It's a chapstick
lip lick
hit of a day.
Winter has come and
it's planning to stay.
I shall write in my diary only
the words that will fire me
up.

taking the funicular
almost perpendicular
wondering
who thought of things
like these.

the wind bites as if it's Dracula,
but the view from here's
quite spectacular
and
it's such a lovely day.

(20 minute poetry)

Past the barges easing along the canal, over the aqueduct,
******* the morning into my lungs,
flinging my satchel of schoolbooks because tomorrow never comes,

and then off to the islands for a pirate's day out,

tickling trout (the rainbow kind) lunch well deserved for the deserving mind.

I loved the river
the smell and the feel
the eels
the gulls
the turn of the tide

I took pride in it
knew every nook
every brook that loaned a little more strength to the length of it.

And then they altered it
sunk all my islands
dammed all the brooks

for ***** sake
can't they leave well enough alone?

The rivers not a home to be,
but it was a home for me
a long time ago.

Rise and shine time
is whatever time you want it to be,
mine's in about three weeks' time.

The longer this continues
the more confused I'll be.

We know today is Monday
and tomorrow will follow on
but
can you remember Saturday
and has it all gone wrong?

are we living in hope or in London,
are they one and the same?

Boris is back in the saddle
we're in a canoe with no paddle,
and in
reduced circumstances
we are somewhat or
faintly Victorian
but if you're reading the
Guardian
you'll never notice.

Cobwebs in corners.

In the rooms of my yesterday
I watch myself play
with 'action men'
'Bill and Ben' on the black and white
tea on the table and mum looks alright
and then my brothers come in
tuck in
******* the ham from my bones.

I like being alone.

My sister comes in and she's wearing a tu-tu
she goes to a ballet school
I take her sometimes and I sit like a fool
watching arabesques
quite Chaplinesque and
I try not to giggle
but I'm a boy growing up and it's hard not to wriggle or squirm.

And I turn into tomorrow where it seems
I have borrowed a few wrinkles and crinkles from Grandad
who's not doing so bad for an old one
but I hold on
to the room
it's my sanctuary
my place of safety.
In a world that's so feisty
my room is so nice
I see
how it looks when I close my eyes tight.
Your own room is waiting
somewhere
late at night at the place where the light shines
through the windows of good times.

I go back to the black and white
in the place where
it's all alright
and where dreams just might
come true.

Who knows where anything goes?
I don't,

but I think we're being ****** into the vortex
of some interstellar cortex
and that might know.

there's never a God when you want one
and
I wouldn't know one
if I saw one,
just call me Thomas.

'There's a place somewhere'
words
from a long ago song,
I know them but I'm not
sure
how they fit into the jigsaw.

So
as long as I go on not knowing
showing
my ignorance,

according to the adage,
that's bliss.
wouldn't miss that
for the World.

Stripped
of all reality
wading out into the sea
for only I could hear the
sirens wailing
and
failing in the fading light
lost
the day turned into night

the shore became
a memory for me
and a man
walking into the sea.

It's never what you think if you think it never is
and wisdom doesn't come in cornflake boxes.

They feed me leaves and chocolate drops
**** me
sell me to the shops
but
don't I taste so good?

I'm turning vegetarian
never eating meat again
or chocolate.

Another blame
heaped on the radio
if I didn't listen
I wouldn't know
but I did and I do.

Time drops its hints on me and
like pigeons ******* on the Queens
cavalry,
no charge.

At present, the funeral industry does not excite me
they're still trying though to sell me a policy.

But we're all getting ancient,
monuments to compound interest,

and I expect even if I'm not an expert
that after Brexit
we'll ditch the decimal
in favour of the Imperial Measure

.. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..-

Morse of course.

They're trying to overwrite me,
but they haven't found the right key
and I don't think that it's likely
that they will.

The cut-away gene
The one that allows you to cut away from a scene
To enter into any dream.
That cut-away gene.

