To pick up this chewed end pen and when no one is looking and
wondering why
I want to jam the chewed end pen in my eye, the left one will do and I
want to ram it right through until it hits a nerve or possibly two.

I can spew out a rhythm with the ***** of a schism, but the madness
has been done once before,
I need a joiner
a plumber
someone to come numb me or
someone to take numbness away,
ipso facto don't come back though
the lace is never still and the curtains
will twitch.

**** me with kindness your Highness
I am humbly your servant 'til dawn when
the Romans will come and
make a wish that you'd never been born.

But born though I be, the pen still hates me and I loathe the ink in
the pen, **** it then don't write,
spend the night reading Tolstoy
undress in the lamplight,
be coy with the white Knight,
they'll hang you
tomorrow for sure,
checkmate.

Colours black,
fades
back
to white milk night.
Though blind of sight I
hear the falls,
the cataracts call in
colours black.,
On the board
knight backs night.
Checkmate
Right?

Complex,
but to the mind,
distance is no object,
if I am here and there
then I am everywhere.

An insecticide,
I can hide in, slide in
underneath your skin.
Disrupt the flow of signals to
your brain,
drain you of the will to live.

Multi ***,
I am he and she and in me there
are many more, it
all checks out to me to be
more than complex
but in my mind,
I cannot object,
I only project the pictures that I see,
I keep my own and I own my self
and my
own company.

Complex.

Roll them in
and roll them off
roro
row your boats

it's not the magistrates
nor the courts
the system's sinking
only the **** still floats.

If I am going to be doomed
can you make it at midnight
on Friday?
I get paid and if
I'm to be weighed
off
I might as well get off
on ***
drugs
not forgetting
before the rot sets in
spangles.

The owl and the pussycat
who sailed away
managed a year and a day
before **** with a growl
disembowelled poor owl

even the best of friends
fall out
fall off
fall in
roro
row your boats.

Anyway
why resign
why not go and stand in line
to wait?
It,don't matter if you're late
we'll all be that way one day,
just get in the queue
with the rotten who
rot away
waiting for
(or so they say)
a new Messiah.

Liars,lyres.funeral pyres
brand us all the same,
design,resign,
the dead redefine
but get in line
the service starts
at noon.
(nine would have rhymed)

In this City built on bones and dread where the poor are chained and fed on scraps
someone taps upon the door.
'no room in here',
The banker boys with bankers toys play scrabble on the backs of notes  where promises are paid in shares and Monopoly squares the game away.

In the central ticket hall, we all stand tall to see the others and what they bought, where they sought to go, how much was laid upon the shill who pockets one half, in the till the rest.
At times, the best is nearly there, but nearly's not quite on the ball and so we cover London like a pall,
a flock of starlings screech,
no change at all in the City built of dead men and so it's off to bed then.

If tomorrow lights my torch, it might not, so in my pockets I have got a tinder box,
the pistol cocked, the sounds of ears within the wall, the City never sleeps, I call,
'Geronimo',
and let go my feeble grasp, let go with one long gasp and then there is,
the City in my soul, in the hole, interim,
the grim reaper another non-sleeper greets me with a smile.
'It's been a while', he says
I gaze longingly at the City
I no longer know.

We shall meet up at the gathering place
each meeting gathering pace,
looking for
anticipating
the moment of
emancipation.
Sing with me of liberty of
freedom from the yoke,
choke the chains of slavery,
poke out the eyes of industry,
in the gathering place we'll all be free
or we
will all be dead.

Bank Holiday Monday
is
like Sunday without the bells
almost quiet but not quite
there's a slight murmur
down on the corner
where a crowd is gathering
(and I bet it's not corn)

all ears
I strain to hear
but it's too far away
which is
a bit like Friday
on a Bank
Holiday Monday

'The end is nigh'
aye
but before the fire and brimstone
before the final exodus
there'll just be us
alone.

