One day when we're able
all men
will sit around the table
to discuss
open and freely
what's really wrong
with the
World.

a homage
to
due diligence,
he
still stands
alone.

I reference the fishermen
on the shores of
impermanence,
they look at me
in disgust

ashes to that which in turn turns to dust
and yet we must carry on.

Whatever you create
some will state,
'it's not good'
but for some,
it will be,
whether looking at or
listening to,
an epiphany,

it's not for me'
I hear some say
and that's okay
with me

but poisoning the well because you don't like the water?

Divide and conquer
was or was not the right answer,
I should have known if not so

head on to face one,
to punch with full force
until the division is gone

it's not poetry that comes
from the barrel of a gun
but
death.

and ** Chi in a Teepee
or Mao playing mahjong
cannot change that

This is the future they painted,
battleship grey and tainted by oil?

The old masters,
Whitehall *******,
but that's up for debate.

It was the tattoo that
did it for me
the one on her neck
I could see,
but the one down below,
the one not on show,
the one that she told me I
could go
take a look
took my breath
away.

Pictures of Emily
I see..
Pictures of Emily
To me..
..It's the place where I want to be.
I'm free..
In Pictures of Emily.

... She tries to call to me..
I hear.
I know that my Emily is near..
But the words that she wants to say..
They won't appear..
Just pictures of Emily....tbc.

This could be a great song...any takers?

China white,
two lines of coke
Northern lights
blinded by smoke,
it all seems broke,
I'll just resign
find some more time
and one more line
feeling alright
with China white.

Jukebox plays
yesterday's songs
nothing new
nothing belongs
a rainbow of oil
no colours to spoil
back to the foil
two lines of coke
more China white
blinded by smoke
feeling alright.

When the lights run through
my head
laser guns
thinking me dead,
I go back to
things that I knew
nothing to do
falling in blue
with two more lines
these are the times
China white climbs
into my bed.

It is hot
hip
for the Sun to scorch my eyeballs?

sour cream for wild chives.

Getting on with the business
putting it out there
fuelling the engine and
filling with grief,

winter comes and at the most unexpected of times,

but it's how and how it is hot and finding a spot to reflect.

I always reflect
is that hip?

Sight now unseen
though blinded
I have seen
and have been
blind.

I wonder aloud
some time and sometimes
I chill
in the heat of
the Sun.

Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community

Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,

I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face

That place is reserved

In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe

and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.

If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?

I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and

erasing my body chemistry

I can see it
if that is it.

They're not being caught in the safety net
not while the rich are getting
what the poor should get.

Starnbergersee
and Eliot telling me
that Marie was
family
and I believed him because
he was a prophet and poet.

Didn't know it then that some men
are born to be and others
only born
like the winds that blow over the
Starnbergersee
constantly.

Time had changed him though and he
became old and slow, Marie too got
older in the face,

changed and ripened
like fruit  in the marketplace.

Time in its time becomes the
infinite stupidity of the
apocryphal rhyme,
a line to live by or
die for.


I still look for the sled in the snow
knowing I'll never see it.

I remember it
because it felt like
a song from a long
time ago,
and where does time go?
no
time to remember at all.

It would have been easy to end it all
with a knife or a fall
from a very tall tower block,
to blot it all out and escape,to
reach out and outguess my fate
of which this was not.

The plot thickens and my pace
quickens as the story goes on,
'what happened to John?'

Turning the page on an internal rage
that is never defined,
I find words that can soothe me,
whole paragraphs smooth over the cracks.

I am armoured,
attack if you like.
I am warrior at war
molten to the core
standing my ground while the world
shifts around me.

There's always a suicide inside me
I know that a bit,
and the knowing is the
beating of it.

I love it when the Sun falls down
and wraps me lightly in its
glove,
just love it.

and when the evening slows the day
when children ***** off from their play
and a bit of quietness hits the coming
of the night

you've got to love it,
right?

I was children long ago
back when
times were hard,
but we never minded
we weren't blinded by
the shine,

we were busy
just enjoying
with no sense
of time.

