They say
that they see the best in me
so
why are they always testing me?

but
She
brings
out the best in me
and
I do my best for her
very easily.

Simple and
effective,
the ironing puts the iron in
me
the laundry
takes it out of me
but
she
brings out the best in me.

I suggested to Billy
that madness
was like a platform game
and that we
were on level one
therefore
we were
harmless,

he looked at me
somewhat
gormlessly
and said,
I disagree,

I hid the knives then
because
now I understand
that you can't tell with
madmen
just how mad they are.

... of course the side effects have some effect,
slang terms in a dialect,
being near with one defect,
perfect.
it kills me with its monotony
a gluttony of verbose,
such grandiose schemes
lost in daydreams and
of course the
side effects kick in like
oil I slip in and spread out
rainbow style.

If the music don't **** you the brandy will,
film of nicotine on the TV screen and
the stale smell of socks emanating from
the wardrobe,
if the strobe light don't get it
neither will you.

I fight through dimensions to get your attention and
you're ******* into a MacDonalds,
21st Century Box,
proudly presents,
the future or as near as we can tell it,
48 chicken nuggets and fug it who the hell would want that many?
maybe 24 chickens?

If the music don't **** you and
Macdonalds don't fill you
you're ******.

She came in like a riptide
roaring down the aisle
sending ripples
it made me smile,
the next tube was in
three minutes,

Wednesday
only half awake
the other half decided
to use the brake,
no point in rushing.

Jubilee calling
and I'm falling once
more into its
trap.

Why do they call it,
the election build-up?
seems more like a
demolition derby.

Trying to try
until the day that
we die.

What separates me
when unconscious and free
from the conscious and tied?

I've tried
truly
I've tried
to figure it out.

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

Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who kills the monsters at my feet
you or the demons that you'll
meet
and who will cry out in defeat
when you're on your way to the
graveyard.

it's
always better in the place we know
with the radio on and a bit of blow
and the sirens blaring down below
can't hurt us.

Switching the light out don't hide your heart
your soul shines brighter every time you start
to fool me.

If there's a modern day equivalent
to every plague
that the old
gods sent
I have them.

There is nothing like old men
that moan
in that tone,
dontya
just love them?

But I've eaten and beaten
the hunger bug,
had a hug from the loved one
and I love being that one..

..who wouldn't?
not me or I or anyone
who's anyone who would want to
be the only one
on that one
we all agree.

Dissolving slow in fluid mist and into twisted limbs,
we kissed,
lips that hold and told of more before dissolving more and more and
then, and
then
between the dawn and when it breaks
she takes me somewhere,
how it aches, but takes me more and more into the mist
dissolving yet again and more before
we kissed.

It is true
I am here, and
have finally arrived at
my fifty eighth year.
I have beaten the odds and
those rotten sods who
never gave me a break,
take a look at me now,I am
getting younger and handsomer but don't ask me how.
It must be in the genes or so it seems,it is certainly not down to a lifetime of abstainence,there's not a chance of it being so,I really don't know the reason why,
I am feeling more sprightly as the years pass on by but I am.
This old ham is ageing and ready for staging a comeback come back tour,poor I may be, but comebacks come back and they're generally free.
Happy birthday to me,and
fifty eight times
I love the sound of it,
and it even rhymes.

It is true that
there were times I was blue,suicidal at best when never my best,when sometimes the best of you is lost like the rest of you and the only thing you can do,
is map out a route for the bullet you shoot from the gun,oh what fun,what glee,happy birthday to me.

I am safe now and secure and back on the road, where recovery is a load off my mind,which is mine now and finding it clear in my fifty eighth year is a gift from the Gods
and those rotten sods who never gave me a break,take a look at me shine,you made me feel all the time like an outcast,passed through 'til the last man was out for a duck,
ha, you can just **** it and see,
it's a happy birthday full of mirth day and I'm very glad to say
it's all mine.

When it hits the fan
and the lights go out.

About that deal
is it really true
can you do
It for me?

I never believed
any ending
as long as the beer
stayed cold.

but

**** it I'm getting on old
and the time's running out

about that deal
can we seal it in blood?

Longevity
will you make it
for me?

we'll see.

Three sheets and
untied from the wild
winds that ride
any storm.

Scatter these ashes
into the midnight's of
eyes that have blackened
each day.

Have it anyway
it's no use to me
I
shall give it you
because
when this life
lets us through
and
the **** hits the fan,
when we've become
that kind of man
count me
Out.

Rolling Virginia loosely between fingers and thumbs,
my lungs are the living slums full of nicotine.

I've seen adverts on the TV about what smoking can do for me, how time has moved on.

No longer cool to light up in fancy wheels or ride horses through long pleasant fields with a cigarette in your hand.

(Slogan.

Oh doll
what a menthol can do for you,
in the light blue pack
it's the brand on your back
the all new.
Canceroo,

available in the flip top box.)

We smoked pipes in the sixties
hipsters and hippies
a tiny bit of **** for
the need in us.

And then fashion struck the pipe
like a lightning strike and
you
don't see them anymore.


