The scenery's changing
that much I can see
and something is moving
I don't think that it's me

light turning blue
but that may be you
the scenery's changing
I don't think that it's me.

I am trapped in the moment
where each minute's delay
is
caught in the hourglass
watching me pray.

The scenery shifts
and drifts slowly away across
an expanse of sea

something is changing
I don't think that it's me.

You can hear the people
screaming, but you think
that you're still dreaming
even as you pour the cream in
and it rises to the top,
stop?
stop is just a red light that
programmes us to do right,
can you hear those people screaming?

they still knock 'em out in China
to undercut the home economy,
the referees should set us free
on three falls or submission,
but
China's not the enemy
the enemy's within.

'..the Greta Garbo home for wayward boys and girls..'

On another day
far away
you could find me
at the Kirkland Hotel
or
near the bay
watching the waters sway
knowing that life ticks away
whatever we do.

and Manfred Mann playing in the background.

The floating currency
sunk me as
the gold standard
left me,
economies troubled me
banking baffled me
thank god for the floorboards
under which
I hoard all my cash .

Running through this is
a common denominator,
a fate that frustrates me
and
Irrelevances that castrate
me,
impotently
I wait for the end.

The end comes with Value added tax tacked on to the end of it.

No one's going anywhere
or not to where you think,
you may as well sit back
and have another, but blink
and it all changes.

Several types of men
of which I know,

some are speeders
some are slow
some are joggers
others plod, but most,
believe in the
greater good of God,

although
some believe in
Wally Whyton
Enid Blyton,
some won't do it
with the light on
some won't do at all.

That's where we are
and we haven't gone
very far,
have we?

It is Henry,the horse, taking me but of course on the madnesses of the  white light,
out of sight and my mind and my eyes underlined with the redness of deadness,
I am ready to go,
In the ******* where girls rub their bodies up tight and bite on the hands that feed them,
I'm gone of course,riding the pale white horse,bucking the trend and wondering if, and if when it will end,
someone tends to the jailer who,on his horse looks much paler than me.
if this is free then I am chained and I have gained nothing at all,
watch me fall,watch me die,watch me breathe again and try to believe again.

Henry is always there
out in the background where
the devil sits high,
watching me try,
madness of course and Henry,
will be
the end or the
beginning of me.

the lockdown, or are you shut out,
put out by the landlords who believe
that they are the gentry?

vacant possession,
the devil doesn't want me,
I am empty,
possessed by a vacancy.

Oh jeez, a bit gloomy for a Thursday
and not the way I imagined it to be,
but two cups of 'joe' and I'll be buzzin'
must go
and make some.

Laugh,
write about
love and bite me awake,
let me
shake those cobwebs from
the rafters,
clear my mind and listen to
you.

What's what for if not to write more
and it doesn't matter if you don't understand,

I
get therapy
100 bucks a session,
to cure depression?
or to prove my obsessions
are real?

I wonder if dry stone walls
get wet when it's raining,

more from the pointless
appeasing the helpless
into the maelstrom
again.

I read poetry
use it as medicine,

an elixir to fix ya
said
the rhymer

but no time for him today because
today is a Saturday.

Screaming obscenities
flatline and ice cold in
thousands of
mortuaries,

been there
done that
had the treatment
shocked back
still screaming.


It is the Thursday
the fourth day in
the week which
is the limit of my life
I am somewhere in the middle
having breakfast with my wife
and so soon
it will be Friday

I keep my eye on that day
which though near is still
quite far away

Live in hope?
we all do
don't we?

and to find a purpose,
a reason to go on
beyond the Thursday
gone.

In this awesome state
of wait and see
an occasional obscenity
slips from me

that's allowed or if not
it should be.

My dad said,
if I swallow the pips
an apple tree would grow
inside of me
and him
being tall, thin and wiry like a
pipe cleaner in a kitchen bin
never swallowed one.

