What do you want from me?
someone shouts,
poetry
and just supposing I had
some prose in me
would that count?
someone shouts,

Next.

In a grain of sand
where timelessness and all time would stand
linked
in a semi permanent embrace
for we would be not of an age, to watch as grains build up the Cities, where our children's children would face another mountain that crumbles away
to be washed out to sea and one more day
we,
cannot comprehend another grain that would end in an ocean of sand by the shore
is this what it's for?
the eternal rebuild
the world to be filled with the scents of the past that have passed through the sea and then built up again
so we can see and be the futility of what is not timeless
where time means no less than the time that we take
to make offerings to urchins
and...
..I perch on my post outside the temple of another most holy one
and watch as citadels rise
and watch again as in a blink of a terrapins eye they are gone
and where do I belong
in the ocean,the sea or on land?
in one of a three and in all, I am but a grain of sand
timeless and not,
broken to rot away in one more day
but not the same as the last that has past and passed the point of a no return
to burn in a desert
or to become and be made into an obelisk
a risk assessors nightmare
where
at each turn of his hand it turns back into sand
and again to the sea
to the mountain, to me
and in time it will be
a place where all children play.

Not in our day
we stand as we stand
or we sit on the sand
and are all washed away
in granular form, born and reborn as the tides take their time
and one day
one
day it will come that the sign on the beach reads
'Minefield
danger to life and limb
entry forbidden do not enter in'
but what is seen is not hidden away
and the grains have a way of ignoring what's written
smitten with time
another sign reads
'ignore what you read it's only put out to feed your dreams'
and everything seems as it should
in the timelessness that isn't,
isn't it all so very good?

Could my life be any more..than twenty four..
..hours in a day
Would I have it less? or anyway at least I guess..
..that twenty four is like a game of chess.

You makes your moves and moves your pawns..
..and battle through those chequered storms..
..until you reach the other side.

The boards..like life seem awful wide..especially when you start to ride..
..the game.
All the same..I think that twenty four could test the best..
..and certainly it finds the flaw..and it always seems to look for more.

Today's okay..nine hours have gone..flashed past so quick..
..almost enough to make me sick.
But there's still more hours to come and come they will.
These hours are just enough to fill..
..each day.

And any more would be enough to stuff your pockets full..
..no bull.
Twenty four..twenty four..think I adore..
..the number twenty four.

Feeling good in Cuba
and
he down with it
haha
I'll get sued now.

The mind takes a vacation
an
elevator to some far off station
but is still at home in this boneyard
body,
there is no way out of it
and at times
no way to get into it
is that the paradox?

well
the mind has locks
which sometimes lock and block
all rational thought.

Poetry bends into the grooves
blends in with the moves
and occasionally scratches beyond
the surface noise.

Compared to me
'Mathew and Son'
had it easy,
'up at eight'
I wish,
'..cold coffee and a piece of cake'
I wish, but
I must have used all my wishes up
wishing for a hot cup.
ah
'that's life'
as Frankie said
and now
i
shall pick up my bed
and walk,
compared to me
Jesus
had it harder.

A point I shall make here is,
having no idea is an idea
but
I've no idea why.

For as long as I can be
I'll be as strong as I can be
which could be a long time.

Before the construct,
before we got chucked
on the ******* heap
time was time and
was not cheap,
now
we waste it
basing our waste
on the mountains of
minutes in the far distant
moments we have yet to
arrive at.

Well,
I'm nearly there and
no refunds here
this is the terminal point.

Just look at how they leave me
with no WIfI OR TV
and with no food
to feed me
I think I might starve.

Until Zen
I shall bleed a bit
and then
when they come home
they'll moan about the mess.

cue music,
don't ever lose the plot
because you've got
butterfingers.

Got a ticket to travel
a seat and
time to unravel my
thoughts.

January
neither here nor there
only a slight chill to
the air
and electric running
through me
chewing my bones into
manageable pieces.

The lady in the wig
quite big
but it suits her
not so sure about the hair
but she looks happy so
why should I care?

Two postmen
matching jackets,
the Royal Mail
taking off to deliver
envelopes and packets
to
unsuspecting customers.

There's a spectrum of humdrum
and then some.

Young lady with an iPhone
which looks a bit like
my phone
but it's not

and the geezer with the trainers on
born long ago before Adidas,
all these people stood and
waiting
hyperventilating
waiting for their station
to arrive.

