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.

Prioritise
sanitise
close your eyes
lobotomise,

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

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

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.

Bring me this chart
let me look to the
heart of it.

A treasure map?
I'll have some
of that.

While England expects
each man and their duty
I want the *****
call.

ha
but what I desire
is
the perfume of fire
and
the feel of the flame
on my tongue.

In stripping off this skin and looking deep inside,I find that I am him and he is me and though I thought I was forsaken I am taken far from here,
to a clearing where all is clear
nearer to thee, my god,
and my god is in these things I see,
what nature places on the table set for me.

To look behind me and see that all the thrashing,crashing brashly through,the things I didn't know I knew, and knew somehow those things were few and in between this,I see you and you are me and we are what we're meant to be.

Other things I do not see,hidden from my sight ,
maybe there are more things that I never thought
other things I should have sought out.

Out in the clear now,everything looks different,how my eyes become accustomed to the me that now I know is you.
It's all very strange.

if we could have seen
what might have been
we could have had it all.

I could have woken next to you
instead
I lay here crying texting you
oh
what might have been.

supposing
some sights to see are best unseen
kept tightly in the might have been
and every night to make me dream
a little deeper.

A day with a stranger
an outing to Bude
he sings me a long song
I think it's
'Hey Jude'

The bars down in Cornwall
are all lined with tin
the beer tastes of petrol
I order a gin.

The stars in the night sky
are far and away
more exciting than an outing
to Bude for a day.

Do you like Charles Dickens,
are you even still there?

jeezeuz which satisfies Zeus
because these days is not like
the old days
when we could write **** and
get away with it,

no one fukin listens
look at India,
they're cutting off the internet
keeping it internal
killing off indigenous
but isn't India
the Mother, eternal?

well
they're
killing everything and everyone
and
we don't see the long
knives
we can only feel them.

Who out there would climb a mountain
to drink in life?
who signs his name upon the line
establishing his dominance?

I have buried more in these lands
held hands with death and smiled,
have walked a lonely pilgrimage,
to what ends,
I ask of myself.

But if climbing, falling or
dying is our calling then
we must adhere
to the plan,

but a man has
to wonder
about the wonder all around him,

times being grim and no fairy tale
no breadcrumbs to mark the trail
we take,
we make our tracks.

The time that we lose today
is the mine with the fuse delay
that blows up in your face.

We are and if we're not we should be
free?

nothing is for free, not for you and
it's not for me to say that is wrong
but
I'll say it anyway,

even as we stop and take a breath
we know that death is in the second hand
and plays the final card,

when an ace in the hole can save your soul
and you draw the two of hearts.

A scattering of leaves.

In the house of the greatest of charity
through the corridors, passing the sacristy,
into the chapel where up on the balcony
the Sisters of Mercy chant
prayers for me.

I sit humbly,
no coins for the offertory
a poor man in search of
a history,
in the house of the greatest of charity
I find hope in the
sisters that pray for me.

Still waters reflecting the worst of me
where the savage of time's
not been kind to me,
in the house of the greatest of charity
St Barnabas  is there
to encourage me.

I come from the shower, dripping and
you're slipping into bed,
nodding your head,is that
an invitation, will I
measure up to your expectations?
murmuring sweet exhultation
I guess that
I did.

This could have been written in Wapping but it wasn't
it was penned in ink by a stranger I met who was cleaning his face with battery fluid, I asked him if doing it that way extended his life, he shrugged and said, what else is there and who cares anyway?

I watched his life as it dripped down his chin and into the drains and wondered if the drains were full of such lives.

It doesn't matter to me because it is as it is and I expect nothing more.

I've started collected holes
and not just any holes
the ones I collect are
black holes
I have lots of them and for storage
it's easy
I just pop one hole inside the other

sometimes it's difficult to tell them apart
but
I don't want to number them
so I suffer this small drawback.

One day I'll find the 'golden'
black hole
the one where time extends its hand
and stretches out to take me in.

Fantasy?
probably.

The man with the battery fluid is not
there anymore,
just a lonely stain on a cracked pavement
and he was right,
who cares anyway?

I never listen to the whispers from the conmen on street corners
and prefer instead the barkers down the markets in East London.

the same thing is always the same
we need a change
new picture
gilt frame.