We all have one and none are free
The gene allows us to be
It and me.
Do you see how it works?
How it lurks in the corners of the corners where you stand
And cuts away a tiny portion of each day
Until the day is gone.

I long for the moment when I pass away in the cut-away scene
Of the cut-away gene.
Will it seem so de-regulation
To cut away the strings that bind me to this station
And to float?

Could I cut away these scenes that come haunting me within my dreams
Is that what the cut-away genes are for?
Would I dig away until I'm sore
Until I reach the very core of this existence?
And should I,in my persistence cut away too much
Would I touch the heavens with my mind?
This is a kind of madness that I see
When all around,none are free
And we are the genetic bought and sold
Another kind of gold.

The cut-away gene will outlive me
And see much more than I could hope to see
But whether it can remember or not is the question that I've got
Does it have soul?
What is its goal?
Can we ever be sure that the cut-away gene is truly pure
Or a hybrid?
A get rich trick?
A gene so sick it makes me sick and quick let's run
The cut-away cuts away the sun and we are blind
Another kind of nightmare scene
Dream
Within the night of the cut-away gene.

In-between the light beams
where the pixies play
on the good ship Misanthrope
I while the hours away.

The lights go down
the room looks dimmer
and the years pass by,

then
they marry you off to a
Zimmer
and you wonder why
the years passed by
without you noticing,

if life was a job
I'd hand my notice in
tomorrow.

Today I'm one day older
shrinking slightly,
feel the cold a
little more.

Turns out that
Autumn's not a flavour it's
just a feeling that I've been here
many times before.

The gas lamps hiss and sputter
as the morning comes,
and they're shut off,

And I'm not surprised
that the alarm clock
sounds so angry,
it's not yet six o-clock.

Lots of people not buying into it because
too many people are trying to get out of it.

but it's what you make of it
that makes it special,

Life isn't the one size that fits all
the
wear only one colour to the ball
it's the
kaleidoscope of fancy
until the final curtain call.

Why poetry?
why not
it's got everything
and
it's low in calories.

okay
it's addictive
but
most things are
poetry is by far
the nearest place to
nearly there
where I'll ever be.

Well
that went quickly
wasn't it?
didn't it?
couldn't fit the weekend
in an egg tray?

I wanted it
got it
used it up
forget it.

And now it's now and
not then
until the weekend comes
again.

The first of whatever because this year will never end.

Chinese on the Moon?
opening
the new Kowloon restaurant and take-away
probably,

ooh, cynical on Tuesday is not the way to be.

but it's nearly Crimbo
and we all know what that means,
yep,
the Wizard of Oz on the telly,
turkey, stuffing, trifle and jelly,

well he
can dream
can't he?

We sync lips to mesh gears
and she steers the ship,

I move continents to
satisfy my need to
take supplements to quantify
the person I am, but
become the man
anyway.


Had I known that to grow up
would just make me older
I'd have stayed where
I was

It's always like this,
One moment I'm listening
and the next
I miss what was being said
because the voices booming in my head
and taken me to that other place.

Up on the dais I am superman.

I can do it all
enthrall the audience
with my eloquence
but near to you I am struck dumb
numbed by the words that you speak.

I am weak
this I know
and that's why I go to that other place
but I carry your face in a cup
and drink it up
when I feel lonely.

If only I was filled with the will to be strong
I could hang on longer
Assuage my hunger.

On the dais the voices remain in my head
and listen to me
and to what I have said.
Why don't you?

One day I will hear
those words in my ear
and those voices I fear will leave me alone
until then,
I'm on my own and only I can understand
the man upon the stage
who stares into the distance
with a look set on his face
of another place.

Plaintive songs from the living room
surely, the living room is
a misnomer when the artists are all dead.

still,
things stick in your head,
like axes,
they bring tears to your eyes,
ask Harold,

no more war for me.

Candidates for the London Mayor,
there are so many of them
but
whoever wins
we are guaranteed a better city,

I read all the pamphlets
they assured me it was so.

Friday soon and
the moon and I are still friends.