Every programme rammed down my throat makes me want to puke, being a terrible judge of the character plot I look but don't see what the images do for me,
except maybe
give me some time to pen in a line to the editor,
'get with the programme'
but of course he already is.

The remote overheats as I
constantly switch from terrestrial
to satellite
morning to night and there's nothing, nada,
surely they ought to by now
be getting it right.

What happened to Andy
Pandy?
or Muffin the mule?
Playschool?
the Woodentops?
and so tragic
there's no
Animal Magic.

Emergency ward 10
will I not see that again?
and what about
That was the Week that was,
gone
because they think they know better,
time to pen another letter.

Dear Sir,
are you there?
what's going on?
obviously not the
programmes that
John want to see.

yours sincerely
Old Mother Riley,

nb
omitting the smiley.

This day
may be historical

It will certainly go down
as living proof that Monday
arrived here
and I'm here in London,

Leaves spring like frogs
from the branches of trees
Summer pushes them to
move in some soft morning
breeze

and the light burning
patchwork in the back
of my head

straw coloured
sun bleached
texture like sand

rough hands
(Not mine)
making room
pushing through
the queue

wasting time wondering
what to do

and
what is it for.

This must be my menopause
the codicil
an added clause to life.

I intend not to snap
but to bend,
if I break
who then
will take me and make me
whole?

This rigmarole of the tired and
tortured soul
if this is
what this is
it will be.

It's only a Monday blue
I'm used to those
it's only a Monday blue
I'll wait until it goes.

it seems I won't be complete
until I repeat
rehearse and repeat,
repeat to the internal
beat,
it's only a
Monday blue.

We talk about the 'latest'
over frappe's
while they're pointing
sub-machine guns at
the sons of some old prophet

but the market place stays silent
to show respect for those who've
fallen.


there are some who'd blame their
neighbours for the problems that
beset us
and then double lock their doors.

well
paradise is what we all strive for
and not a place
to ****** for,

my heart is open to receive
all friends who grieve
today.

Chocolate mice are
not
as nice as
real ones,
but
they taste
better.

Ramping up production,
drugs
the new seduction,
where the
share price is
a yardstick,
pay and you don't get sick
don't pay and you do
who
or
WHO
is fooling who here?

The World Health Organisation,
WHO?

the name at this current time appears
to be somewhat a misnomer.

These are the men who dig in the
sand looking for an island,

Who
thinks the Oasis was an Egyptian Pharoah?

Educated?
they have to be to see beyond the end of
their noses.
but what does anything mean when we're
all in the nightmare and frightened to scream
in case we wake more of the monsters.

Management fails and the corporate ship sails off into the blue,
the things people do
to make a buck,
some people ****.

Not his day or my day or any day to get in the way of progress
and progress they say is the way forward,
well
stab me in the back again
I miss the pain of being alive.

Sometime sooner or later when she wakes up with that smile on her face,
the smile that puts my misery into its rightful place
I'll be better or better than when
I have to go into battle again.

I love it really, but ideally, I wouldn't
she says,
I couldn't be sure,
but I think the molehill's becoming the mountain.

Talking about Babylon
as if it has been and gone
and where did Jericho go?

in Mesopotamia, they put the
blame on you, but
in Jerusalem, you wowed them
and now when you need a favour
they went and left you,

the last supper?
on Tupperware,
social distancing
meant that
only Judas was there,

there will be hell to pay
as my mum used to say
and so often
she was right.

It's one eighty and
here in blighty
by the crypt
we're being stripped
of our dignity

It might be hopeless
we might be helpless
and I confess
I do not know.

The weather's warmer now,
but
little choice for them
a line for tea at ten
and back on the street again.

That pile of rags you see
is a dying humanity
crying profanities
shouting obscenities
I understand why.

In a City that flows.

you'd think that
they would engineer
solutions
and get us away from here
but
that's not cost effective
not a priority
no government directive.

This is
the threshing machine
sorting
the wheat from the chaff.

I'm following the times
time's following me
and all around me I see
piles of rags.

London,
paved with
for sale and sold signs

redistribution by stealth
a wealth tax on the poor.