Is isolation helping me?
am I financing my own therapy?

the blue pill or the red pill?
but
you're not ill until
Schroedinger says so.

anyway
we're all sinking into the darkness,
except for the politicians who are
stretching this pandemic out and
getting their money's worth.

it's what I watch and if you see
that's what becomes of being me.

The mirror through which
no light can pass
made of glass?
made of stone?
makes no difference to
flesh and bone.

I hesitate to circulate
to circumvent some
ill intent
but
I remain
yours faithfully,

letters written
never sent
more light bent
around the glass

pent up
sent up river
and
back downstream
life is mirrored in
this nightmare which
is but a dream,

do I seem well adjusted?

It's what I watch
and what you see
and
what I write
will mirror
me.

It mutters morning
mourning all the mornings
that have been.

What should not have been
became
and not because it was
although it was.

A smell of woodsmoke
stokes an ancient memory.

But lost now in the statuesque
hidden amongst the grotesque.
Esmerelda .


Who dared paint this picture
of the ruins in Cathedral square?

She tells me, that
the night never ends,
but she would because
the Moon and I are
old friends.

Z en is where I want to be
Y ou may wonder why
X erostomia has dried my tongue
W ithin it words are dry.
V owels are always hard to place
U nless you place them right
T his is what I want to say
S o my words don't bite
R ather this than be a fool
Q uestioning and in this pool
P laying one or more the fool
O r playing not at all
N ot wanting to be very rude
M y zen like being still being crude
L ots more learning I must seek
K eeping thoughts aside
J ust as is will be what I will want to see
I n a serene harmony with the me
H ope that I can be it soon
G low beneath the crescent moon
F all and rise from my own doom
E ach moment better than the last
D etails unimportant last
C hallenging
B ut in the ending of the when
A ll of me will be all Zen.

Remember those demented discotheques
where we broke our necks dancing to the latest?
weren't they the greatest?

And now we break our backs making tracks to the bathroom.

Time that knows us
slows us
and no use in us complaining.

And those that 'cut a rug' doing the jitterbug
went long before us.

I'm not ready yet,

No new year cheer in here
just reminders of old turkey bones
and cold stale tins of beer

where stood a few days past
a riot of celebrations
which we knew
would never last
stand I
because I couldn't get a seat.

Oh yes
the underground's a flamin' treat.

There's no favouritism here
it's as I stated
bones and beer

a bit like me.

On this second day if I
had my way
I'd make it the twenty
fifth of May
but I don't have my way
and so It'll stay
the second day
and ****** cold.

what a waste of time that was,
useless
incompetent
who'd employ this government?

I've missed the route your tongue took
when it used to make that kiss
and I've missed the eyes that looked so wide
that this man would have dived inside
to watch your world.

Things like this
I miss,

who you kissing now?

But I wonder,
do you ever think of
anything like this.

We shall call his pig Bismarck,
because Grandad's humour was awful dark,two chickens he kept were called,Burke and Hare and a duck he kept was called Guinness.
But the pig got big,a sod of a sow and Grandad tried which way and how but couldn't quite tame it, and was sorry he gave it such a name,
The moniker Bismarck, fit the pig quite well and in this warzone where he dwelt he felt at home,
Grand dad,once a jack the lad devised a plan to get said pig upon the table,with apple sauce and if able an apple or two to stew.
He led the pig, not very far,just to the local abattoir,where Bismarck sunk without a trace and if you'd seen the smile on his face,you'd think that he enjoyed his trip to crackling land,but he looked good sat on my plate and notwithstanding Bismarcks fate he went down a treat.
Next week I hear it's duck.good luck,ducks can fly,Grandma's buying in some pie,just in case,
dear Grand dad falls flat on his face.

Dead pigs, what gives?
monkey tricks and politics.

The empty street where new brooms swept, bombs exploded, mother wept, wrapped up, trapped in,
faces all around look grim.

Dead pigs
What gives,
who decides who dies or lives?

It's genocide although they lie and how they tried convincing us.

Dead pigs
what gives?