For all the world
they are faces to let
until they get
to
where they are going
and
I am just the same.

In broken pieces
she
releases me
into her
kaleidoscope and
I become a pattern
in her eyes.

We are locked out and want in and want out when locked in until we decide that we really can't win and it's sooner or later but how soon is soon when later is later and under the moon and that is too soon or maybe just the length of a piece of coiled string and it's the string that could be the thing to tie the knots that stop the not's and let in the ayes and if bygone's were really gone by we could really tie one on as they say in the U S of A.
I'm just rambling through, take no notice of me
if I find I'm locked in I have a skeleton key but the doctor tells me that this can be cured.
In or out with no shadow of a doubt we are one or the other wanting one or another and why bother at least we're somewhere.

No one told me about it being the last dance,
the last chance before lights out,
no one tells me nowt.

You can't dance under the duvet, said someone who's never tried.

then you start wondering, how many moonbeams in starlight which keeps you up half the night until you realise no one can count that far.

as for the sheep, ask Bo-Peep, she had lamb chops for lunch.

sorry,
trying to connect the dots to the spots floating across the whites of my eyes and not quite managing, mind you, some of the managers I've known haven't quite managed either.

There's a cotton wool ball where my head used to be, runny eyes, runny nose and that's how it goes on a Wednesday in May,
I may take a hot drink
I think that I will with some lemon and honey, I may take a pill but as yet I'm unsure if there's a cure for this malady, m' lady will know, she is the remedy for all things that go
wrong.
My throat's set afire as the fever gets higher and as the brandy gets lower, I become slower, my eyes and my nose cease to run and I feel that I'm on the road to recovery, then I wake and discover she has tended my aches, taken my pain, changed all the bedsheets and she has done it again, mended the man as only she can.
The cotton wool ball has scored an own goal and I've won for a while, so it's a smile for the day and the way she defends me against anything that attacks me or lays me down low and that's how things go
on a Wednesday in May.

It's now why but when and now and then I get the gist, I am a number on some governmental list, my turn will come, they'll hunt, I'll run, a catch me if you can, the MAN can do his utmost, post an all points bulletin, shoot on sight as well he might, but I'll get it right, I will lay low until the SPG decide to leave well enough alone and go.

Not how but then and not what when might think to do or why it will not get me through the night where a thousand sparking plugs ignite to light the way, I pray to anyone or other god who's got the time to throw this B lister a line and help a soul who's in distress, but god nor anyone could not care less, I get the gist, they've drunk me in and ****** me up against the walls,
I have the ***** or so they tell me to say, ******* and the SPG, I survive on wits and tidbits of information gained from internal sources and they're not named on any list.

Not then and why but when I die or if I do and all the time there is won't bother you like I did and you'll remember me unlike the government and the SPG, I'll have that palace in your heart to rest and wait again before we start another chapter, one more verse and there's nothing worse than waiting is there?

(SPG..Special Patrol Group..Metropolitan police.

Electric,
terrifying.
a million volts of her came flying and
she went through me
like a dose of salts.
Another million volts,
blowing lights,
exposing faults but
closer now, she does not scare me,
wants to share with me
her
electricity.

She moves like a cat,,all silent and that
rocks my boat,
quietly whispering,my body tunes in and starts listening to her.
She wears words like a skin,
I want to read what's within and
she opens the book..

My tissues typed,
wired and sound
tested

waiting,
a waste for the longing I taste
in my eyes, on my tongue, on
the tips of my fingers,
time
lingers in doorways
on dull rainy days
waiting.

It's kiss and tell and
the road leading to hell
has peen paved with inventions
conceived in dark dungeons,

I'm on the back foot
burning the lights out,

if there's hope then I
hope that it finds me.

4:04 and that's not an error it is the time or maybe it is an error and not the time and of course now it is not the time as time has moved on, something I should do but the coffee tastes so good and the music on the phonograph is soft and warm like buttered toast.

I filter light through tired eyes
and watch the sun stretch through the morning air,
are we nearly there?
unbidden comes the memories
of journeys taken
hearts I've broken and in turn
broken my own

safe at home now
error 4:04
time now 4:15
this must be the timing of the dream
the rhyming of another scheme
and I have seen the 'elephant'
on the hunt for gold
seen my life in sepia grow old
watched in awe
but saw it.