We should get out
leave them to it
but
the glue holds fast
and
we'll never do it.

We're like rats on a ship
the pied piper trip
sinking and hoping
we float.

I vote to sink
let them ******* think
I'm done,
but when the
safety valve blows in
the city that flows
when the crying humanity
rises as one
It'll be them that's done.


it's still one eighty
I could be early
a bit premature
a Johnny come lately
love me
hate me,
but
ignore me at
your peril.

There is poetry in poverty
Incandescence in the darkness
of their day

And through taxes, we will stumble
mumbling praises as we crumble and
enlist into the grumbling of the
hungry on the streets

And we'll get to know the bible freaks
who give free food
For fifty-two weeks of the year,

fear the lord they say
I tell them,
'I fear each and every ******' day
You fear the lord and I'll get the
cardboard for my bed'

There'll be charities to help
themselves while helping you,
It's a wolves den in a zoo out here

And they say
Fear the Lord!
I fear for my sanity
lost to the bible and the charity.

Thursday
it had to come
as surely as..
..and then some.


Remember the seventh floor
Florida 'gators at the door
waiting to...
..state law.

Riot gear on and off
I go
into the cauldron.

Easter at least
or I think it could be
eggs for breakfast
of
the hen variety.

Ah,
but religion is the cross we bear
and some wear it on a chain.

Food for thought.

A hot cross bun
and holy wine
say your prayers
and let us dine.

The last day.

like any other day in a way
except it's the last,
but
we seldom know
and even less
until we grow
out of our shells

wherein the spirit dwells.

Watching politics on a four-inch screen,
( much bigger in my dream)
and it appears to me that the end is not nigh,
it
will
just pass us by with a courtsey or a bow
and that's how they'll make us
believe.

No one wants to hear this
the last farewell
the final kiss,
it's as if
you don't really care,

well
walk my boots
'cause I don't give two hoots,
you'll fukin listen anyway.

There is no enterprise
no **** me look starship up
in the skies,
we
are on our own.

Heading down the
escalator
into the mouth
of a rabid alligator
but
no one wants to hear that,
do they?

It's all a bit John Wayne,
sis foot six looking for
someone to blame and
who's going to argue?

I hide in the coal hole
which hasn't been used since
the clean air act.

I'm packing it in,
meanwhile
Hopalong's gone for the beers
and Doc's racking up the gin.

Because I see it,
It is there
as real
where anything
can be.

Because I do
because of you.

hedging bets.

I wonder if empathy
is the sole preserve
of the visionary.

Life only begins when you
learn how to live it
so I'll give it a go.

I don't know if I am
ever going to get there
wherever there
might be, but
the journey so far
has been
interesting.

Whatever.

If I am uniformity
the enormity of it
strikes me,
someone
likes me
likes the
ludicrousness of
the poetry
loves
what could be
a visionary
but
we all see things
differently
don't we?

Remember the gravelly voice girl at the Dixieland showbar
far back in the day?
she died
I tried to contact her family to give my condolences but my memories got in the way.

That must have been '72 when the bay was still blue and unpolluted by nuclear waste,

I remember her and her and the others since then
I hope some remember me too.


Moving on is not being deceitful
nor disrespectful
only time is guilty of that.

A rose wine sky
an eagles whine
a clouds floats by, a day so fine wrapped in a shawl
and I shall hear the buzzards call.
Thermal draughts,hyena laughs
Lions roar.
My spirits soar,
I am set free,
the day becomes a part of me.

things that creep up on you when you least expect them, the alert detect them, the sleeping dreamer deflects them, the stupid embrace them and I'm one or I'm all of them.

Do variables change?
it depends,
the very name suggests they do
but who can be certain?

Comfortable is not just a chair
it
is more than the state of a mind
being there,
tear up the rule book and take
a fresh look
don't get yourself stuffed in the rut.

and what does it mean to me?
a sixpenny piece for the Saturday matinee
on the way to a Sunday at service.

in the spin
being coloured in
with the crayon
kept in the lines.

as it was it became and it was just the same
as it was what became of the man,

when I fall let me go
wanting to know
how it feels

Not what you'd call an odds on chance
but you and me and circumstance were thrown together in this thing we call the dance,
and who knew that the great romance
was waiting around
the corner.

