One more slice of rain
another knife cuts me again
and I am soaked through to the skin
please open up and let me in.
Let me get dry,
and I'll get by
If you let me in.

Every ocean is a drop
In the ocean of a life
and
every life is just a spot
on the edge of the universal knife,
every knife is used to cut away
the trappings that once seemed so gay
and we come back to be
a drop in the ocean
and the ocean is me.

(20 minute poetry)


If I could invest a little time
admire the finer things
like good wine,
I'd be a happier
me.

But we all know investments go down as well as up
and my time might end in a cup of cold black
China tea.

This is how a Tuesday starts,
breaking backs and
broken hearts
if only I could invest
a bit more
time.

It's the Central line
I guess you guessed that
it always leaves me feeling rather flat when the time just wastes away on the underground every day.

But it ends
I know it's true,
when
another midnight
comes to chip through
the wall I've built,
my life goes tilt
one more time.

I am the icing on the cake you didn't bake
the lake run dry.
The guy that gave his all
the ball that burst
the thirst that can't be quenched
I am the above
and you still love
me.
It is a touch of destiny wherein I find the fate that you once saw that I could be
and in all of me that loves all of you
sometimes I know not what to do
but you show me tenderness
In my willingness I show you too
what but what else would it serve to not deserve that which I would fight on to preserve
and you
who would suffer this
I kiss not once,not twice
but always and with all my might.

Tonight the light that shines will be the light of better times and in our better times we'll see just what the icing tastes like
be with me
be with me
my destiny is reaching out to open doors and let me in
lock me in
lock me warm against your skin
we'll watch the evening growing thin
and let us now begin the
prelude.

Play the piano
break the keys
smash the movements but let the moments surrender to me please
at ease
stand down
unzips the wedding gown
and all is still
just Jack and Jill and the hill
they need to climb.

They'll discover me in
the catacombs or
in some presbytery
playing dominoes
while
watching Tom and Jerry,

they're fans of mine
during cartoon time or
so I like to think.

They attend matins
I take statins
which is just my
reliance on science
and the medical fraternity.

Tom laughs with me
Jerry's a bit
standoffish,
at times
I wish I was.

If they do find me
I'll play hide and seek
with their minds
or Scrabble
whichever's
the easiest.

Calligraphy
is an art that satisfies
me, I view it as
Zen in a pen,.
but
when I join up my writing it
lets most of the night in and
scares me away
unlike the day
which embraces me
a bit like
calligraphy

When the world ends
it'll be too late for Netflix
to make a series about it,
too late for BBC's
'any questions'
to give answers to it
and those
queueing for a McDonald's
will realise
they've
'bought the farm'

He did not hold me in his arms upon
the sea of Galilee,
he let me down,
left me to drown
but worse than holding my breath,
is not death,
No
it's the somewhere in between
when you're stuck into a scene, a
kind of 'Groundhog...'

A mad dog may foam at the mouth but that's
the last thing on my mind when
I find I'm heading South
into the pit and the bit that really bothers me are
the philistines who roared approval at
my removal.

Death may be an obstacle to overcome,
the Son of Man
managed it
and that's another bit that bothers me as I
sink and drown under the sea
of Galilee.

Haircut day and the nearer I get to the shears I let my imagination run loose.

What if it doesn't grow back?
what if the razor is really a taser?
what if I relax?

I see people with curls that flow down their backs
and they relax, some with
pigtails and ponies or are they just phonies?
wearing 'syrups'
( cockney rhyming )
putting some time in
thinking
what if my hair is sold to stuff pillows,
to line mattresses?
is this what it is?

I won't cry
I shall bite my lips as my shorn hair slips
to the floor
what more can I do?

A haircut,
but for the hair that hangs over my ears there'd be no need for the shears.

If I was a sheep the shearing could keep until the weather got brighter.

I mighta known
that the hair on my head would have grown.

It's the never learning that's turning me inside out.

You never know when
or who is kissing Ken
and Ken never tells.

