What y'all gonna **** against now that the wall's fallen down?

If we built it and it tilts,
tough.

Them with the kilts on have still got the hots on ( hoots mon) for Euro
I dunno though
it could just be the weather.

But we don't have to explain we're too busy complaining and I'm really ******* because outside it's raining
and it's British rain not dependant on Brussels
(he flexes his muscles)
tremors are felt
seismic events on the trading floors

It still bores me and I need a ***,

where's the wall?

Willing myself to chill out
by reading Facebook updates?

what's that all about?
you
can't chill out when you're
logged up to the eyeballs
trying to avoid the pitfalls
in other people's details.

The day is three quarters empty,
see if you can
drink that from the bottom of the glass.

Everyone and his wife want to tell
you to live a better life,
****** off's all I can say

so chillin's off the menu
doing the things that I do,
Facebook would like to
but
I adjusted the privacy
settings.

What if it's a closed fairground when we get there?
what if a good God didn't care enough to put out
candy floss?

but what if it's a citadel?


I don't know not that I ever did
I think about it though.

There's still time
and still time
and I am quiet most of the time
but never still all of the time.

One day he will be when the end of the day
comes to me
and she whispers in me
come closer.

Chasing the shadows on the walls of all Hallows
and which one is mine?
Time was,
I knew
but time has a way of changing day into night and the one that I choose may be the one that's not right.
So I will tread carefully among the nymphs that float free and hope in all Hallows that these shadows,
I see
dance only for me.

(20 minute poetry)


Bravo
although a bit slow
we made it

gives a high five to
those left alive
the others we'll bury
at dawn

It was hard and was long
(these are not the words to a song)
it was panic and fear but we slowly
got here,
our sense of achievement outweighed
by those we leant on
on the way.

this is what life is
the climb from the abyss
the falling apart
and
knowing where it will end
we start anyway.

I'm on my way
why wouldn't I be?
been here long enough
to know
we all go in

The End.

and then the end carries on
( not the words in another song )
and carries us with it
to sit in some Mansion?
(Difficult)
but I can get down and
get with it
if it's  
part of the program.

She strips
but it's post-apocalypse
and no one looks.

He'd read
but
there are no books
and no words to convey
when no one gives two..
..and no one looks
anyway.

We're hanging on
by our fingernails.

Feet planted firmly on the shifting ground
I am what I see,
ruins all around and
most of them are me.

The clouds scatter sly, like a
coffin lid sliding tightly over the sky
and
it's grey.

Today
I shall pay what is due,
a means to my end,
someone lend me a pen so to write.

In a night that would let out the air
I am there in the midst of it,
wanting a little bit
of light.
Someone lend me a pen so to write.

This will pass
so the broken glass spoke
as it said to me,
'firm is not all it's cracked up to be'
I am what I see and
no more.

Work?
should be a hashtag
and that's all
because
it ain't worth
its weight in *****.

Some people
them people
those people
you people
oops
not you people
because
you people are me
people
should take the cure.

On this island let there be
a tower of Babel,
so we can see and understand
the language
of our fellow man.
A Camelot for Kings to sit,to
fight with words, those who would
spit upon the flag.
A queen of light
a time for night,more time for day
and time enough to let the children play.
On this island let there be,a
room for all humanity.

We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.

Hands shaking,just a bit,
can't seem to hit
the keys,
think I'll try it
with my eye upon it.
got to open them
sometime.

It's about midday
about midway through
halfway to there
wherever
there is and the
burden in being halfway to midway
or midday is,
or so they say, it's easier
to go on than go back.

It must be the promise of seeing the end
when
the beginning was so far away.

That was easy
wasn't it?
no stress
less mess
than usual.

Some days like today or
really any Tuesday can
be fun
finish work
a walk in the autumn sun
a trip to the park and as it
gets dark
amble on home
to a hot cup of cocoa.

I know as you do
that's life almost a
walk through
some like to run through
I never do.

And when it's like this
a slight kiss
from her ladyship
makes me trip the
quite fantastic.

Then
to try as I might
I can't stop
I must write.

Adieu

addictions are and will always be
the ink of the pen and the words
within me

more than simply understandable
easily readable too

I seldom do fancily worded verses
I write plainly and at times
painfully so.

That was easy
definitely
and definitely
time now
to go.

Whether I like it or not
I've got
seventeen staples that
hold me together.

Surgical steel,
real shiny and bright
holding
me tight
like a woman might.

I like that a lot
but the staples
may not,
they still hold me
together
though.

