On the Island that was known as Bermondsey
where the outlaws of the outlaw borough once roamed free and took liberties with the Nobility of the 'Liberty'
The City closed its eyes and didn't want to see the cutthroats and the harlots of old Bermondsey.

I have an idea that being stood
under here is
not the best move that
I've made.
Girls are passing me by but
big boys don't cry
so
I'm going to go fishing
instead.

I miss Buffalo Bill and Jersey Lil'
Jesse James among other names
Like Hopalong and Big John Wayne
Cooper,Cagney and,
What's that Indians name?
Oh yes
Cochise.
The man of war, the man of peace.

Jimmy Dean and Johnny Ray
Otis,Sammy and Doris day all yesterday
And yet
I bet there's no one quite like them
Not like Borgnine,Heston or Glen Ford.
Rememeber West and Ward
The caped crusaders
Or Roy Thinnes and the Martian Invaders?

I miss them all
The magic of the casting call and Lucille Ball.
Where did they go?
Moved on no doubt to another show and more greasepaint
Ain't life dull Without it full
Of these great stars.

I could of course get on a horse and ride to Huddersfield
but
I shall not yield to that temptation.
Oh no,
I will wait with her on platform three at St Pancras mainline station and catch the 15.40, (change at Leeds) or if needs must
just carry on to somewhere North of York.

When we talk we lose all sense of time and place,
I lose myself as I look into her face.
Once I almost lost my suitcase too,but that was
South of Crewe
and everything gets lost there.

Incommunicado?
I can't tell of what
I know.

Padlocks on my tongue
to stop it running loose,
a noose around my neck
just in case.

Silence is tarnished by
oxidisation.

Marshmallow mist
as if the sun
kissed
a daffodil.

I will remember
each morning anew
every time
I see the
daybreak
with you
at
my side.

Marshmallow mist
and the sun
kissed
me.

Young men
take their
hot pics for
a quick fix,

I mix my drink with soda
loada
******* really.

Seal me with cellophane
don't let me be so vain
I am not young
anymore.

I captured it all in
the fall of Saigon
I dreamt of it down
in Hanoi.

This thousand yard stare
looks at me
from
over there
and
everywhere
else that I see.

Shoot me full of ******
fire on me and
I'll go back in
to the storm
that I once called
my
youth.

The man,
a blank stamped out by machines in Japan,
modified
rectified
passed as suitable for use.

Empty then topped up with interactions 'til blocked up,
plug pulled.

Re-issued
replaced
wires encased in
vanadium.

Faces in the auditorium,
murmurings in the gallery,
a star explodes in a distant galaxy
I know how it feels.

Every random seed feeds leads leading into the core
and the core is what blanks and men are made for.

Once again I find
the morning light breaks through
my eyes and wakes this sleeping mind,

it seems the dreams will have to wait
or shall I not cooperate?

Tschaikovsky Tuesday
is a nutcracker

I try to be PC
but it still breaks my *****.

When I get there
if I get there
I'll send a postcard
or a telegram

I need no internet
and informative technology
is not the thing
I want to be
or see
when I get there.

Good morning Mendelssohn
'tis not midsummer nor is it night,
dream on.

Suspended on my eyelashes
each moment flashes to
briefly burn

all things cease and here
on the plateau
I find again the stillness
wherein lies the peace.

No one ever asked me
if I wanted to be shackled, instead of being free
no one ever asked, but decided anyway
to turn and bolt the open doors
tie me to the dusty concrete floors and work me to the bone.

No one said,you'll never own a home and if you do
we'll steal it back
and mortgage you instead,
one day we'll all be dead
'so what's the rush?' is what I said.

Brokers in the token towers endowed with powers beyond our 'ken'
and if or when they do decide to let the status quo remain
the status quo will automatically, register it as another of the same old krap
it's something else that they'll steal back.