Authority is blinding you, it's blinding me, we're all blind to authority.

Dead pigs tell no lies
what gives?

Everyone has one to hide
secrets buried deep inside,
bodies buried everywhere,
I ask you
do we really care.

Needing something positive?
give the mains box one more try.

use your fingers for a fuse
and let the power flow,

if you gotta go
be positive, look on
the bright side too,
close your eyes
hold your breath
and
let the power flow through.

The pain ain't that bad
I can manage it
I'm that kind of lad,
boo hoo,
that's me trying
(not crying)
it ain't that bad.

It's always just when you think...

you find

we're all on the edge

the country's gone stupid

banks all on the brink




madness,

a bit like the monster

but not mad

nor in Scotland.




Bury your head in the Rand

in the Yen or the Dollar

swallow their lies and

when you've heard it all




build that brick wall

and smash your heads

against it.




Poachers everywhere and it's true

that one man's meat is another

man's

poussin




I can relate to it

but don't take to it.




We're all being spatchcocked

opened up and

slow cooked




****** in other words.

But it wasn't that,
was it?
Not the dreams that blooded you
not the wandering of the soul or the
demons that assaulted you.
No,
it was the heart that blew up and
defeated you
the breaking of the glass
that shattered you
and after everything you said and did to
rid reminders from your eyes,
you still see them,
pulling at you
calling to you,
falling in and out and in that
round of about sort of way where
play is not play but pain
you want to do it all again.

But it wasn't that
was it?

Well,
excuse me too,
because I do have a past, so *******.
I was blasted out of a mountain side
took the ride on an old steam train,had the pleasure and the pain,enjoyed it all,took the fall and rose again,enjoyed more pleasure,lots more pain and ******* once again.
I ain't no saint,no sinner too just someone who says **** to you, if you don't try to understand the inner workings of this man and this man is this land,understand?

We're all bombsites all ******* shites trying to put things to ******* rights and I'm sick of trying to explain so here it is,******* again,
and if you don't like it,*******,
I'll write it anyway
any
day
my ******* way.

shoot the messenger,

that's the thing to do,

put a bullet through his brain

he'll not be messaging you

again.




So,

I woke to a 'Major'

cigarette,

who remembers them?

they used to be three bob a box

but that was way back when.




everything moves on or sideways or up

nothing stays the same

except for the weather in Birmingham

and in that place there's always rain.




It's Tuesday,

a new day today

but yesterday too

once was new,

tomorrow will do and

that too will be new




I'm really fed up

how are you?

Blades of..but wait
blades are not allowed,
a crowd of..but wait,
those are daffodils

he talks and says,
are you stalks?
which is a question
therefore he asks,

On a sea of green
I have often been
swallowed at dawn,
and I wonder,
does grass yawn?

I rise in her eyes
she submits and
I die in her sighs.

I'm old fashioned enough to remember when turquoise was not for boys, a nice enough colour and with healing properties apparently, but it's not for me.

I dress in grey,
battleship grey to
match my face on
any given day
and
it seems I've been
given
lots of days,

She says,
that I should mend my ways,
wonder if mending the car
counts.

Eyes glued shut to keep the night out and there's no use having a light so you put the light out until the morning cuts in and you have to go out,
yes!
the day breaks in like a burglar
creeping,
like ivy up a pergola.

There is frost on the roofs of the vehicles
that hang on the roadsides like icicles
and I think,
Extremities
was not a Greek philosopher.

I pull the ripcord and float down quite casually
into a Tuesday or it may be a Wednesday
either way
it's just another day to get through.

In the bathroom,
incense and oils,
in the kitchen
the kettle boils.
I smell coffee
she smells
poetry.