The Christmas tree
shedding needles
in the shed.

In the midst of all this
she
blows me a kiss
I catch it and hold to the
promise it gives,

Later,
when all's done,
the fun begins,
In the twist and the spin, I think that
I win
but she knows as she blows
me another sweet kiss
I forget all of this,
in the midst of it.

and then
we become harrowed
broken down
leveled out
and our earth
is
ready for seeding.

Then let us drink of the Lethe
and forget that we lived there

may the river wash our worries away.

..and as I lay in my bed, some think I may die,
some think I am already dead.
I look to the sky and call on my creator,
'don't bother me now I'll see you much later', and thus as I age
another page turns.

You try to match your brain up with the things your eyes are seeing,
give a little scratch or two because being men we all do that.
then there's the coffee to negotiate
the bedroom's in an awful state
you can't remember why


and an eye pokes out from underneath
the crumpled Egyptian cotton sheet
and another which makes two
and you wonder who
or maybe not
the coffee's bubbling in the ***
such a lot you can't recall,
memory's not worth ****** all
when it doesn't work.

I was thinking about doing some writing
but then I got right in
to a very good book
and look at the time!
there is no time left to do anything else.

I wrote this right and then he left.

My whole being slips as I kiss with my lips
somewhere down by your hips
and my ship's coming in.

You begin with a smile that touches my heart
I start to melt
but I know you felt real,
I become steel and you are the furnace
a whole mess of heat that beats in my chest
in your breast.

I like morning time best,when you wake
and I take hold of your fingers and linger a while
just watching you smile at me
asking for tea as you dress,
more mess
more heat
but you beat me to the punch line
this time.

My whole being turns on these kernels of trust
where the roof over our head
and the candlewick bedspread is fed into the thoughts that whirl round in my head,
and I'd just like to say
you look so good today
but you always do
to me.

About a million years ago and probably longer now.

The town hall clock which still ran on Victorian time,
caked with grime and the droppings of
raggedy arsed urchins
struck nine.

I was watching breakfast television,
something new or was when it was new
now
it's getting old and like the milk on the kitchen
drainer turning sour.

Sunday
the righteous pray,
I pay lip service
and
they charge me ten percent
which I suppose isn't too much
to stay in touch.

Wow
I was scrolling up for about twenty years and all that I saw was misery and cats, poetry and some **** about bats, Chinese refineries and Albanian laundries,
it beats me why anyone would do it
scroll through it
but I suppose when the books have all been read
and the pasta's left you for dead and the Tv's on the blink
you have to think about doing something.

If I close one eye does it mean half of the sky disappears
will I only shed half of the tears that I cry
if I close one eye?

what page is Boris on?
more to the point
from which book is he reading?

The eye of the beholder
lays bleeding,
the socket, like his pocket
is empty
and that's the same as the
promises they make before
they take everything away.

Solomon,
Solomon,
justice for everyone
Solomon,
solemn man
Solomon.

The judgement call,

let your house of
cards fall
if you believe her
then Sheba
will
save you.

Dance with Salome,
if only
to please her, but
don't go losing
your head.


The baptist is gone
to baptise Babylon
the waters
sink down to the sea
and
some lonely old scribe
from
the thirteenth
wandering tribe
wrote it all down
for me.

This holy wine, this blood of mine,
this glass I fill,
still
sometimes
I wish the wine and glass were gone
smashed beyond repair,
and the pulses cease
no voices,
peace.

Release that thought and exhale, breathe
deep and keep the faith.

If it's the ratings that your waiting for
you might as well go home
close the door
turn on the gas
and let the things that come to pass
pass.

I'm busy sitting on the fence
rent's due
nothing new there,
the landlord has a bare faced cheek
expecting me to fork out every week
for a roof that leaks over my head.

Ratings?
you can shove them up your facebook ****
go home and put on the gas,
I've said that before
but
was that prior to or after the closing of the door?
I'm not sure anymore
just poor.

looking at the time?
do the minutes drag?
does the sight of someone else
make you want to gag?

Political?

we
as a major party
want to part you
from anything
that you are due or
what's probably rightfully
yours,

I hear the closing of several doors
there's a hint of gas in the air
which
smells of fish
must be North sea gas.

But then you gotta explain it
to agents and prove it's provocative
and
like emoji's running on rocket fuel
they fool you into another rewrite

see,
poetry is the trap,
tap on any gender
and we're in a  flood
of verse,
some bad, some good
some understandable, some
incomprehensible
but
the screws tighten and
we write on and write on
wishing someone would switch a light on
because another day has gone.

and tomorrow you read it,
shed a tear for a sheltered life
and
wish the rewrite had rewound
because you've
found so many words
that you could have used
but
you didn't,

If I
cut my wrists
the blood would
come out quicker than
the angst

and
more fluid
less id
is the order of my day.