It is no fluke it's Friday
I saw it in the stars.

already I am tired of it
and not yet
half past four
still dark out there and
dark in here,
I
stumble through the bedroom
door
fumble with the light
reminding me of stumbles
and of fumbles in a younger
night

the coffee burns my tongue
not fun
I curse
nothing's worse than being a man
who has to rise before the sunlight
hits the skies

I can
believe
if I really try
that
Friday is a
friend
but why
try?

We know that Friday's just the sop
the pop they give that seems to make
a life worth living

I give in,
surrender
tomorrow
I'll go on a massive ******
and
wake in time for this time next
week

I listen to the news
what news?
twenty thousand views on
who or what when why can be
but
it is the BB ****** C
and probably transmitting
from Alexandra's flaming
palace.


And now I'm wide awake
I can see
exactly how it'll go
rise and shine
put on a show
rise and glow
another show
rise
until the rising's done
wait until the
kingdom which we know
will never come

I know this dread will pass
and I'll go on
until
' the end is nigh'

The morning,
shifting weight will sit,then
Pow,
will jump and with a giant fist
hit me in the face,
a knockout blow, thus starts another daily show
of grandstanding,
landing back upon my feet with eyes quite bleary,
I go out to meet
the coming of another day.
One more act,scene two,part one,the morning carries on as if
I wasn't there at all but later in the dining hall,I hear the call
of afternoon and morning's gone so soon,so soon,
another moon before I see its like.

IOC.




My initial reaction

is chemical,

comical

satisfied.




funny?

I think it has to be,

a compound that

fractures and has

me

in stitches.




I sew these thoughts into a square

and watch as they wriggle to get out




if there

is anything I learned as a kid

it's how to get rid of such bothersome

things




my initial reaction




the Olympic construction

Vesuvius

erupting




drugs are corrupting.




I'm going for tea.

You know how it is when
all points converge
when
two souls merge.

yeah?

okay
but there's a place in-between
I'm sure we've all been there
been seen alone there
wondering where or if you'd
ever find that match to make
a pair.

There's someone for everyone,
somebody said and
you can take it as read
that somebody
was right.

Men,
don't forget to put the toilet seat down

Ladies,
treat your men as boys.


it's the little things that
bring
such joy.

Being objective

guys
you've hooked up to
the collective
you will be
assimilated

women rule the roost
get used to it.

I dodge the cracks in the pavement,
intent on the whole in
saving my soul.

Going to chill with a pill like 'the fool on the hill' and watch the world go by
getting high, unreal as anything that is real can be,
see me,
I'm dumb,
don't think I'm wired to the mains,
got brains,
unused,
but what to use them for?

Going to light up the sky with my eyes while I chill and watch the world go by, getting high as high as anything that could ever be,
see me,
not plumb,
don't think I'm wired to the mains,
no volts,
just faults and every kind of an insane,
going to chill with a pill be the fool on a hill and watch the world go by, I wonder why I never thought of it before,
one door
closes,
another opens and revolves.

Tea time which means

beans

on

toast,


the most beans I ever got was thirty six

I was going to save them in an album

but

mum

said

NO.




So I ate them

one by one until

all the beans

all thirty six

were gone

and

then I burped

(actually it was a ****)




I only said burp because

I don't want to hurt

the feelings of those

who don't like

crudities.




My bro'

the one just older
though

you wouldn't know it

had to sit next to me for tea




haha still laughing about that.

.

Take pride in who you are
and what you do, in
where you go, know that
something greater is in
your stars.

Screen out the freeze frame,
your name meanders through 
the book of love in light.


'I spy with my little eye'
the guys in the corner
hiding away,
but today is your day,
the universe insists it's so,
know that something greater
is in the stars.

Bill and Ben are off their heads again,smoking **** because they need that little **** ain't life a joke,
Bill and Ben can't remember when or if they can they can't be arsed until the dope becomes so scarce, and they know that's there's nothing worse than
Bill and Ben,
no joint for them
poor blokes they got no smokes and nothing which to stoke the fire that burns their eyes and gets them higher.
Bill and Ben
are bored and boring men,they got a job,oh flobalob,
Bill and Ben.

