He's scratching his head
I always am
she's with a young child
the child is calling her Gran'

What fun it can be on
the Jubilee.

I get to see in the early morn
a Wednesday as its being born,
squealing and squawking
it's quieter walking,
but
I catch the tube
religiously
and mostly on
the Jubilee.

And what have we here?
a girl drinking beer and it's
not yet half past five.

It takes all sorts,

Now
there's a woman sat on the floor
( should be more seats )
it could be a protest or
she might just be drunk.

Nobody notices
they're all trapped
by devices
logged into some
internet weaver,

I think we're weaving a shroud
for what's not allowed
we'll be wrapped in it
anyway.

Wednesday
Dontya just want it to go away
I know I do.

The have-nots have not
while we have and we've got
but
what should we give them?

good advice would be good,
if
only we could
take it ourselves

However advice doesn't cut it
for the outcast so let's put it
on the back burner

take a pick and unlock
the hot shots that you are
buy a burger or a pizza
have some eats there
in the doorway
it's a great way to get into
helping others who are out in
the cold.


Streets once paved with gold
now carpeted with homeless
who are told
'no room at the inn'

well
if that's not a sin then save me
from do-gooders who'd enslave me
or drop me in a grave and cover me
you should have smothered me
at birth.

I'm accruing words of wisdom in a garden shed in Wimbledon where good advice is sneered at and the only thing that's put upon is word written here in Wimbledon

I see it through the half filled glass
half full with hope and half
with gas
it always seems to make me laugh
just before I cry.

When we kissed I knew for sure
her heart was kind
her soul was pure
she was the cure for what ailed me
but what failed me and this she knew,was my fear
of seeing dreams come true.

There is always some twit who looks down his nose and thinks that he knows me,I think he knows **** all and the harder he looks the harder he'll fall,
but he is of no consequence to me,I'd tell him he's a **** but you see,I must be polite,I must put up with his **** otherwise I might give him a right hander,the only thing that he's right in, is in knowing nothing, the *****.
Who knows how I tick? not that twot, he hasn't got a clue and wearing a cheap Primark suit he thinks he's Cat Ballou but I just get on with it,take no notice,not a bit,but if he ***** with me I'll slit his throat.
the little ******.

I go off again,
a bit Jed Clampett,
wrapped in my blanket
oil on my hair.
Hillbillies everywhere.

Millionaires the lot of them,
mountain men come down to town to
spread their money,
***** brown hair,long lank greasy,there's a one
with no shirt on.

I go off again into Beverly,
it's very
loverly,
Ma,
is making tea
in china cups.

She fires another love dart
and it pierces my loveheart
and for part of each day
you will hear me say,
ouch,
but in a nice way
because that kind of pain
is kind of nice.

The postman or postlady is late,
but I can wait, I'm used to waiting,
I have waited for a bus and a train
I've waited on tables, I can wait again,

not that I'm expecting
ha
now that would be a tale.

It's Friday and most things slow
not that I really know,
just guessing,
although
it's taken me ten minutes to put
my shirt on.

He was rocking to and fro
so he had to be
Jewish or crazy
or was I being lazy in not asking?

Multi tasking
not my forte
not even at sixty
when
I'm in the slow lane
waiting in line for
a Zimmer frame
invented by
(and here I'm just guessing
but
with a name like Zimmer)
Someone who's Jewish
and probably from
Indiana.

Strikes on the jubilee?
It must be nineteen seventy three
or am I overthinking this.

Action by underground staff?
well that's a novelty.

Monday some day and that
some day is today.

In London
we blunder on
blindly,
moles
digging holes.

Head phones
and ear phones
my bones are creaking
sneaking a peek at the girl
with the bottle red hair
and the blonde sat beside her
a bride if the ring tells the truth.

This ritual is a speciality of
being mental
the Central only proves to me
I'm not on the jubilee
nothing more.

In the mirror with her back to me, she was
naked,
and though not looking
I could see
just how wonderful it would be,
to know her
more.

Is it agreed then that we
feed all hungry children
educate them
and teach them without trying to
preach,
then
perhaps there will be a world
fit for the free,

Steppenwolf at the door
asking if
I wanna score.

When stocktaking is not
a criminal offence,
but shoplifting is.

But
the music plays along
with the words I make up
to my song.

Who can I blame but the ghosts who dismantle my brain while I sleep,
if I wake they're not there but I know where they'll be and that's behind every person who is laughing at me,
anxiety?
who's anxious?

At the most peculiar times
when Jupiter aligns with whatever
planet there happens to be,
stars fall about me,
the ghosts leave and
I believe in Santa
Monica.

Pine Flats,
that's in Colorado
and this I know though not
because I've been there
but I've seen it on a Western show
a long time ago
and towns like that don't change.

There may be mountains in Montana
there may be lots of moles
I heard a lot of people there
are busy saving souls.

There may be blue sky in Montana
I really hope that's true
there may be ghosts of cowboys
just a moseying on through.

I gulp dry gulches for my tea,
my breakfast,
dime store books,
There may be these across the seas
Montana may put me at ease
I really want to know though
are there
Mountains in Montana?