A woman I knew
died at age one hundred and two
smoked forty a day for forty five years
and fifty for forty more,
she swore it was the
smoking that kept her from
choking on fresh air
and Vegans.

We become the pariahs of
society, but the clean air act never
satisfied me
I like a long cool cig with my first
cup of tea,

I live in the slums of my lungs.

Day becomes night and in the lamplight I write until my eyelids are drooping, but it's a carefully managed addiction
perfectly suited to a man who's seen action and prefers now to take it a bit slow.

The heart beats a bit faster every time that I master a rhyme
it's a
pity that time is not on my side.

In a light year or two if I finally get through the wormhole
where my soul is sure to be waiting
I'm hoping that someone will put a word in for me
to the majesty of infinity.

But the night is finite and soon dawn will appear
or it has done before, but who knows?
not I.

Every battle that I ran too was the dream that you walked into and the war fought was just me just seeking you,
and you captured me and in your chains I lay down in your arms and cried and all the pain I cried out was for you,
but the end was coming we both knew the battles we attended few could you do any more for me than die?

And I wonder now why church bells ring out loud to break the silence when the dark clouds hover closely over me.

I hear the battle songs while I'm asleep you keep me tight when in your dreams you walk into my dreams and say, I want you,
and I'm captured once again in rapture, another chance and one more war
another capture what are you waiting for?

Rejection
is my
crucifixion.
too.

As if accidentally
a Sunday fell over me
apologetically at first
mumbling a prayer or it
could have been a curse

stumbling down the street
going somewhere else to meet
someone else
drunkenly swaying to the
chorus of bird song.

Presently
which is always later than I think
I too
fell into a steaming coffee
and with no apology
yawned.

The sun
hiding in the branches of a tree
winks boyishly or maybe girlishly
at me
I'm not sure about the sun, but it's
a bit of fun guessing.

Trying to spread my wings
I found it's
no use using butter.

You can't consider living until you've done your share of dying and you're not dead nearly long enough for that
but
you'll kid yourself you're minto just to go out with the beau who's got the biggest reputation,

I'm busy
wiring up the footnotes to the signals at the station
the express can wait a mo' or two for me
because
the faster soonest said is the least I ever read on the back
of cornflake boxes in my youth.

And when it hits the fan and the men
from the Met' with the stun guns
come to get you,
who will you be then?

a Johnny come lately
come in Johnny
come hate me?

Gershwin
raps to me in blue,
Ah
slightly classical
(It's the nose you know)

Thinking things link or you'd think so,
I think so or I don't think at all,
sometimes the walls I fall from
are my own creations.

' Rhapsody in Blue' was written for you
I know that now
but
still wondering how Gershwin knew.

The Hippie said,
nice man, can I have a slice man.

It was the summer of love before I knew what love was and what pain it could bring,

where did all those flowers go
and who sang the song?

Under the Kaftan
we got the drift on
and
moving on
because that's a private thing.

Cool in the courtyards,
and on the boulevards
a thousand bards
sprouting
colourful
wonderful
words.

Approaching the danger line red on the marker mine are the days I love most.

I have walked on the red hot vial, cast on the coals is fine, heat is the heart of the beast.

Those who I need or those never known have shown by their actions that I've never grown past the B stage and in the age of the marvel though Marcel is dead,
I have fed on the mime of time, unearthed unearthly rhyme
sought out the wired and the weirder.

Reader beware of what youth think we've lost the plot, but this sanctuary is what we got,
Like it or lump it or give it a clump it doesn't matter that much.
The meter runs even when we stand still.

Thursday is the one way,
you'll fit right in
but
what it means is
dragging my sorry *** out of
bed
slipping into jeans
doping up on coffee
ripping into daylight
and moving on the day

the time now is 3:30pm
so it took me nine and a half hours
to say that

Procrastination is a cat
with
many faces.

I purr,
but at times it takes me
some time to get there.

and now i'm there it's
time to come back
which is another cat
whose name for the moment
eludes me.

The V formation at Tottenham court road underground station reminds me that, 'one swallow does not a summer make'
I clear my throat in the hope that
my voice will appear


I was here now going there
purr?
I could lick myself.

They shot me full of dextrose,
god knows why
and now
it feels like I'm teleporting,
courting the sky,
kissing her blushes as
time passes by

I beam as I scheme and who gives a **** if I duck and I dive it's what I have to do to get by and to thrive,while the cops in their cars the modern day tsars are grafting away,getting more than their pay in backhanders and doughnuts.
My M.P'S on a freebee and it's paid for by me,me, in the taxes they take and they're breaking me down,it's time to get out of this town and head West.
I'll take a schooner from Bristol,carry a pistol,become a pirate,a buccaneer,sail near and far and the cops in their cars will have no chance to catch me or give me an asbo,
does anyone know what an asbo looks like?
or I could take the long view,play the long game,get a good name.
No,
I'd rather be a privateer anything away from here,does anyone know how to steer a ship?

never saw red sand before,
but it was red on the beach
back in '44.