For a bit of fun,
we set fire to the Sun
and then called 999.

The operator answered
and we replied,
'there's a train on the track
get off the line'

We all want free time
the me, me, me, time
but
it's my, my, my time
which is funnily enough
time for me time.

( goes around clockwise but none the wiser )

Grammarly tells me to remove an article,
this isn't strip poker though, is it?
but that's
by the by and
something for me and my time.

(20 minute poetry)

There's a nip in the air
which reminds me of an old pun
however
I'm not in the mood for fun,
too busy trying to keep the heat in.

As cold as brickwork
thin as tin
life only gives what
we put in.

I survey a grey area
a great sea of humanity
trudging endlessly
to who knows where

and I'm at Bethnal Green
between here and like nothing
I've ever seen,

someone has to be.

There's a radio
static, low
don't they know that on
the underground they
impound music
except for songs by
Max Bygraves
which don't count.

I fall oblique
into that which I seek
and miss in the end
the mess of the
West End

no bad thing
but actually I think
Max can sing

Then
the hypodermic needle
of St Paul and his
cathedral
such a busy place.

barring any mishap
or anything like that,
In
nine hours I can repeat
this experience
in reverse.

It's a bitter wind
a bit of wind, but
it's winding me up.

Spats and plus-fours
for going outdoors
and I think that a scarf
is in order.

my dad used to say,
wear your boots or
the wind will blow
you away

I think he was joking.

Does it sometimes feel to you
that there are eleven days in
the week?
if yawning was an Olympic sport
I'd win in the final.

and it's still quite dark
even outside of my heart.

96443
is this the number that
will define me or just
the carriage I'm in?

I didn't win the lottery?
poor me.

But I look at it this way,
I'm alive and
it'll be the kind of day I
want it to be.

'Make it so'
echoes of Star Trek a
few years ago.

The tube turns into
a troop carrier,
an
army that can't liberate
itself,
the 'dawn patrol'
under somebody
else's control.

Are you getting this ?

we're walking our way
into less and less pay
for more and more work.

We'll all be begging soon.
except for the idle rich,
that'd be too much like
work for them.

I am not Isherwood,
but I can be a camera,

I think she's trying to hide
what do you think?

I think thinking should be
tax deductible.

When I cross my heart and hope to die to wonder when or if and why
she is the one and I'm so shy?

I close my eyes imagining a word beginning
with,
I spy love then I sigh
the world is my onion no wonder I cry,

the older I get the more salt over my shoulder
I throw
I know it's crazy and dumb and
some
say the boy is not plumb,

such are the ways when we wander through days
when she wanders through me
it's the best company
I could wish for.

Broken
but under repair
and
one day
when I'm fixed
I will shy away from
those old tricks
which
got me here,

almost there
just a few more tucks
not that anyone gives
a flying circus about me.

Chiselling away
through a mountain of clay
the mole of a man
lays his hand to creation

I'm watching the,
'if I can build it so can you'
show
on channel two of a faraway
Internet pay as you go station

it's something to do
until
my ship comes in
and come in it will
but until then
I'll be one of those men
who chisel away
and pray for the end
to be quick.

Changing position
like shingle on the beach.

We alter course
alert to the least line
of resistance
most of the time.

I was sitting in the Rendezvous
dropping Benzedrine
and drinking you
in.

That was eons ago
or yesterday when
we started slow
in the
Rendezvous,

it's difficult now to
remember how
things really were
but
we were there
the two of us
in the empty café
kissing the moonbeams
and chatting away
almost believing tomorrow
would never arrive.

Time
and we see things with
different eyes,
the truth of it lost
in the constant rewind
almost as if things are
just fading away
like
you and I at the
Rendezvous
café.

