer miss.

Copycat syndrome.