Language.

she spoke in several tongues
I stuck to my guns
and was shot down,
speaking English is alright
but she put me in her sights
and bombarded me with
Gujarati or Hindi or
maybe even Farsi

anyway she beat me.

Let's cry our tears at what it cost
shed our skins at what is past
and go on, forwards,
so long, see you later
I'm just a waiter at the table
of fables
salient facts
attack us all.

I want to cry with the blueberries
take sherry
with the Marchioness
it's not going to be
and she
knows it.

I am watching the shadow
bound into escrow
the sale follows on.

I wonder and
sometimes I don't
and sometime you'll
love me
but
most times you
won't

I'll die anyway.

Thoughts of suicide
died, reborn, reform
into thoughts of
suicide.

One leap into
eternal sleep
one shot and
it'll all stop.

The narrative drones on
men walk on the moon
man walks on water
the latest thing gives birth
to a daughter and
why should I care?

away from prying eyes
my mind becomes a
banana republic,
unstable
reliant upon what is
brought to the table
quite adept at being inept,

**** it
I should have slept on,
but there's always the suicide
somewhere inside.

I know it's been a ***** of a day
when I hear myself say
it's been a ***** of a day.

Tomorrow nods at all the daft sods who are stuck in the past and
that includes but  is not exclusive to
you and I
know it's been a ***** of a day.

Ready
Steady
wait!
not yet,

must
rise to shine and
make today mine,

but staying in bed is
such fun.

I could ****** a blueberry muffin
I'd do life for a Viennese whirl
but breakfast will be
what breakfast will be
a cup of hot coffee
and me.

It was only Tuesday last week too
there must be a great deal of
Tuesdays to get through,

I wish that they'd mail me a Friday.

Ooh, goodie,
the five o-clock news with its
five o-clock views,
listened and
ouch,
not goodie at all.

writing this has passed a couple of minutes
which is better than passing wind,
but it's still only Tuesday.

I don't know
if you know
that
when others
say they know
what it means
it means
something I
know nothing
about.

If we could delete every day of our week
every week of a year
for ever and ever
there'd be nobody here

Ever.

Think how boring it would be
deleting every thing we see
obviously
what we don't see
remains
delete free
undeleted so to speak

I need to seek some help.

Count me in from one to three,
she
does that every night,
I know that I am number one and two or three
does not exist.

I kissed the truth out of her.

Time to get my groove on
get up and get a move on,
oh ****!
the groove doesn't fit
the move's too tight
I
must have put some weight on
whilst gorging on the night.

Into Stratford careering
through the static lines
of Christians paying
church some time and tithe,

but tide and tithe waits not for me
sailing through the shopping sea
stopping only at the checkout
to check out
and get in
the swing of it.

The magic is in us, we,
the ordinary,
those who don't know
they possess extraordinary
talents but are
casting spells and catching
potions,
notions of, not I
pass them by
and us are them and we and
when we see that
the magic becomes stronger.

Surely we're better than this,
scurrying about like **** ants
as if we've got to big for our short pants

tell me it's so.

I need a reviver
someone comes over
with
a Cuba libre
just what I need a
rush to the head,

To start is the hard part
once that's done
it becomes easier to
go on,

the winning card is always
in your hands,

it's still hard to start though.

I ride on her coat tails,he sails at odd angles and angels come calling,
stalling for time,pretending, I mime I can't talk and walk to the bowsprit to spit in the ocean.
In that slow motion of epiphany I see what will and can never be and it all becomes clear to me,I spit again in the sea,cross my fingers for luck,tell the angels to f.....
No,
I don't swear out loud,I want the good Lord's protection,in signs,more mimes,they get what I'm meaning.
The moonbeams gleam off deck boards as the pendulum swings,things are taking shape and the ship sings through the waters,but later in the doldrums where the dolphins knit sweaters and the daughters of sirens play canasta with mermaids while braiding dreams with the seaweed,
I need to take a fix on the noon day sun, a hand on my gun lest the latitude betray me,I lay in a course for the Island of Tahiti where the girls sway and greet me,the old dog from the sea.

It's easy to be a madman on the sea when the salt is your spice and I've never thought twice about the angels sent packing,just went on stacking up bookmarks to feed the circling sharks,stark and unfriendly would the sea ever lend me a bed to lay down in?would this ship that I sail in ever founder,I flounder and flail but I sail into the moonlight,on a bright night you'll see me until the sunsets will free me to the tidal eternity of the sea deep within me.