(20 minute poetry)

This,
is like walking through glue and when you look at a book you all judge by its colour or cover and you look at each other the same.

Name me one or two who have not set with the Sun and gelled with the glue and I know there are many.

'If anyone knows of a just impediment' claws for the pause and the applause may cause you to bow.

How to recapture the lusting for living among the hard faced uncaring because between the giving and taking the wire's electric.

We get the scene set and ready to go, this is like formula one but taking it easy and warming up slow,
I don't know and I doubt you do too if the cover's the problem and if so who do we turn to?

I cram so much in my saddlebags and I water the horse.
West of the Pecos which could be anywhere,
if I try really hard and click my heels it feels like
I'm back in
Kansas.

Back in the home and I'm soaked through the skin to the bone, my teeth such as they are are by far the liveliest thing about me, chattering away as if this isn't a krap day.

She is there to take my chill and her will is stronger than mine.

Once upon a very late time ago when the snow lay thick and flick knives were the currency and I never imagined in my wildest and I have very wild dreams that she would be the one to tame me.
we never got to the end, the story full of twists and turns has many filters that run through it,
she knew it and I know it now.

And if the clock strikes at all when I'm banging my head against a solid brick wall it never strikes me,
she sees to that.

The new year's here or has it gone?
not sure if its been
or if it has
where it came from.

Memory though has been a friend,
but
like all friendships
had to end,
yet I'm still kicking
picking winners
eating breakfast
occasionally dinners.

no cure for this
no kiss me quick,
no, no, no
I am sick.

Dr Quack
said,
'strip down Mister,
on your back'
(not sure about that,
even less sure of
Dr Quack.

To have undone
what would have become
before it became
or
to undo who you are
and start over again.

Life,
playing the long game.

Once upon a time of gold
before the time when
I got old
when unicorns were born
and goblins danced upon
the field of waking dawn,
a rainbow lit across the sky,wrote
colours,
several mountains high and
all was well.

What did I miss
while I was busy kissing shadows moving slowly on the bedroom wall?
So busy I could not hear her call.
I hesitate to say,
she did not wait.
But
she,
did not wait

Now it's too late
Oh what a state I'm in.
Age is what I write upon the page that should be filled
with daffodils and words
of love.

But it seems the wild flowers cracked
and massed, attacked me
Now I'm backed against the bedroom wall
I can no longer hear her call
I've lost it all.
Too busy kissing shadows.

I've done it,
been in a race for
my life and I
won it,

you
can win it too
but
you have to enter

I spent a
long time
which was no time
and
now I have time
to relax.

When the pen dies and the ink,
so fluid,
solidifies,
what then?

But then is already here,
my fear is
digitised.

When this life flashes quickly across the lens of my eyes and all the truths that I've known,
(...the chickens coming home)
and the lies stripped away of my life in that day and I'm shown new horizons, with the lens of my eyes on the flash that always dies on the third stroke of three,
I wonder
what will I see?
Will it be angels with harps or cherubs and tarts?

Death must be like Christmas for some, the last
present to unwrap before the sinking of the Sun,
and the  newborn infanta is Jesus
dressed up as a Santa, ** ** **,  
Oh, is that ecclesiastically correct?

I direct several queries but the boatman, he wearies of the same old rock to the roll and he tells me to wait,
I wait but don't see,
I'm in a blindfold with a pin in my hand trying to stick it into the tail end of a promise that was the promised land and if that's all there is to it
I may as well wait a bit or at least until the next boat comes in

Count coup
that's what the Apache do
meanwhile
I'm counting Cadbury's buttons.

I am also counting on this ending soon
which is like counting how many buttons
make up Button Moon.

My sanity is holding onto my quiff
held by the wind on the edge
of this cliff,

Killing time doesn't make me a murderer
but the judge gave me twenty-five years,
time to take stock when I get over the shock
fifty two buttons in a pack not counting the
ones that I ate.

The faces you see in the feared hours of night might be me or one of a hundred faces of the hopeless cases I became

Codes of conduct do not apply when you're ****** by the system and hung out to dry

and so we mutate

become another face that you don't see

contorted
we arrange the distortions until they become
one straight line,
the stumblebum?
which is
a quaint word
though it don't work for me
I know bums stumble
(generally)

and then they think that I'm disposable
because they think I'm unemployable
well,
I got a job
and showed it's not impossible
however much improbable
miracles do occur.

but if I believe things change
they will,

some believe it'll always be this way
and if they get their way
it will.

(20 minute poetry)

This
is what the brave
'New World'
is all about

Trump clumps in
and
Obama tramps out

not looking forward
but
backward

sometimes so glad that
I'm a coward and can cower
in some corner cupboard.

At some future date when I
can relate to these current
events
I might begin to understand
how the land of the free
tied itself up
in knots.

In dreams we are
to become by far

a better version.

a state of bliss?

what update can this be.

certainly not Windows 93.

Through the shattered pane
again
outside in and strain my eyes
to see the same old view

nothing's new nor second hand
nothing's nothing
and that's a brand.