It is where what could be that we see
and there is where we should be,

progression?
it's just a passion play
Christ on his way
to Berlin,
ha
just kidding.

Where am I
or am I?

I hate starting the week with a bag full of questions,
they are a nagging reminder until I find a
dumpster.

Monkeys on your back need a new home.

cholesterol high imperfect potato slices,

an acronym guaranteed to not get you slim
but real chips are in
my vocabulary.

They tell me that snow's on the way
and that later I'll skate or I'll fall,
well
that seems okay to me
skating comes naturally,
thin ice is my friend and is not
my worst enemy.

They tell me that snow's on the way,
any day now
snowmen will appear and
snowballs my dear are not
what you think.

No one wants it
but
everyone gets it.

Tuesday comes and
it will go
sometimes fast
most times slow
but
the older I get
the more I let
it go.

I could terminate at
Willesden
and then what?

This carriage is like the marriage
of Figaro performed in slow motion
or
it could be if they were singing out loud.

the costumes are amazing,
someone's out to get their days work in
before they go out
on the town.

Hi-vis jacket man
wants to be seen
wonder if he terminates
at
Willesden Green.


Moans from her stereo
headphones on autoglow
blue light flash.

More sounds now,
a cough and
some sneezing
we're all being squeezed in

( Do I look fat in this? )

Haha
a schoolboy reads
' the picture of Dorian...
..storm clouds got their eye
on him.

She
opens up the deadlocks on
her waist length *******
dreadlocks
and
shakes her head in joy.

I get off at Bond Street
not to be confused
with
Pond Street
which as you know is at
Hampstead.

Catch you on the flip side
when I take the next ride
which will probably be
on the Jubilee.

(20 minute poetry)

Beat around the bush
no rush
you'll get there
in the end and
eventually
to the mortuary.

Meanwhile we smoke them,
the good and the bad men
it makes no difference to me
to be
the pariah in society.

What use is poetry
to a loser or a man
like me?

They sicken me
pick on me
soon we'll see them
dancing to a different tune
it
can't come soon
enough,

In the meanwhile where the
smile persists
evil exists.

I balance the books
bigots or crooks they're
all the same to me
pariahs in and of
society.

Put your cure or your curse
on the worst of them
they're all men
heading to the mortuary.

What nonsense we talk when trying to impress and
I guess I talk a tsunami of it
trying to drown out any opposition
it's all ******* my dear
and as Fagin would say
as worthless as the night is to day.

It is only the background,
white noise
the sound you don't hear,
easy then to forget
what vocals do and how
they set your mood,

this is
food for those who are hungry
and for those who are hungry
for the company.

I could do well
and live in a lighthouse,
surrounded by the constant
crashing of waves,
I could easily as well be
shingle on the shore,

she saves me again
from myself and
the pain
of not knowing.

It's the bed roll and not the bank roll,
but one can always dream.

More wine, Vicar?
good for the blood and
not so bad for your ticker.

Spam in cans or
Cannes in France?
wouldn't chance
either of them.

Of course,
you must understand
that today
is the drift day and
a day to float away
on a symphony.

A selection box to outfox all selection boxes
this is what was given to us
by nature ,

not painted on
and for real
untouched
untainted
and we made of it
in the greater part
a **** heap,

the countryside,
a place to keep
our waste
nuclear and otherwise

this is the true size of it
the whole nine yards of it
the truth and the lie of it is,
It was never ours
trees
flowers
were loaned
were on account

we reap as we sow
and
now we owe
a huge debt

yet nature is forgiving
Live
and let the living
live
it gives me hope
It gives me indigestion
but the question is
what does it give to you?

Today
I shall be a brave soldier,

think I'll call myself
Running Bear
or
Dances On Water,
get a date with
Geronimo's daughter,

alternatively
I might be a mouse
could call myself
Mighty mouse
or
Super mouse,
not leave the house,
No
not
a mouse
not a Minnie or a Mighty,
being
a mouse just don't sit lightly,

never fear
I'll be someone
else.