Lipstick on his left cheek
playing hide and seek
with the lipstick on his right,

Barbie sits up half the night
wondering
who is kissing
Ken.

We're all chipped, I see
they're staring vacantly
at me,
and me at them.
We have become the ******* up,chewed up,plugged in,zoned out men and then when we think the art of conversation is lost
because the chips set in our heads cost so much more than the words which wore our tongues to shreds,
the Feds come in with the 'empty please and delete permanently bin'
but we've been there before and so have hid our words in codes in coats that we once wore.
**** the Law.

Don't be pinned against the rack,scan the words you own into attack mode,load your speech,fill with invective,most effective against those who stare so vacantly,that man who's sitting next to me,it's easy see
if we're all chipped,stripped of humanity,**** 'em be who you want to be,no one cares,as if the whole world wears a chip upon its shoulder.
I'm to old a man to give a ****.

..and then we were cloned,
all of a sudden,
we got to be
high cheekboned
aristocrats,
that's what it felt like when
they crept up in stealth mode
attached
some electrode
to me.

If you think that you're free,think again, there's no freedom in being exactly the same.

..and they're honing their skill
if life doesn't **** you
they certainly will ,but
you'll live on and on and on and something's bound to go wrong with the flow,
until then
they'll carry on with the show and you
won't have a say.

We didn't want to believe it
didn't think it was true,
but
the days of the
'working class hero'
are through.

They're all on the beg and the 'brew'
scavenging and scrabbling and
what they once knew has
been taken away.
There's no docks and no pits,
manufacturing's in bits
and yet,
those with a skill set are able to be,
wizards in the field of
computers,
I see
dark days ahead.

The infrastructure is ruptured
we are bleeding to death,
we are told
'it's recession'
they should
save their breath.

I am one of them,
one of the homeless
the useless
the beggarmen.

When I was younger and the hunger in
me stirred
no one would have dared to
have written me off but
we've been sold down the river by those
who think that they're better
well
they didn't realise that the tide which took
us out is the one that brings us in.

In the end
no one can win
the most we can hope for is a
bell upon the mission door,
a breakfast from some charity and
inevitable obscurity.
The days of the
'working class hero' are done.
Some may say that,
Thatcher won,
but
I don't think so.

Things look cleaner after the rain
and then get ***** again

on the brink or do I think of something more than this.

somewhere to the rear of me
breakfast was an idea and she
agreed.

What does
'God Speed' mean anyway.

It's Thursday
though Thor wouldn't know,
he's off in Valhalla and no doubt
having a helluva time.

Thoughts.

Underground
earthly bound
the only sound is mechanical

to stop myself heaving I'm leaving
closing the door on all options
alternatively
I could stay
soak in and sponge up
or make a lunge just to shut up
the chattering
the clattering of
so many people.

Long faces look longer
like shadows they hunger
but for what?

Tesco's or Nero's?
Costa's are heroes
to
dry throats
and Subways
to Eat on the walkways

Starvation some station
but not on the
Central

Unfinished?
It usually is
It's business
but not
normal
to
fall on the
thermal
I rise above
it
and go on
my way.

ding **** ding ****
ding ****
what's wrong?

no bells?
no-***** at cricket
but this isn't cricket
and ***** are not bells

the sound of this country
on Sunday
has been bells for centuries
and now
silence
no rings
no dings
things are not looking good.

All of my troubles sank
into the whiskey
I drank,
alas
when I finished the glass
they remained.

For too long I have reigned over
the gutters and drains and
pain's just a part of the prose.

If what will be is to be what then becomes when I'm free
am I to be cast to the devil for brew,
do I take on the ask and do I finish the task or do I
sink in the despair of not knowing  
should I care.

I cared for the talent of being a delinquent but that
was when I was a lad and
now I'm too old and too good to be bad
it is time that I found something new.

She said,
a Shih Tzu,

bless you
I offered in reply
but of course,
she meant
the dog.