Whine?
I mean men
do it all time, they
do it every day
don't they?

She regurgitates me
like a half eaten meal,
I feel
despondent,
unnaturally silent, I
want to make a statement, but
she has all the words.

Whine?
men do it all the time,
wriggling on the line is fine
for some,
but not for me.

She
wants it all her own way
there's nothing I can do,
nothing I can say, but whine
every single day
men do that
don't they?

(20 minute poetry)

We don't like being reminded of
those things left behind us
when the future's waiting out there
on the edge.

I stepped on the cracks and
never crossed my fingers
never threw salt over my shoulders or
held my breath passing cemeteries.

In a backward glance
I'd say I missed my chance,
the last ship sailed at dawn.

Sweat and cheap scent bring me back to the present
back on the underground line.
bed and board only five pounds a week
which is another peek back at the past.

Never's a right time
and it's always
a good time
here
on the underground line.

Disease hand in hand
with old age and
unease
tightens the band
and
my chest is on fire.

Time to retire?
almost
I think
but
some things I
think too much.
Let me light the blue
touchpaper and run
burn my eyes blue
on one more summer
Sun
before
I go.

A framework
an internal network
works like the internet

No signal
at times.

The light comes on when
someone's home at
other times
home's a
no go zone

But the messages keep creeping in
as if a hacker's given everyone your pin

I can't help but feel it's real

and pictures puncture me with ****** death, what kind of artistry is this?

If my last wish upon the dying breath could be
I'd wish for images of she

she in Winter filled with Summer zest,

Age.

screens become fogged,
clogged
something fails each day
the network falls apart at every
beat,

switch off,
restart
it doesn't work
there is no
'life cheat'



A harp plays pluckily
luckily
not for me

Jesus will have to keep on saving.

We all need a place,
somewhere to rest our heads
a place where our dreams can
recover
somewhere other than
where we have been.

And when we are lucky
or if fate decides
and the planets align
and the time is right
we
will find that sanctuary.

For every
bead that drops an
Angel crops her wings
another stops and sings
to me
how
I love that rosary.

She fluttered her eyes
I stuttered replies
but she was the devil in disguise
the succubi
the demon dame
that came to me one night
and I could not escape, her fate for me
was surely that destiny in store
and she wore my destiny so well
for a devil from hell.
She bled me dry
and bled me more
I sighed and in my very core
knew I was lost.

And now it happens frequently
I see her lips that turn and snarling,darling
come to me
I fight but do I want to break free?
she's rough but oh so tenderly
I think I'll wait and see
what the future holds

Public announcement.

'Zannusi
               the appliance of science'

Yeah?

I place no reliance on magic nor science or things that go bump in the night.

See a TV
buy a TV
add a line to your made up CV

new?
so
you think,
but it's three months
down the line and so last year,
so buy another one
fine.

Face it,
you've been ****** in
spun around  
sold a pup
and been ground into the ground

science?
don't make me laugh when I want to puke,

Look and that's look with an ooh and not an uck
I really don't give a Fuch if you believe or not

but you'd better believe in the
'One drop'
the blood spot
someone got time because of it
some murdering little *****
that took an innocence
and

I suppose that is the appliance of science,



I'm as right or as wrong as it's broad or it's long
I hold my hands up
arrest me
or
free me
I've got a CV
don't want a TV

**** this and society
**** sobriety
the hierarchy and
anyone else who
disagrees with me.

Never ' mind the closing doors'
mind the closing of one's mind.

Possibilities are endless unless someone proves otherwise.

I'm working and it's Saturday
what's the probability of that?,
but it's true
so while you slumber on
I'm crumbling.

The central line today
quiet one would say,

just
shoppers on
weekend jaunts
heading to those well
known West End haunts
and
Tinkerbell
well
there's always someone
who stands out,

Reeboks
no socks
what's that all about?

Exercise.

I'm exercising my imagination
Pull up to
press up
'eh
what's up doc?'

cartoons creep in
but
the rabbit's too late.

She must be
a model
I wonder what
agency?

knowing my luck
the
CIA
and he looks like a spy
with
one eye on the girl.

Crowded now
and Tinkerbell is
a wow

standing out is
ace
his face tells it all
he's
having a ball

fancy dress I think.