In my dream I was skiing through the mountains,
I'm free in my dream.
As I was going to St Kitts.

In the wilderness breaking where the mountains are shaking fresh snow from the peaks and the wolves were a crooning hoping soon there'd be food in,
hoping I'd be the meal on their table tonight,
came a light rolling softly through the valley below me and the pass opened through,to a view I would die for.

A lonely chateau stood proudly up on the plateau before me and in the windows I could see, a family at play,where the joy overwhelmed me,took the feet from beneath me and the skis became unnecessary as I floated through air.

Where, in the rules of a dream does it say that I have to return to the light of the day?I wanted so badly to stay,
but the alarm bell from hell set an avalanche flowing and in the flowing of snow across the mountains I go, back
to bed.

I'm getting old and I am falling to bits
think I'll give up the ghost
and just call it quits.

It's alright for you,
You're all so young
and so very vibrant
but I am reliant on doctors and pills
and every day I go on just brings me more ills.

The Priest Calls...

..and tells me,
'that life is but a distraction
and afterwards the real action begins
Repent of your sins'
Oh Christ
I don't want to hear that no more
I show him the door.

I try to shuffle around
but I admit it at last I am almost bedbound.

The Lady Calls...

..I let her in
another repentable sin?
but she just looks and she laughs
and says,
'the only thing you'll get in that bed is bedbaths'
I don't need to show her the door
she's there before
I even know it.

Yes,
getting old is the pits
are you also thinking of calling it quits?

Life is a fight
nature fights for the light
we are all blind in the night
and none more than me.
I can see I'll go on 'til the day's finally gone
but nothing tastes good any more
I wonder who let my taste buds out the door.

The Devil Knocks..

..and that shocks me awake
but I never really sleep
got to keep my eye on the green line.
Beep.Beep.Beep
the monitor doesn't allow me to sleep
but 'Old Nick makes me sick
he's even older than me
why would I want to be one of his acolytes?
they're just little shites.
I show him the door
and he roars into flames
feckin showoff.

I have been at odds with God (or the Gods)
for most of my life.
He or She is just so,
you know
Right.
And if God exists,
one day when the mists clear
I'll see her
or him

Over in Amerikee
which is or we are led
to believe,
the land of the free,
why
are so many in the
penitentiary?

Who held the *** while god painted this land
whose hand had a hand in creation
which paint did they use,I wonder was it lead free and
how did they paint the waves on the sea.
Did the clouds stand still as they painted them white and why
paint some grey
who decided the colour of night
and
who was it painted the day.

Who paints the tiers in the tears we cry and why
do they take time to dry
and tell me what tin had the wrinkles within and
how come I got some.
It's quite fun that the sun is the colour of egg yolk
gods little joke possibly but
I think they took a liberty when I mentioned that I could see colours in
black and in white,the colours of the day and the colour of night because
they went and painted a zip atop the top of my upper lip and
that shut me up.

I feel good and how are you?
well,
that's splendid that you do
in fact I'd say,
'just tickety boo'
but if at times you think you're not
and if sometimes you've got an ache or pain,remember I feel just the same,but what's the point of harping on
before you know it that feeling's gone and once again,free from pain and all's the same as it was.

The eagle that stoops and then swoops,the marching of troops,the banks that recoup what they lend,the end of the line where what's yours becomes mine,the beginnings of time,the primordial slime that drips down on the naked,sublime may occur,though not here over there where the air is still ****** and pure.
This is not cure for a trust that I placed,stone will not rust before faith turns its face and looks out on displacements with vacant expressions,compressed in a moment an hour becomes flea like,a bug to be rid of,a firefly slides off the edge of the light in the night of no mention when water retention sparks wars and inventions makes ****** out of minds that crack questions they find and pick out the kernels,
internal relations,contraptions contracting first contacts relaxing the spans of the worm holes through strung theory portals,
and all of me mortal and just dying to know, where do dreams come from and where do they go?