Work,
the *****,
the crack ******* house, the new dope den but someone is still pulling the strings,making me do things and all for work.
Should I go out in this pouring rain and smoke that pipe of labour again or sit here at home with a bottle of shame?
It's not on the cards but all the same
I wish it was summer.

Differing views
Breaking news
what do you use,
the swingometer
the clapometer
or do you stick
with the thermometer?

Climate change is going on within us
have you reached the boiling point yet?
I'll stay with the stones,
the bones or the runes,
something to hold onto.

We get vaccinated
and before too long
it'll be Chlorinated
chicken,
try licking your fingers
after that.

**** it and see
and
we can all be
Kentucky.

To vaccinate or not to vaccinate
jeez, that's a poser, you see
if I let them inject me with
the Covid recovery
they might instead load me
with some binary code,

she
says
I'm being silly.

Choose days.

They said the forecast was for Sun
Ben Gunn had kit bags full of Sun

I've had some
I mean the Sun
just in case
you wondered
where I've wandered.

Heatstroke,
and I like to be stroked,
think that in a former life
I lived quite like a cat.

So
I'm rambling
scram if you don't like it.

Tubes.

one million ideas
on their rears
ready to depart
and the standing few
who firm up the queue,

what would we do
without the few?

the smell of perfumed sweat
can it get better than this?
I suspect that it can.

Girls with buns in their hair.

I have never had a bun up in my hair
seems to me that there must be
another place to put them,
like on a plate
with jam,
Oh it can get better
it just did.

Getting off is as simple as getting on
once you master the reverse
psychology.

Clouds,
snaking silently across the sky,
the howling wind is rushing by,
a bit like life
the reason why
I lay awake and listen to Bizet.

Resistance only tires you when
the end, inevitably blue
the colours always stay the same
grey, black ruins on my window,
what's the pain you feel when
Winter comes, when
daylight runs away and
snaking silently across the day
the clouds all seem to laugh as if
to say,
We're free as birds but have no wings, we
fly and you can only pray.

The winds that blow,
the trumpet sound, the trenches we dig,
underground,
I lay and  watch the clouds that fly
to me they're still snakes in the sky
and I remain
unsatisfied,
a bit like life and
then it died.

Random impressions,
suggestions of faces
places I've been to,
haze me, amaze me,
it's like getting lost once again in
the mazes I've been through.

New images fly and in the
blink of an..forgetting things like
where was I?
what was I thinking?.

Random and fleeting and
soon I'll be meeting old friends
it always depends though on
which way through the maze
that I go.

Perfumes that float in
that heavenly..forgetting again
as more impressions assail me,
the memory fails me but
they never do.

Will you tell me what I want to know
before I leave this night
won't you give one kiss before I go
or just turn off the light?

Give me a morsel of your mind
give me a crumb so I can find
or let me be forever blind.

Can't you see that it's no good to be
a starving man in this bakery
If I have to I will help myself
and I can't help myself
but help myself
to all there is.

Washing over me
like waves,
octaves
staves
making more waves,

can you hear Handel
Beethoven or
Mendelssohn?

I can hear
Schubert in the
closet
composing
wedding music
using sound waves
juggling octaves
marrying the staves
together,

it washes over me
like
Blake's requiem
becomes
my
Jerusalem
as I make my
way home.

In the shadow of the shadow where another shadow's waiting
and the sun sits on an easy chair as if
it's hesitating
to come out and play the childish game of
hide and seek,
who's looking?
in the emptiness of market square where spiders,fat and lazy,spin no webs or gory stories, to frighten little children and the cafe,brown and tear stained by the failures of the patrons to understand that change was coming and a brick wall couldn't stop it,
there's a blind man seen it all before with eyes that couldn't fathom,in
the depths of human misery he swam only to exercise his mind
and the sun sat in the easy chair,
to the blind man neither here nor there
which at the the end is all we're
really looking for.