Images and
Icons,
get your Nikes on
we're going for a run.

something Icarus or precarious
about squinting at the Sun,

shades required.

He's still there at
Trafalgar Square,
pound coins in his hat
and
pigeon **** in his hair,
not,
going anywhere
so
why should I care?

Some try to tell me,
I don't see what I see,
I see
only what I want to see,

that doesn't sound like me.

Imagine taking a brass rubbing
of grass growing,
on your marks, get set,
better yet
get going.

Five points for a line
ten for two that rhyme,

Teddy says,
goodnight to you,
goodnight to Rumplestiltskin
goodnight, old woman in the shoe,
goodnight to everyone he knows or knew,
goodnight and god bless
the nursery crew.

One more swim in
moonlight bay
somebody may write a song
one day
about this.

kisses goodnight
hugs and holds tight
to Teddy bear
who's always there
and weary eyes close
to dream of dreams
that dream of me
dreamily.

Speeding
reading the highway code
watching the tracks of the tyres on the road
loading the need
feeding the dice
every happens once for a reason
not twice.

Faster
the last of it looms
accident trucks and hospital rooms.
Riding formaldehyde, the paralysed dead
fed to the demons we thought lived under the bed
but it's real.

The ceiling is set we get what we deal
cards on the table
does anyone feel
lucky?

There is no book of rules for dreamers or fools
we must write our own script
strip off the relay
switch on each new day
and if it's our last one,
we'll make it a good one
smile and say so long.
It was fun.

in flagrante delicto
I wouldn't care to know
what this means, but
I'd hazard a guess after
the watershed
when the kids are a-bed
and the adults have wine.

I guess that I guess that most of
the time, but times that I do know
I am
in flagrante delicto and
she would know
anyway.

But I'm a peasant and
if the English are
as pleasant as they say and
I ask nicely,
today may just be the day
I know too.

Nothing for free here
nothing to see here
move along,
orderly fashion applies,

terms and conditions
like
army munitions
have a habit of
putting you down.

What could it be here
when nothing is free here
can anyone see a
menu?

squinting a bit
to read the rules
and they're ****,
moving on.

It becomes interesting only when you are interested or have a vested interest in whatever thing becomes interesting.

are you a
disinterested party goer?
I know a
few of them.

Start Sunday and why not?
Sunday,
a day to take a pop at religion
or if you like
a day to make friends with a God.

even odd people believe in something.

I believe in magic
tricks of the light
hobgoblins
and
monsters that shape
the night.

'More pain',
he said,
with a grimace
pulling a face while
the mirror looked on.

The bear trap
snaps shut,
exit
stage left
and what is left?
skin and bone,
call
you'll get the engaged tone
or the answering machine
or
muzac that's crap,

'please hold'. your call is
important to us'

heard it all before,
and we all know
Intel is at the core
of it.

your identity is being stolen
secreted away to be used
against you
and who is to blame?

Conspiracies?

the gnomes of Zurich
the witches of Eastwick
the friars of Cripplegate
Watergate?
all at the garden gate
making a path to your
door.

and that's  because the yachts of time have sailed

I failed to keep them in the port
they caught the early tide to slide
across the wide blue sea
and somewhere deep inside the hold against the bulkhead where the *** is kept and where a thousand ****** slept and dreamt of Blackbeards gold
I sold my innocence for grog.

To dog my days I could have cut and clicked or sliced and picked a thousand ways to die

I chose to close my mind and find escape in the escape
heady tasks among the empty casks and empty eyes that eyed me
across the wide
blue sea.

These were the sailing ships

I saw them on some movie clips

nations within nations without limit of the land.

We get old
some will find the gold
some will search a lifetime
finding life in time
and
the yachts will sail away.

You
behind the doors where the monsters reside,
watching the citadel fall and Jerusalem calls for an encore,
but they lied to you
as they always do.

We
hope for immortality on this roller coaster ride and down we go again behind the doors where the monsters reside.

I work or I die and when the day is due you will too and whatever or which way the cards fall
Jerusalem will still fall and
they'll still lie,
work or die?

Use your voice,
touch type your voice on the white stick that you carry,
or we could marry,
she coughs and splutters in the kitchen
butters toast and removes from my face
the *** of jam.

I move on beyond where the image burns
beyond where the sane men turn and stand in awe,
seen it
done it and no fun in it for the untied who wait outside the doors where the monsters reside.