I've got to tell you, that I'm pig sick
of make it fast and spend it quick and sod the rule of law it never did apply , to the hotshot, potbellied, suited city guy who has his eye on articles one to five and in any case will most definitely survive against the odds by burying away us poor sods in backroom books,stirred slowly into microfilm by corporate crooks who cook away as if each day a different menu was on sale.

Beyond the pale where riders sit and watch the scenes unfold, and it is foretold that judgement day will wash the wicked clean away and save the righteous.
Yes,
well don't I just believe all that
another bunch of total krap.
The pious in their pious world could not foresee that greed alone would be the fall of man..and in the fall,where man has done it all and nothing of it done remains
the register clicks on two more games to play
one tonight
and one the day to come
a bonus ball for everyone except Mario because he's on ******,you know it,I know it
the moguls in the mighty towers blow coke into their nose and they know it too.

Not a thing I want to do
should I do, would I if I could do,do?

I wonder where it's written that
we have to go there to get back
and if we go why don't we stay
one day we'll all be dead.
A thought as going ,when to bed arrived in and another trial that I survived through
one more dish of microfiche that never swam in any sea
and small as anything you see
or smaller for all that
a status bit of ***
for tat
and let the gnats and hounds of titled lords and ladies give the peasants rampant rabies, who cares but the undertakers undertaker,the sombre funeral formulator?
and I don't give a ****.

...and so the gods slept as the Devil kept me company
waiting to see if I'd fall.

up theer atop
Pendlebury hill

Lowry still,

matchstick thin
a flat cap
cheeky grin,

he paints the rain
grainy,

although
not always on a Sunday.


I Watch him by the mill race,
a mill shed face
that catches old like new
for me,

L.S Lowry
ought to be
hanging in the Tate,

oh wait,
he is.

Strip me down
and build
a
Kawasaki
from my
bones.

We do as we do,
stay still and the mildew will get you,move on,get the rush,push people aside,ride on the left wing of what today may or may not bring,sing if you want to,I do,out of tune at the moon I don't give a ****,I'm a man,so they say,I may prove that some day,I might not,I might stay the boychild,live free and live wild,pick my nose or my toes I have not yet decided,but there's time to uncover those things made to smother me,I only seek love and affection,the perfection of womanhood is what I think will do me good and it does.

She understands me,measures me in cough drops,says that I am the tops and she has the cream,she's seen me at my best and when things come to test me,she's with me,guiding,to stop me from sliding,and I love her for that and the fact that's she's gorgeous has no bearing at all.

If I fall she will chide me,once again she will guide me,I confide this to few,without her what would I do?
I'd be lost in a place where my face wouldn't fit.
I sit back to smile at her,she watches me in the chair and I love her for that,too.

Between the pages are the lies that rise up when you least expect and change the plot,
just, when you think you've got the gist
you find there's something that you missed and the story's back to front.

There's a party going on next door,which started about five before the hour of four and I am really cheesed off and sore that the neighbour (the little ****) didn't see fit to invite this boy so he could enjoy a jive or the twist or a tango,a slow dance,a chance for a whirl with a girl, so I shall complain,
if he doesn't invite me there'll be no parties again,he can do as I do and listen to BBC radio two.

Back to the book because that's all I've got and some cold beans with spinach which I left in the *** for my tea ,don't worry about me I'm on chapter three and there's eight more to go,
and what do you know,there's a knock on my door and my very nice neighbour says,
'there's a party going on, what are you waiting for?'
Now I feel dumb,the noise abatement society will come and it'll be all my fault,so I say thanks for the invite, decided to stay in for the night,close and bolt my door and with my head in my hands
progress to chapter four.

I want to bend like a reed with the seaweed below and flow with these tides that I know,
I need to sleep in the deep
not sowing
not reaping
just sleeping
forever.

At the clog end of the night
when
daylight is tapping time
and the drummers in my heart
are marching slowly in a line
and my eyes begin to open on
the newness of the day,

I pray to see it through until the end.