The intro's been and gone
to the end of time and
then

so long
Marianne

a song by Leonard Cohen
now why mention him?

Sorry 'bout that, but  
the name cropped up
so I slipped it in.

I see fractures in the fractals
candelabras on the ironing board
creases in which these words are stored
and pterodactyls overhead

the only thing certain is a prediction
and I have yet to believe in those.

He continues the journey without you,
just being he finds no use in being.

I'm sure Nietzsche could teach me to progress,
but Freud has a line on me, a lien for me to see
him.

They tell me business is booming
in a backroom in Bermondsey
I go South and then I am sure
that
the rich do get richer and the poor
just so.

Mean streets make erstwhile friends
and
where ends become commonplace
chalked outlines
a tear filled face
friends are all that we need.

And of course mad Rasputin
was the one who put the
boot in,
but then
we always knew that he would.

bring back biology
*** in the dormitories
frogs to dissect
and learn all about babies.

( those four lines come courtesy
of a secondary modern
in a Victorian building
with delusions of grandeur)

To query,
to ask the world weary
was
it worthwhile?
to have a quiet smile and
think we'd have done more,
so ******' easy.

So fukin' do it
get off your arses and show me

ah
but I fukin' knew it,
you're full of **** and orange juice

what's the use
what's the use.

I'm confused unlike you
who seem to know precisely
what to do

I never knew and if I did
I've forgotten how
but
I have lived

glued on bits that fell
made a shell in
which to hide
came out and
tried
and failed and tried
and lived
while others died
and
you with the quiet smile
couldn't walk a yard never mind
a mile in my shoes.

Could I have done more?
probably
could I have lived more?
definitely and
knowing this makes
me infinitely
more grateful
that I am what you see,
that I am to be me

faulty
but worthy of fixing.

Hedgehogs with spines
have it very hard at times,
trying it on with female type
and finding the females have a gripe
with spines,
at times.

A hedgehog I know and have often seen
coats his spines
in poly..sty (a) rine
he finds this a boon
when finding the females swoon at his feet
which just goes to show that you cannot beat
innovation.

The carriage waits outside
the chapel gates and
Michelangelo,
stands
brush in hand to
watch me go.

I,
who have come so far
from there,
away from the stale and Sanctimonious air,
look back on this, and when
I talk with Rodin as he
chisels a kiss
on my lips,
he laughs.

Dreams that dance like marionettes,
who forgets dreams like those?

the iris of my eyes
wonders why this is
but accepts the inner truth.

I satisfy the third eye by
training
the other two
to search each
dream I have
in the hope of finding you.

Here we go
42.2 on silent radio,
if you want peace and quiet
tune in now and try it.

I liked radio Caroline
and
the 'Mi Amigo' was
truly a friend,
sadly
the music had to end
but
no one ever forgets pirates.

You never watch me when I fall
or hear my voices when I call
that boat you're in is
sinking very slowly

and the higher that I climb to olive branches
that are offered is the distance that's between us.

The boat you're in allows me to swim and
then I'm sinking too.

Begging letters answered by the beggars on the patchwork
of some streets that I have walked on
and in turn have talked to me when poverty begs only
silence.

I don't need your sympathy
I need you to write the words of the song
and sing to me and bring to me
that peace in which the
Summer lays
the happiest days.

If I should become lacklustre, dull witted and fit only for the scrapheap,
please keep a place in your memory for me, I wasn't always
that way.

There was lots more, lots,
I rode the waves to the shoreline,
but time took its revenge on me,
once
a friend, though it never defended me
and I pretended for years it had forgotten me.

But
I'm not off my rocker yet and
I've still got all of my marbles,
the light's burning bright,
it's
game on
tonight,

I'm just telling you how it might be.

Neither shall I give up the ghost
because
even ghosts have the right to asylum
and the ghost's keeping 'mum'
because ghosts are not stupid.

Lucid?
I thought you wanted Euclid,
same space, but another time
maybe.

I'm fighting inertia
because
Bugner
chickened out.

there are lots of because's
because that's what because's
are,

The clock keeps on ticking,
there's something quite sick in
that,
that being those minutes that pander to the hours that follow
and the days that crowd through the ways I have walked.

A sundial would suit me
right down to the ground.

Sometimes the mistakes are
the lessons you take with you
the lessons that lead you through
the maze of your days

Prioritise
sanitise
close your eyes
lobotomise,

stretched out in the backroom
ears like a half-moon
listening for approaching doom
not worrying at all.

Not, should I write
but
what should I write?

In the Spring
it's all meadows,
the Summer,
about skylarks,
in the Autumn
sombre music,

but in the Winter,
in the cold
on the edge of
being old,
surfing the snowdrifts
is the only thing that lifts
my spirits.

And...
She
stands so high above me
but she loves me
and I don't complain
but I can't explain why
she loves me
just a guy
but I love her.

Everything she does is for a reason
some things I don't understand
but there's a season for this
it's called utter bliss
and I'm in midsummer
somewhere between youth and the coming of age
she sets the stage
I am under direction.