Another old melody threads through a memory
stitching more lines on my face.

when breakfast was only a minute ago
and already it's bedtime and my age start to show,
I know
it is but a daydream.

Do you remember that ride through the park in the landau
and we talked of that poor man
who was locked up in Spandau?
I didn't know then that prisons are made out out of tears
and in the passing of years
I have imprisoned myself
locked up my soul
and am just playing this role of a man.

Can you think back to the snack in the cafe
when all you wanted to say
was something to hurt
as if my blood wouldn't spurt when you cut me so deep
did you keep that moment for me
did you think I would be
in bits,decimated
you underestimated as you usually did
but you got rid of me
told me to go as if you only knew what the future would hold.

Well I'll tell you this,
the future is when you get calloused and old
when your stomach's so big you have to fold it in
and hold your tongue
the future's no fun but the fun that you had
at my expense
was expended in mortgages paid to those dowagers
how you have aged.
How I once raged at the iniquity
before I began to see
the light of what's right
and now in your night of the day that you had
are you happy or sad?
Do I care if you answer
does a moth love the flame?
it was never the same after you.

Looking for the bright side
on a very dismal day,
but there is one
because we all know
that there's always one.

One thousand and one
and
falling slowly.

The sisters from convents
writing prayers on the pavements
holding forth sacraments
while
we man the battlements
but it's
every one for himself.

This is Powder Keg town
and we're all getting down
to the serious business
of keeping our heads
above water.

A sort of transparency
but you cannot see through me.

Do we ever really know where we go
when we sleep?

Those who write footnotes at the foothills
expect others to climb up and see.

If you were an oak tree
sturdy and strong
would you then long
to be a man?

I am as I am,

did Yosemite Sam,
say that,
or did you?

Is she hot?
well.
she's got that spice,
not too much sugar
and that's quite nice,
but
is she hot?

there are scorch marks
where she walks
she breathes fire when
she talks
so
what do you think?

Then
my bones folded in to become
specks of white dust on the
outskirts of my skin, here
on the archipelago of volcanoes
where black holes swarm
and space gathers time.

******* on spangles
licking the colours
off Smarties
much better for me
than drugs or
*** parties,
hmm
wait..
much better for me
than scones or
tea parties
ah
that's it
a little bit of editing
a sherbet dab
and gelatine

many ways for us to sin
and
the point is not to win
it's the taking part
that counts.

I lingered too long on her lips
was I wrong?
and why
if 'a kiss is just a kiss'
do I miss so much the kiss she
kisses me with?

I see eye to eye on the
'fifty things to do before you die',
but each thing ends with us being
more than just friends.

If, then, gosub, return.


The sun sets
a bit like blancmange,
same colour
too.

but what if you need to know
how many?

what if
counting sheep is sleep's way
of saying,
stay awake?

oh Venice, how
I am envious of your fine facades
the long walks I'll never take
along your long promenades,

he sighs as if on the bridge like
a million before him,

life is truly grim for a poor
Northern boy.

Legs are shot
belly's gone to ***
they put it down to age
**** 'em.

Old men are when
you only think it
and then
they bite.

She might bite too
if I was you
I'd hide.

Because your eyes had that glassy stare
I thought you were a teddy bear
I mean, look,
what the...f**k,

we don't swear in front of a teddy bear
we use asterisks and rely on their
imaginations.

As mad a March here and there
the Hare lost against the tortoise.

California doesn't dream any more
why dream, it says, what for?
the reality bite
a virtual blight
California don't dream anymore.

In Tallahassee
they smash me,
break all my bones
and
leave me to rot in
one of those trailer trash homes,
but that's
Tallahassee.

Someone put a spoke in
the great British machine
it should have been
a token and
now Britain's broken.

sorry
I feel a bit humpty
but
when I'm down in the dumps
she
make things alright.

I have looked deep into those eyes
where happiness and sadness
lay together
side by side.
Open wide that I may swim to kiss
the tears locked deeper in
your soul.