Niblicks

What do I know about golf?
Well,
let me see.
I know there's a club and
I think there you get tee
There's a hole with a pole
Though not from Poland,  it could be.
That's commerce

There's something worse
and that's a bunker
where apparently golfers hunker
down with a frown on their face, 'til
they get out of that place.

There's a five on the fifth and a three on the first
I've read the rules and I'm fit to burst with a thirst for the game
But then I read of their *****
and call me a ****
don't think that I need
my ***** to be whacked.
So it's back to the cluedo and ludo and do you know
I'm not sorry at all.

She was heaven sent
but I fell in love with
the postman.

What do you do when you're feeling so blue?
And you are under blue skies listening to the cries
Of the terns and the gulls.
The heart constantly pulls
Me to the oceans shore
Once there I'm not blue anymore.
I stand skipping the stones
Dreaming of lost sailors bones.
But it's the battles I love the most
Off the Cape of Good Hope or the Ivory Coast.
I can hear the cannons roar and see broadsides score
And I transport with delight into the thick of the fight.
I drink *** with the matelots
Take potshots at whatnots
Those enemies of the crown I say let them sink down
Into the cold arms of the deep
I will not lose any sleep.
But once more I find myself stood on the shore
And I'm soaked to the skin.
I hadn't noticed that the tide had come in.
I'm such a dreamer.

John Smallshaw  2011

Same old, same old
nothing changes.

Corporations corporating while
the poor men scrape a living.

New lamps for old tramps?
I don't think so.

We're being force fed by the mega men
who do it as they please and when the
poor complain
they do it, do it and do it again.

Same old story
different book,
wonder why I
give a ****.

Nothing changes
never will until
the corporations stop incorporating
and
give the poor men recognition.

When I'm dead and gone
the mega men will still be here,
will still go on,
nothing changes just remains
like unwashed sheets
and ***** stains.

But where there's life there's hope I hope
or is this just a hopeless quest to
do our best and
die.

The psychic was in any event
surprised, she looked into
her crystal ball, cast
a line of Tarot cards into
a deep blue tablecloth,
took my palm, to
read
between the lines of this life and
the silver sixpence which was insurance
for the things that happen
unexpectedly,


She read between the leaves
which formed a  leaf or
page
of
history and detailed things that only she could see but things I knew and told me of a drought to come, a plague, a heartbreak and some fun and Julie Hargreaves in the sun but that was back in '61 or maybe '62, she knew but wouldn't say and sixpence doesn't go so far,

The time declined my offer of a further reading and the psychic never said if
I'd upset or if there was some road where it was leading me and if so would it all end there.

Spend a moment and one more and every moment is the core of a moment yet to come, each minute moment as foretold, bold as brass and the psychic, such a pretty lass though she didn't see that herself and
couldn't tell me or wouldn't say and afterwards the passing of my day in Colliers Wood, felt good, felt fine, even though time had declined to interpret what was shown written in the lines upon my palm or in the bottom of the cup of cards.

I'm sure that time had meant no malice nor no harm, it's just a case of wait and see and what ever was and what will be and psychics drinking cups of tea and me minus a silver sixpence and none the wiser for the loss.

Send me rockets
let me fill my my pockets with resistance to explode in lights across the desolation of this land of nights
and send me guns to run across the border fence where sits the old guard in defence of this,that once was home.
Send me fire to burn the towns and clowns to laugh like maniacs of which we have become,
and water to flood the thirsts,the first of many and sun to dry the dampened land.
Send me a band of hungry,homeless men then send me stones to build their homes.

Fill my cup up to the brim,let me swm in opulence.

In defiance of the crown I proclaim this town along with others as my property,I demand from them my total liberty,not the washed out freedom that we think as being free where rich men with their plaudits try to laud it over me and put me down
This is my town,my land,my band of disaffected vagabonds and to set the record straight,we're going to take it back,
we're going to attack the citadels,we the infidels are going to tear them brick by brick,we're going to make them sick of us
we're going to make them go.