If you could look forward and see yourself looking back,
wouldn't that be a neat trick?

Time dilation aside
would you like to ride on that exploding mass?

Or to pole dance on the edge of a black hole
where no light escapes and be
as blind as a mole.

Peaks and troughs as the creator coughs and passes
a cloth over the lens.

I'm awake or dreaming of such
when I touch on the secret
of what is not known
and forget.

Laugh?
I'm still wet behind the ears after
sixty one years
fearful of getting soap in
my eyes.

The radiator's hissing and it's ******* down outside, I'm watching two old beggars in the doorway where they hide and I'm sensing a temptation or some moral obligation to shout and ask them in and share a shepherd's pie with them and open up a tin or two,

You who have it comfy should realise it don't come free and I'm speaking of your life of which you'll have to pay a fee,

two old beggars with tales to straighten hair,
I'm glad I asked them inside and
never left them over there.

'Christmas is coming
the goose is getting fat'
I'm always hungry
so
I'm having some of that.

I could survive on
hot mince pies or
curried turkey on
Boxing day and
a tot or two of
Katy Daley's mountain dew
would ******* clean away.

its ******* us and gave us
little pleasure in the doing,

jeez
if we're all gonna die
we may as well get high
and get it on.

A requiem
for all those men
who died last night
in the half light of a half life
with a suitcase beside a dead face
or a rucksack strapped to a lifeless back.

A requiem for the dreams of men
where the truth is carried home to them
in the home they do not call their own
on the floors of stone where the cold seeps through into the bone
and the ache of both the heart and what should be the home
is killed within the stricken moan.

A requiem
for when the night takes pain away
for another day.

And a hymn for him or her
for those who dared to take a leap outside the comfort zone.
and now to head off
to a home which will be home.

A requiem in memoriam
Ad infinitum.

The body of evidence
lays lonely
hidden from sight by the endless and timeless and unless I'm mistaken
ready to be taken in the hearse to the home where all evidence lies gathering dust.

Maybe she was Russian black or
maybe my imagination,
but she moved like snow on peppermint,
slow and tasty and
much to my amazement,
she melted lines upon my face and
I,
stepping light on all the right stones
making magic with these old bones
melted into her.

With several leaps into frustration
my destination marker hardly
changed at all, though
I had run through cracking panes of glass
where reflections would not let me pass
I saw the end.

She blew a kiss and disappeared
I flew into a rage and feared that
I would die,
but
angels do not work that way they
reappear another day,
and so
I wait,
with pepperminted tongue in cheek
I shall be silent and not seek
another one.

Russian black or red or white
snow and peppermint at night
is my desire.
I light the fire and wait for her
to come and dine with me
and share my appetite.

When the light throws at you arrows in the morning when the shadows try to catch your formless shifting as you move along the pavements, when you're searching for that someone who can search the sidewalks with you and you only find the nothing that's in empty cigarette packs, there's a big dog somewhere barking, over that wall, his name's rover 'cause there's no imagination written on the tag he's wearing and I am far beyond the caring whether this goes that or any way,
going home.

Pulling shades down on the daydreams, I spill out upon the sofa, flip the ring pull on another tin and maybe that's the answer that decides if it's a question, if I'm foolish in the following of archetypes and angels who shuffle through this room, pedestrians who want to be the E-type of their day.

If the night comes when it slows it opens up the fruits of sadness, which swallow me in little mouthfuls which only makes for bigger sorrows, there's a crack up on the ceiling amid the peeling paint and mildew it reminds me of a man I knew, a long time since I've seen him but the crack's been there forever, it's just a feeling that comes over me when daylight throws its arrows,
going home.

The rain drops blot me up,
like a man of tissue
I break into folds to
shred upon the street.

Slicked with the grease and the oils of the day
and the wind pays no heed to me,
stabbing me,
micro knife cuts on the cardboard
life that I lead.

I should be in a 'glossy',
not fussy which one,
entombed in a magazine
for someone to dream on.