Friends who ended their days
looking at me with a
startled gaze as if it was
all make believe
and that later
we'd meet for a cigarette,

not for me yet,
but I never forget that
it could have been me
watching with eyes that
could no longer see

on the red sand
back in '44

What pants?
hot pants?
not pants
really.

I steal a look
she
stole me away
but
It's Monday
so
what can I do?

Much too early for the hurly burly of the morning crowd,
If I could cotton wool my ears, put blinkers on my eyes, find a seat in the corner
I might not despise, not that I
do, this jolly handbag brolly crew.

What I have to do to earn a crust, we all must, but I really, really want to shout quite loud, get outa my face, I want to run from the crowd and where would I run?

It's this city,
full of oh so pretty things
shiny,
buy me
take home and try me things.

This city clips your wings
nobody whistles
nobody sings
no one has time for the
simple things.

The things I have to do I must.
I must have things to do or die before
I'm due or try before I buy and take another fall and break my neck.

They're ramping up the volume
to drown out the impending doom
and she says,
room for more on top,
but the bus sails past
it doesn't stop,

we'll walk it to obscurity
which is a day-centre for
the elderly
somewhere West of
Beacontree.

How old is old
we do not know
until we get old
and start to slow,

is that relevant,
relative or just the
elephant in the
narrative?

Willing though I am
I am not the 'full shilling' of a man.
You can stuff me full of worms and watch which way the earthworks turn or burn me on the stake,take your shot,make your play,willing though I am
I haven't got all day.
It's time you see that captures me and ties up the dandelion clock and there's no **** a doodle ****** me to wake and set this old man free,All
I see are mad old hens with fountain pens scribbling in the sand and the farmers wife who never had a life to call her own, sits and hones the carving knife,willing though I am she won't be carving slices off this old piece of ham.
What's normal now may tomorrow be somehow sanitised by experts who'd then advertise me as the fresh young thing and bring me to some underling who'd work in order just to pay the madnesses to go away,but
I remain,
the stain you can't remove and I turn again into the groove,another disc reminds you that I am
not quite 'the shilling'
not quite the man.

Refreshed, though not possessed of the ability to cut away the debris and set myself free,I go out into what the day may be.
Work,rehearse and rehearse the work,a perk of life they say.
I go again into the day,
unleashed
re-released
ceasing to care.

It's seven hay hem or ** hum
the day already numbs me,
numb as in numbers
he
slumbers on.

At least it's light
if
millions of sunbeams
are to be believed,
right?

Relative?
most things are
you can never have enough
relativity.

and it's Wednesday
not too shabby
it could be worse,

I'm getting ready
don't know what for,
I go out of the door
to discover.

In time,
we all become the pearls
until then the
swine have their way.

Oysters and clams and man's desire to rule,
the opening and shutting of mouths
oh
the fool of it,
blowing perplexities like bubbles of gum
chewing on daydreams hoping some truth
will come from the eyes of blind soldiers who
fight for a King to bring home their blindness
who then will sing of
the beauty in war?

only the dead for the quick get away.

Stay awhile Sally and tell me some more of
the why and the wherefore,
art thou the scribe who writes legends on skin
tattoos the bullets that rattle on in and in a moment
of madness draw pictures of children asleep
in the fray,
stay awhile Sally and write me this death of a day.

In time if time allows the why and the how of it
will be written on tombstones and in this place
of dry bones filled with sorrow and grief,
a relief
is surely on the way.

AmericIran,
not a bad plan
for peace.

Trust is a
must
trust
someone
sometimes.

Eyes on the landing
eyes on the hall
eyes from the dark side
my eye's on the ball.

Rats on the sinker
the ship's clinker built
deep in the mire
downed in the silt.

I flew with Wilbur
Orville stayed behind
Kitty Hawk didn't talk, she sang,
and someone rang the president.

We built the future on wooden spars
aeroplanes and racing cars

no one said it was wrong.

It's no easy thing for me
to look back upon
the reasons that I
turned my
back upon
a life
fuelled by heat
and the seasons
that
beat me down to
the floor
and
any more
than I
could
remember then
is lost in the recording of
way back when
the night was a penlight
that wrote
on the starlight

how tight these ancient
memories
hold into me,
how cold when I hold
on
the old, but I have the key

it's imagining then
when I go back
and when,
it's so hard for me
to turn away again,
like a screen on the screams
that revolve
in my dreams,
recording though it seems
that the tape has run
through the
echoes of what
was ever said
never done,
it's not easy for me
to look back upon.

Each little death,
she breathes
life
into me.

She breathes me in
and I begin
to live.

The build up filled up with
will they, they will or won't they,

what a carry on, the fan get merry on
the beer and waccy
and it's coming home?
well,
that just sounds tacky,
but
I hope it's a fair game
a foul free game to give
football back its good name

and the final score?
Google doesn't know yet,

the power of the internet,
impotent in the face of the
future.

The build up filled up with
will they, they will or won't they,

what a carry on, the fans get merry on
the beer and waccy
and it's coming home?
well,
that just sounds tacky,
but
I hope it's a fair game
a foul free game to give
football back its good name

and the final score?
Google doesn't know yet,

the power of the internet,
impotent in the face of the
future.