In effect
I am the pause, clause three four D
you'll find me sandwiched silently below clause E,above clause C,because freedom does not have a say in what we do or where it stays and this was written,though later stricken,in clause three of what the hell's this all about,you can't write life upon a page and expect to garner love or rage from simple words,
nor can you type disease and pain in Indian ink and think that some would understand the hand of God,the mind of man.

In effect what we get is what we feel and freedom deals the occupants of third class carriages with champagne and deals some the cards that look the same but are tied in milestones marking out the years of pain,
it's a lottery but chance will play no part in where we're born or from whence we start and the clause quite clearly states,
that freedom dissipates the longer that one lives.

Which gives no room in which to lodge complaints,that room was taken by the homeless man maneuvering as best he can through the formal infrastructure of the plan that was placed in place for him.
In effect, the plan was ******* before the ink was dry upon the lips that measured out the sentences and the thought that anything could come from adding numbers to the sum of each or any of a thousand to the power of ten
would have them adding up again the do's and did not's,the dotted i's,
and all of this
when teatime lies around the corner of the clock.
I stand mute.
I am the shock wave that planned and failed,I now blow wind into the others sails and take applause.
I am the clause
Three
Four
D.

I have heard it said,
That the lonely people stay in bed
And order
Pizza,
Pepperoni.
Oh if only I was lonely
I would call for cheesecake pie
And then I'd sigh and order
Pizza too.
Would you?

Stop whining life's ironing you flat,
we're all getting pressed and
all getting that
it's what life tends to do to you,
ironing
flattening,fattening you up for the **** and
there's no flipping thrills to be found in that.
Ironing
ironing
ironing you flat.

but

creased, I could be unleashed to become so much than more,
something with life to show, like some thing I wore with patches and scratches and marks,
Marks I adore.

Creased,
the teasing and pleasing,the
easing into the wrinkles.

'Twinkle, twinkle little star' ironed flat I'm far away from life and life can't get into my day.

Say what?
the iron's hot and bound to burn, each ironing spends a little more of uncreased out minutes and so I turn again,creased,thrown to the floor among the garbage,out the door where people stop and stare at me, the unclean,
unironed,
anomaly.

No lines,
no lines it's times like this I want to kiss the day and say,
look at me
look at me, creased to buggery and I don't care
I don't want to wear a life that's ironed flat,
don't care that you think that it's wrong,
I will wear my creases and be strong ,while you're all folded up and folded always last so long.
I'll be free and you'll be in a drawer with socks and skirts and shirts and ladies underthings,
which upon a second thought brings me to the thought that,
that might not be so bad.

They've all been naughty boys
so
we take away their playtime toys, but
cabbages can make such lovely kings with
brussel sprouts for diamond rings,
they've all been naughty boys.

Images that toy with me,
the boy inside can see
the future's not what it was meant to be,
no coco pops or jam for tea,
they've all been naughty boys.

Let Moses come to give me pills, break
the tablets of these hills upon my back and
Lot's wife on the track,
forever looking back and
turns to salted tears which trickle slowly
down across the years and surface
in some nursery rhyme.

This is not the time or place to face the demons cast from hell,
nor time to sell the rainbow coat,killed the goat or fatted calf,
this is the half life we've been waiting for,
the core of night pared with the cutting knife and in the shaft of light which bounces off the day of light
we may figure in the triple six.
I guess it's written down.
so it must be true.