Down along the broadway
the pipes play a tune,
some band from Scotland,
the raindrops still blot
me up.

You'll only come to the funeral to laugh at me,
but when you look at the plain wood and earth
remember this,
you'll soon be joining me,
remember this,
I was here first.

I was always first
you never laughed at that
did you.

who's laughing now?

She could have been talking to me when she said
come up and see my collection.

Whistler's Uncle.

role play is the order of the day and if Mae had her way,
but that's a story for a later date and a date that I never got.

Pickford's appealing to me and I get the feeling that she
is much more than the Hollywood hype.

if Boardwalks could talk
what tales they could tell.

The silver screen,
we could have been
so good together.

He changes his socks
but never the muse
and
wonders what's the use,

in time when the stream
reaches its destination.

He never fixates
he
always deliberates
slowly.

Things will be
they always are.

I leave well enough alone,
even in marriage
sometimes
it's good to be on your own.

There is here a limited access
no entry,
do you have a pass?

Go
be things as they are,
better by far that you know
what will be.

A silhouette at the sunset of my day,
far enough away so that my
features become blurred,

'the word'

moving into the memory where my destiny awaits me
and set free into the company of those memories before me.

I am shadows in the sunlit
that flit through curtained windows
I am magpie in the hedgerow and
skylark swift when Northern winds blow.

Beside a moonlight by the firelight
when
the cooling of the evening brings to
me the darknesses of what might be
I see the sunset and the silhouette
waiting and yet
waiting and yet
I never want to ride off.

He
went off to war
left her alone
with the kids and
nothing more

and she
in the factory
always wondering if
he
would come on home

lights blinking off and on
the children gone
to a farm in
Northern Wales

and she
left all alone
in a house
no longer home.

In the top drawer
underneath the handkerchieves
are the missiles, (forgive me), missives
that you sent to give me hope
every one of them,

and I keep them
for I might need them in
the future.

I only climb up to fall,
to feel that thrill when you call
my name
and we slide then to grip tight
to see where it might go.

We are devoured by daylight
hours
that eat us away, but the night
holds sway in the kingdom
of love.

She mounts me
in her album,
I am
a living
memento
a butterfly trapped
by the colours
she flies.

Passing through
and that's all we ever do

I am humbled by your cheers,
my joy
akin to that when I was
but a boy is boundless

(Who said hop it?)
stop it
you're making me cry.

Each milestone passed is
one more nearer to the last
( realism is a necessity )
not necessary some would say,
not even on a sixty second birthday?
and I'll go with that view

after all
passing through may be
what we do
but
there's no law against taking
as much time as possible
to admire the view
and that'll definitely do
for me.

Joseph swopped his dreamcoat
for a trip downriver on a
Mississippi steamboat
and it was all in
technicolour.

There is no bible big enough
to hold all the stuff
that faith is made from,

my mom told me that
( actually it was mam but that didn't rhyme )


But it's all boo to a goose
with its neck in a noose
I prefer Turkey
or
sometimes Kabul.

Here at the altar
a prayer
a Colt a
bang.

I hang with the goose.

I footslog
at loggerheads with myself
just like a mad dog
that bites its own tail.

I plot a lese majesty but
is the monarchy a
travesty or is it
me?

Moving on to the stadium
it radiates,
a symposium under an open sky,
I wonder why
I am here.

Then a cheer echoes from the throats
of those dressed ties and fancy coats
and floats noisily,
just like the ocean that crashes lazily
into a sea wall.

I fall,
a thermometer and
try to gauge the temperature,
it's as cold as a tomb and no room
for the footslogger or the tail he
tries to chase.

The sound of the clock that turns
around a closed in universe
appears worse in the mornings
when I wake.

It can't be me
she said.
actually, she said,
it can't be you, but you
didn't rhyme with she,
so I wrote me
and
this allows me to
be,
me and you
simultaneously,

interestingly enough,
she also said lots of other stuff,
but now I can't remember what.