A configuration of obligations and considerations have given me bad nerves
the shilly and the shallying the counting and retallying
and the swerves that I make
all to take a crust
just to make a living
it's not fair that I'm giving my all
I can't take my eye off the ball or I'll fail
and bale out?
I wish
but the good fairy has gone and she has taken her wishing wand
I wish I had gone too
wish I'd flown the coop but I could not stoop that low
apart from the fact that there's nowhere to go
so I sit and I sew another mailbag
another old lag
trapped in the cells of his own private hells and the wishing well's run dry.
A guy
just a man
spanning the streams, damming his dreams
and yet the the dreams trickle through
a man
just a guy can only but try and the harder he tries too,the more that the dreams trickle on through and through and
what can I do?
Can I complain to some body
august,
some senator or just moan to myself as I usually do
'there is no one to help you', the inner voice says
'Get off your backside
and mend your ways'
and some days
it's like this
some days I could willingly kiss the **** of a mule
if only that would stop me from being this fool
but some days
when the richness of life peeps through the darkness of shadows I knew
then I really
do love it all.

Jiggered meaning worn out and in pieces with my heart torn out and the facts are only borne out by the truth.
I arrived at home
the curtains drawn
in the early morn
didn't telephone
couldn't wait to see
her face
when I
came through the door,
I thought that she
would be alone,
my mistake
no longer home
with someone else
who wasn't me
that's what I saw but
I could see
no more.
and now I'm out
and on my own
no telephone
no girl
no home
no one to cook
or look at me
and say,
'how was your day'
The why and how I do not care
or why she'd hurt me
just to share a
moment of her time
without a care
for me.

If I can pick up a pen when I'm sick of it then
I will.
I know it's *******, you know it's *******,
the only people who don't know think they're
the 'dogs *******'
and we all know that's an ale from
Wychwood brewery
who'll probably sue me
for infringement or some other
******* like that.

It would seem Halloween is here and
the queen of the phantoms has said,
I must see her.
How delighted I am to be summonsed,
a man for a phantom in all her abandon.

I'd better dress up to the nines,
she's renowned for fine dining and wines
she will fill up my glass as she passes right through me
it feels a bit weird,like she's trying to ***** me
In the hopping of stopping designs I drink more
and more of her wines,
until I don't know no more and at twenty to four
she kicks me out of her bed and out through the door.
It seems Halloween is here
and everything's just a bit crazy and queer.

If there really was a World cup it might be big enough for each and everyone to get a drink from,
but there isn't or if there is
it hasn't been sanctioned by the global corporation.

Watch your game and know it's not a game
it's a war being waged on the unwaged and the destitute
where the match field is the *******
and the goal mouth gives you 'oral'

Fixed?
rigged?
well it could just be
we
wouldn't know.


someone gonna shoot me for sure.

She crafts a template for
a man
and I become
her mate.

He's wearing a black mask
as if
someone had dealt him the ace of spades
when we all know it's only Russian roulette.

better to be safe than secure?
yeah,
sure looks like a bullet to me
though.

Through the openings of his eyes where
the dream lives on and dies
I see tomorrow in the background
a blackground for the black mask

I want to ask him then about now,
but don't know how to phrase
the question.

The chamber spins and
the dealer.grins in that
Russian kind of way,

My DNA has lost its way
I don't know who I am
the double helix strangles me,
can anyone untangle me
or would you leave me dangling,twisting,eroding
slowly in the coding,hanging from the lowest
common denominator,
apeman, ape man ,no escape man
it's all relative
we all sit in the glasshouse and
pretend
that we all live.

There is nothing but the chimes to remind me, a clock face full of good times of sad sometimes not times, but the chimes hold no memory, they all ring inside me like a dishcloth wrung dry and only the damping of tears reminds me again of the how and the why and the crying out of fears, so many things in one boat.

Nothing but the dull throb hung on my chest like a watch fob and the chime, the chimes, cutting into and out of the day, no time and time's no friend until the echo of time starts to end and the chimes fade away.

And then we wind up the spring and step into beginning again, we are the hands on the clock face keeping pace with the clock and time is the lock that we open then lock and the chimes are the stock in trade.

We are being
itemised
stacked up
racked up
politicised,

some are being
radicalised
does that surprise you?