Do you know how much I miss you
how much I have missed kissing you
wishing you
were here?

Sunday.

There's a lot to be said for a Sunday
but I can't think of anything now
and there's more to be said for a Friday
I wish it was Friday and how.

How is a good word,
how would we do without it?

how would I know
called a man from the back row,
how I wish he would go.

but there's always a heckler to heckle
that's what makes things so special

It's still Sunday and I think I might rise
wipe all those dreams from my eyes
make a coffee or two
yes!
that's what I'll do

sounds like a good plan to me.

I put it all on overkill
if that don't
make 'em smile
nothing will.

In all of this,
these mass creations
I can't seem to make and only
fake
short term relationships.

When I sink
I do it big time,
twenty fathoms down the line
and when I know it's a mistake
I pass another fake, a breaking
of
that heart note, take note, please.

Carpet burns on bended knees and
thank you
in the dark,
lights and nights with strangers.
on the ***** and in the park
I sink again.

Hark,
it's no Angel that heralds anything at all,
it's just me that screams
Geronimo and
I let go
then
I fall.

This sullen fly walks sullenly across my sky and I can see quite sullenly that this is not the fly for me.
I'd rather walk,talk to the bees,bees can fly but would rather walk and surprisingly they also talk,in beeanese,I wouldn't have it any other way,they chatter on in that bumbling.buzzing, fuzzy way,so it's bees not flies that light my fire which proves the point that higher is not better,it just means that when it rains flies get wetter
first.

If only the Christmas lights on Oxford street
could fill a table with food to eat.

In the hungry days of shop doorways where
some sit silently
shiver violently
the lines of lights light up their nights
as if they need reminding that the
'morrow brings them nothing new.

Nothing to do but wait
as another bus draws up and
more get off to sate their appetites
among the bright lights of
Oxford Street.

Winter nights.

The soup run does not come
never will
the traders,council and the coppers
think it gives bad vibes to shoppers,
still it would be nice to think
that homeless people get a drink of
something hot.

Down Trafalgar Square there's somewhere where
they can spend some time
have a meal ,a shower and a crypt
seems fine if a little odd
for the poor sod
who's only got what he's given.
A new shirt and trews
he's not from Scotland
but beggars do not choose
they accept and
sometimes painfully,
the helping hands from a charity.

It's such a sad affair that some don't care,
don't give a look and yet think nothing
of sharing pointless posts on
the pages of Facebook.

Another bus drops off a few even as some drop off the
grid
and we bid goodnight to the rights and wrongs
the Christmas songs
the happy throngs
and hide
inside
another
doorway.

I'd like to sit on the deckchair in
my backyard and watch the daffodils
grow,
have a barbecue
a beer or two,
wear my Jesus sandals
with socks of course
because
as you already know
fashion has its home in the North,

listen to the wireless set
I
wonder if Cowdrey's got his
century yet,
a handkerchief on my head in case
of sun
what great fun,
yes
a holiday must be on the cards.

Going beyond where we've gone
and even before
we went where the
wolves stood and
howled at the door
and the three piggywigs
squealed.


Sealed in and feeling somewhere
someone's shielding
the real me from
forgers and forgery
from wizards and sorcery
and no one wonders
where we got it so wrong.


But the magic's not gone
it's under the toadstool
it
fools the unwary
and the blind
who don't see
the colours of the rainbow

where the eyes goes
I follow.

In the spell lies
the mystery
the answers to
what we see and
the dreams
of
the fancy free,

do you fancy a whirl?

All that we are
we hold in our hand
silica
trapped in a grain of
rice,
it should have been sand
but with sand
hands build castles and
in castles there are soldiers and
soldiers fight wars and
wars **** and
all that we are is
dismissed at will

On the stair,
'is there anyone down there?'
as if they're going to reply,
don't even know why
I asked.

In the dead of some night, some might try to find me, some come and behind me, the last of the day filters slowly, some say,
'that's the price I must pay,
I find some place I can stay, some place I can play the same game,
it's a frame of the mind, a find in the finding of me, a place I can be on the top of the stair, asking,
'is there anyone there'.
dare anyone answer?
is there someone below who I do not know
is there someone down there?

In the dead of some night
I am dead and I'm right on
the target.