Shaving a matchstick.(pointless)

The future is set at thirty seven degrees and this I have read in the lees left in the mug,
so jug me a hare Doris while Boris brings forth a new Frankenstein
let's eat,drink and ****** what's left our our time here,switch all the lights on and let us drink wine dear.
Tomorrow we'll **** Jack and Jill and wipe out those **** tales we were told,like new lamps for old and rainbows with gold at the end,
bend into the bar dear and fill me a jar dear,tonight I do not want to think,let me sink into the pit where the corners are lit with the lights from the eyes that I see,Each degree takes me one way to another day filled with death and each wish that I wished for lays here on the damp floor covered in sweat.
We get what we wish for and sometimes we get more and others don't wish at all, and all roads don't go to Rome some vanish in the distance between the here and the getting,roads like lost wishes lay sweating on the floor.
so jug me a hare Doris,I'll go and call Boris,Frankenstein's coming for tea
I want him to see that there's **** all here for me, just one
more degree on the scale.

Morning arrives..
..through the night I survived on data streams.
The dreaming in unconscious thought.
And along that super highway I have bought another day.

Somewhere in the thick of it..becoming sick of it..
..I tried to close it down and failed.
Not jailed or free..my thinking's taking over me
I shall be standing by to see
What comes next.

Why wear a mask?
you may well ask,

it's in the film script,
the one where you're
tipped for an Oscar.

I woke up at three
She was still laying next to me
Breathing lightly
I kissed her and held her so tightly.
She woke
And spoke to me,
"Can't you go to sleep"?
I wanted to keep this moment forever
To prove that it's never too late
Or you're never that old
To hold onto a dream.

It is calming here where the banks slip slowly down
to the river side
and the tide is on the turn,
and though it yearns to reach its sea,it takes time to whisper the secrets of longevity to me.
A curlew knew me too as I sat here,but
it flew away holding the secrets that it would not say.

She returns to me along the river and in each tide I'll be
that much closer to the
sea.

The rainbow fell into the consommé,
the night turned the day and the
cards went my way
it was normal some say in
the madhouse

and then there was work
the foibles, the quirks
the bright sparks
the gormless
the sharks

and while Hawkin's talking of quarks
and quasars
all I get
is quizzical, looks from the
bar staff and waiters.

It's no wonder the soup's getting cold
and less wondering why
because it all seems so old
or could be it's
possibly me.

It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.

We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.

Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.

If it's not the **** they keep emailing me
the police that keep tailing me
the system that's failing me
what is it then?
what can I see?

The absolute ******* they spread on the TV,
shows like Dallas or Dynasty
and god forbid it be
Jeremy Kyle because he'll be the
******* finish of me,
what is it I see?

There's a blind spot from blind Pew,
get one of those in your hand and
you're *******.

On the radio where I go on
a slow night
it's all *****.
Nothing new, **** all to do
minimum wage,
no wonder I'm blue.

The postman a third dan, some
judo, plays ludo with gusto and
I want to **** him for bringing me
bad news, black spots from
blind Pews of which there are many.

It'll go in the end or send me quite ******
if they stop with the **** mail and
the police tail and
let me fail
on my own.

In this great big world wide knitted spiders nest
I wear a medium size long sleeved silken vest

If you can't beat them join them

Interfaced with a fascia on a blank screen
crissed cross veins on my eyes in a bad dream
and it's Friday so where is the ice cream?
I'm not playing this game
anymore.

Inactive action men
Barbie murdered Ken
and then Teddy ran away
I'm not playing this game
anymore.

Captain Scarlett got old and now he's captain Blue
the Avengers have avenged
and now what can do they do?
Tom Thumb grew up
Tin-tin threw up
the peaceniks blew up the past

If I last until this morning's through
I know exactly what to do
but
I won't be playing with anyone and especially not with you.

I gave it up for lent
or whatever went before
and I don't think it anymore
well not so's you'd notice
but if a kiss is just a kiss
why do I miss it so?
Ah
old men and pipedreams
where it all seems so long ago
and long ago is where the old folk go
to talk their tales.

The outlaw Josey Wales had no time for that
flat out on the badlands with his big sixguns in two big hands
I wish I were him
life here is grim
like in a Northern town
where the Moon rises and never goes down
where the Sun can't be found
and daylight never touches the ground
and the soot is something we cook with.