The mirror's broken then?
it
shows me an image
of an old man
when
that is clearly wrong,
perhaps
it holds in its glassy memory
pictures of everyone
except one of me.

Alice is never around when
you need her.

So
I'm looking at my reflection
in
some cooked up contraption
it's not perfect
but neither am I.

.
We deduct from the equations, strategies and situations and a
vacancy arises in the house of few surprises,
you apply.

don't know why I never thought before to turn the handle on each door instead of ripping hinges off the walls,
but we learn or burn from our mistakes,
for some it takes a bit more time,
two drops of lime to sting our eyes

in the corner someone cries
Eureka!
it's another
seeker hiding from the thoughts he
should have had before,
one more handle on the door
one time more and each equation ritualises
the prayers we send
and
science despises what it cannot
comprehend.
in the end it all means
exactly what attracts me to
the light that shines
the two more limes
the many times
and
times to come.

Now at ten percent
diminishing

Is this life I'm in or
just the finishing school?

It's windy out
but do I care
I'm inside
and that's out there.

soon
I'll have to dress and
make a move
at nine percent now
stuck in a groove
repeating

meeting the same sound
as the room itself spins
around
holding on but at
eight percent I'm
almost
nearly
not
quite gone.

Satan behind me who had wined
and then dined me on visions of
empires, the outtakes of inferno
and he said,
'will you go to make me a fortune?'
Soon,
when the wind turned red and fields into mud,
and those left drew breath and those that could stand,
stood,
Satan clapped his hands and danced a merry jig and
this pig in a poke understood the joke told,
the dead don't get old,
'lest we forget'
it's the living that do
remembering
the few.

Who dares to wake this
mountain of a monastery that
sleeps deep within the lake of consciousness?
Who is brave enough to take and stuff their heads with dreams
and fantasy landed from beneath this sleeping sea?
Beware
the devil you don't know,knows you well.
Who would break but a moment in their sandwiching of time,to kneel
before and then be mine?
This spell of certainty,
as sure as I can be
is uncertain.
Behind the curtain which hides the eyes,between the words that cover lies,the lake bed dries and more monasteries rise which
disguising wanton lust turn and are turned to dust as dust we all become,
have fun,beware
but remember
the devil you don't know
is everywhere.

The poor men will rise with the searchlight of God streaming out from their eyes and the sinner shall have this day.

On the *** of the city where the fat cats and pretty boys walk,,where the talk is of bonds and debentures,diamonds in dentures and pearl driven breath,
there,
where the air lingers sad and the crazy man had all the luck he would get,and
standing tight on the floor calling more,give me more as if enough was not a feast,was
Jimmy Malone at home in the square mile and though crooked his smile he was as straight as a die,
he'd say, 'good morning my dear' with a grin or a leer and you knew you'd be faked out or taken down in the trading,but he was honest enough among the shylocks and tough boys who used to be hawkers down in the markets until Thatcher (the plot hatcher) showed them the yellow brick clique down in Threadneedle street,but
now they're just wide boys with big gobs,the new gentlemen fat slobs,pinstriped fat **** wipes who ain't got no time for their roots,all bar Jimmy Malone,
who calls mum and dad twice weekly at home and sends a cheque through the post to the boys club in Sligo where the young lads still go to learn how to live.
This is give and take city where nothing's given freely not even pity,where you're charged for your time by the dollar or the dime and the rich will stitch you sideways which only proves that crime does pay.
It's the sinners who win in the end,
while we're chasing geese they're fleecing us blind,I don't mind that's just life,sometimes I wish I was living it and
not shoveling ****.

It seems I want to write at night
To spread my words like Brie on toast until..
..the daylight wakes to me
With that strangeness of reality.
And once again I never slept
I could not keep or never kept
My eyes tight closed.
Now I tire and doze all day..
..again to write the night away.
What devils that do have their say
To twist and turn my life this way.

I implore and beg the pen
Please release your hold and then.
I can sleep.
But its silence tells me more
Than words upon a toilet door.
War then?
When pen?