Licking jam off my lips she slides me a kiss and I slip on saliva that drips from my tongue,
that is fun, never done that before,
I move away from the door
for a while.

I have nothing to write of
in spite of the pen,
my life becomes what then and
if what, when then?

I have nothing to write of
except
sceptical clouds
running their socks off and
moving barefoot in the sky.

I wonder then why do I try to
force the ink from the Hickman line?.
I think it is fate or the time that
propels me into the hallways of hell  and
compels me to question the meanings
of this.

This is the key to it,
write lots and rest a bit
write more and the best of it
features periodically.

In the table of elements where
sentiments mean nothing, there
is something solidified to the
pen upon which fury lies.

I have nothing to write of, but
I write anyway.

What does language do to you?

for most
a grunt will do
a poke
a ****
a nod of the head
it appears to be
that language is dead
or dying
trying to hang on
with
*******
in a salute,


You
**** a snook,
but
what does that mean anyway?

Win some,lose some
read the news some and then read more
what is it that we choose win or lose it's what we get
and I bet
that charity, though is about what is received don't be deceived
by gifts galore
the people giving want even more than an equal share
but that's not fair of me
I can see and but for lack of clarity I'd see it all
if I could only stand a little taller to look at details even smaller I'd be sure of what it is I'm trying to say
but that's not going to happen any time today or tomorrow
maybe I could borrow steps and step up a notch or two
see just who and what and where you are and the reasons why you're giving for.
I can't accept if I do not know
just where the giving's come from and where it is you think it's going to go.

You'll have to tell me and really slow I'm not as young as
not so much fun as
can't run as fast as years ago
so be slow and take your time for that is all I've got
and I won't be putting back the clock to please you
do what you do
what you've always done
you've got to have some fun
and win or lose
the news is just the same
just a pain
no win or gain it's
a prying,trying,lying game.

The headlines deadleg me
peg me out
and all my doubts are reinforced by forcible editorials and pictures which from a time what seems immemorial leer at me
from page three
I can see me going round the twist at everything they tell me that I've missed
I'm pssed off now
and pssing off to 'the brown cow'
to get p*ssed.

Cigarette in my left hand and a pen in my right,I am drifting through smoke swirling words in the night and the letters catch light as they flow from the page and the stage is all set but the exodus finds me alone in this attic.
Now static
now mobile,alive somewhat docile but burrowing in files for something I can't find.In my mind there's a triptych which tricks me,the opponent that licks me each time that we fight,
In the smoke of the night where the firelight still warms me and the words that I write serve only to warn me of an impending doom,she
sits in another room and waits for the ink to dissolve,for me to make a resolve to be involved.
Involved only with ink
stains
I can't think, she fries my brains
so I light one more cigarette and in the blue rings I blow,I know,
I
write only to forget.

We shall all have one big get-together
weather permitting,
the men can play cricket
and the ladies
can carry on with their knitting.

There'll be a quiz
boys pitting their wits against the girls
and when the girls win
which is a foregone conclusion
there'll be utter confusion.

Tickets are one pound apiece
with fifty percent going to
pay off the police
for turning a blind eye.

Blah
Blah
in Baja
but science fiction in fact attracts the lunatics
the ones who see green men and all men are alien

Blah Blah
astromonotony
gluttons for
calamity,


I'm going camping.

If I miss the extinction event
the sure thing is that
Facebook won't

selfies in a helpless eternity
meeting the in-laws
meeting up with the dinosaurs
it
doesn't sound that bad to me.

We're all going K-T
and we'll be watching the stars
while we're kissing our arses
goodbye

An eye,
could be Cyclops
in all of the shops that
I shop in,
watching me to see
and sees what I see,

eyes can be all
knowing,

perhaps one eye only know
half the story.

It's blood I see,
high octane energy
escaping me.
I shall bleed away into
another day but
only
to see more.

Go to war, the posters scream,
an adventure turns into
the worst kind of dream,
seeping through my eyes at night,
a tunnel
with no end in sight.
It's blood I see,
high octane energy
escaping me.

It's probably National something day
when someone or other has their say
I wish they'd do National go away, don't
think they will.

I won't blame them or you,you
just do as they do but
it's time for a National new,
who's with me.

See!
you're stuck in your ways,
I think you're stuck in the mud
perhaps it's for,
The
National good.