I give notice here and now that somewhere,somehow
I will shine
or sail off in a dhow to no man's land
and will my life away in a shotgun shell
Life here is hell.

I
in my instability cannot see
what's in front of me
and irrationally
I think I'm in a bind
blind to all these other things that this good life brings
but not wise enough or even tough enough to tough it out.

About ten o-clock
when I have taken stock and the food is running low
I go again to the corner shop where I take a pop at Majid and his fancy prices
I tell him rice grows in the paddy fields
he yields and lets me off for sixpence.
I feel so grand as if he'd broken wind and kissed my hand
and now I go
before the police arrive
can't survive on bread and water
ask my daughter
she feeds me when I hunger for
chop suey from the Chinese store.

All this with just one thought
one kiss
I ramble on
Life has gone and passed me by
I try with *****,coke
a smoke or two
and it doesn't do it
life here is ****
but I remember down the pit with props and pony
only I could tolerate
second rate is what I got
not a lot but it will do
until the life I have is through
but had I been the outlaw Wales
I would have told such different tales
and life is but a coffin full of nails
awaiting on the hammer.

You want to rot your guts?
drink cyanide,
guaranteed
they say,to decay
your inside bits
give you the *****
and poison all relationships.

I drink white *** and if
that Kingdom should ever come
I'll be ****** anyway,
another decay.

As the angels sing,I
look in the book,
can't read a thing,
Aramaic
archaic
it's all Greek to me.

Hush!
the librarian lied as I
fly and I swallow
more cyanide.

Potage Parmentier, the smell of it everywhere and you just know that the summer is here,
cool ginger beer and a dip in the pond, though I'm fond of the beer and not so fond of the pond,
an ice cream cone, days away from the home and the smell of ozone by the sea.

All things that mean a summer to me.

Even as I ebb away
there'll always be a time to say,
how much
I loved
your
gentle touch.
That kiss,,oh how my lips will miss
that kiss
when everything that's in me dies,
and as I ebb away
your eyes will stay with me
and I'll still say to thee
how much
I loved your
gentle touch.

The night flopped over the chimney tops
and dripped from the guttering as
the day broke through in spots
I could hear the house martins sing.

The radio sizzled, the
bacon crackled,
on the range was a pan
full of porridge from the
morning before.

Boots by the door which were itching to go
everything's slow when you want to go fast but
at last we were out on the last day of the world,(a
game that we played where zombies were real and
they were coming for us to make of us a meal)

Each day is a  bonus where the onus to be, is
the King of all castles, the Queen of all seas and
to seize with both hands the hands of all friends.
The day ends with a call from,
Mother, you know,
everything goes fast when it ought to go slow.

As the helicopter chopped the air I sat there unaffected,
at the table
I elected to carve the roast
giving myself the most of it and putting aside a bit for 'Bob', old now and not  a remnant of the dog he used to be

The helicopter bothered me
it flies in each day before our dinner or our tea and sits there in a field beside the house quite elegantly
but what's it for?
the pilot never gets out,never comes to knock on the door
and I wonder what he's waiting for.

I think he may be wanting me to take a ride across the sea and consequentially I am afraid
that one evening when tea or dinner's made there will not be a place set for me.
And in the tower blocks of regret up on the twenty seventh floor,I'll find out what he's waiting for.
I want the elevator to hesitate somewhere between floors two and three
Not willing yet or able to see the future that is waiting for me up on the twenty seventh floor.
I know what he's waiting for
but I'm not ready yet to face my future or regret and in these moments when I let my fears arise
I sometimes cry,my eyes are red
I butter bread and eat my roast and whether or not I got the most is not the purpose of this meal
the real meal is sat in the field,the helicopter will not yield its secrets until I take that trip
until I slip the harness
accept my lot which is always less than what I want but never need and on the twenty seventh floor, I'll find that one door that remains locked shut until I put myself in place before the mirror that shows the face of who I am.

After dinner is done,a slice of bread and jam to calm the nerves and soothe my fevered brow.
I don't know when or how or if I should even try to escape from that which would make me fly into that which I would hope not to see
but the helicopter waits
and I know it waits for me.

Hitting the eject
I get the hell away from here
and parachute into one more beer, a tonic at the end of a day when the shimmering heat in your eyes make you sway.
...and what would I say to another one?
I'd say, 'go on, a beer won't hurt'
the barman butts in,
but I,
being curt
ignore him and take a seat in the 'snug'
which as you may know is the one room in a pub where you can hug a pint all night long.
It is not too long and then the barman walks in with another pint of beer and a very dry gin,
he hands me the pint which I could not refuse
then settles himself down to tell me what's new in the news
and I let him sit in with his gin, and begin to think, I should not have come here, even though the beer is on draught,the barman's daft
and I get no peace
there is no release from the rigours of the day
I say to the barman,
'goodnight jack'
But I won't be back.
until I'm thirsty at sixty or sixty at six thirty..and I've enough of the alcohol stuff anyway.

Yahweh Yahweh

Hear as I say

A crumbling rock is I as I stand

All points of the compass lies the sinking sand

And as bits of I fall

Jah, hear as I call.

For the Saints and the Angels

The knights of the round table

The prophets of old

The wise man with his gold.

The heathens the sinners

Enslaved cotton spinners.

The trumpeteers

The cannoneers.

The old blues players

The Christian slayers.

For Peter for John

I need not go on

And as they arrive

To watch this demise

Hear me.

Repentance I cries.

Yahweh Yahweh.

My temperature is 105 and
I don't think that I can survive
'til Saturday, which is a shame
I've paid my rent
bought some jeans and
lent my friend
a couple of quid.

If I could rid myself of this cold,
I could live
and be quite old,
what a dream, but
the mercury keeps rising and
to me it's quite surprising
that
I'm still around.

I think that anyone I know
would have given up the ghost to go
six feet underground.

But I'm a fighter
and a tight ***,
the couple of quid I lent
that sod is bugging me,
so I'll stick around above the ground
at least until that debt falls due,
wouldn't you?

When the temperature hits 107
I'll book a room
somewhere called heaven but
not today.

What if we were
translating Jerusalem
the walls and the holy men
following who,what and the why and when
then
translating Jerusalem.

The ****** of calamity on the steps of the old church,prior to the feast of St.Steven.
My heart beating time and
the blood's flowing fine but
somewhere down the line
there'll be trouble ahead.

I see a Mediterranean blue creeping up on me,you
haven't noticed at all.
If I fall you won't see me,
I'll be frightened and lonely but my
heart's beating time so I
guess I'll be fine.

When we touch lips
you thrill me
when we don't kiss
it kills me,
will your heart ever make time for mine?

In the pools of her eyes that meet the sun where she lies
on the beach.
A seagull cries.
And out of reach of the tide on the wide side of forty five
she makes me come alive.

In the dunes that dance where we started this romance and the
smell of the seaweed that gave us the lead to get away.
I remember this as if yesterday
And the memory drips like the melting ice of the cornets we bought.
Never thought that before.

I wonder if she thinks of me
Did she
Marry?

Did she call our son Harry?
(yes I knew)

In the scents of the evening air
It feels as if, she's still somewhere out there
Waiting.

In the sands through which I run my hands
I can feel her
but it makes me blue.
And I stop.

Topping the crest of a wave was the best
but only with her
I wonder where
She is now.

And the tide comes on in
I begin to pack away
The thoughts and the wishes
that were yesterday.
The seagull still cries
Maybe it's crying for me.

Today,
you'll not find me at home
don't knock my door
don't telephone
I've gone to Brighton by the sea to catch a boat to Italy,
and underneath a pasta tree
I'll write a card to you
from me.