The event horizon
dies on my lips.
The outside of me slips within.

At the edge of a reasoning
this thing that would bring me
to an alternate state
cannot wait and it swallows.
My cheeks become hollows as I **** myself in
and the event shall begin with
a flashing of lights.

When the night turns to spin and the angels pin their hopes
against the twisting of the corner ropes
and the bells do not chime against the rushing of time that races past in glee.
I can see me in a negative
A picture I would give this life for
More and more the night gyrates,waits and then it rushes on
into an inner halcyon
long bygone.

In the end there is no end
no beginning
no point in space in which to face the past.
Held fast the faster that I go
a blurring in a fiery glow and eventually I will finally know
that which was hidden behind the lies.
Then my eyes will rest easily upon
the other side of
event
horizon.

We sweat the small stuff which is unrealistic when such fantastic things are happening,
these days are most definitely the days of wonder.

underneath her starry gaze
where worlds expire
I find the entrance to a maze
that sets my heart on fire.

Excitement unspent,
a storehouse that's
meant
to be opened.

Luminaries dim in comparison to
the light that she shines upon me.
in my wildest imaginings
my darkest despairing
her light
will always find me.

The moon
is in your eyes
tonight,
I might try
a
landing.

When nothing's as good as anything
there's no point in us knowing everything
not when something is
bound to appear.

I have faith that good fortune will find me
before the rotgut I drink totally blinds me.

Saturday and the Saturday smell,
fresh and inviting
I shall dip my toes in
the weekend,

but it's windy and the wind's always greedy
it sees me as in need so it feeds me
with fingers of ice
which is not very nice,
but I go where the wind tends to lead me.

Christmas and Santa'***** the sherry
it's no wonder he always looks merry
his elves help themselves off the
bargain ***** shelves
because
some things are as good as anything.

We got high on five dollar nights,
lit on the sense of it
shot
for fifty cents a hit
and came out none the wiser.

But alive we let live in
the hope it will give
what it takes,

it takes four more cents.

ip dip sky blue
remember who played the game
with you.

And if you try to deny me
the debt that falls due
it'll be
ip dip sky blue.

Backtrack to the coal sack
and the smoking fires.

don't fly around the flames
dive in
head first
get there before you feel the pain.

ip dip sky blue
running through
my head again.

Did I mention dementia?
do you fear it might come?
to wake up one morning
and know it's begun.

Fate can wait in the queue
and it's
ip dip sky blue.

Counting beads.

...and now on their way to tomorrow, today, and who is there to say
cease fire
someone will turn in to the driveway of hell and burn in eternity for these iniquitous deeds,
it's a deforestation of souls, a population control by those who have sold out to Satan,
the only freedom out there is death from the air and it comes in screaming as if it's a baby leaning into life and falling,failing,tailing off and dropping,
dead,
like the scrolls unrolled that wither away on their way to tomorrow,today,
to cry and to die without understanding why,
population education?
I'd sooner be stupid,
play cupid to the factions but
it's destruction not distraction
they want.

The handwritten card reads,

'Help Me
suffering from Hepatitis C'

which to me is a cry
from the heart,

but he's just one of many
in the city,
doesn't anybody care?

the card could of course be a lie
and the man sitting there
could be
as healthy as you or as I

wonder why he wrote it?

while
I think inoculation,
half of the population have
never heard of hepatitis

the liver might as
well be something to eat
not a disease for someone to beat

I admire him however grim it may be
to sit and bare your medical history
begging for charity
it's certainly something you
don't see
every day.

Counting Chimneypots

On this bed of cardboard dreams
under Waterloo
where steam trains trickle by above my head
drip fed by the sheen of lights
that float through cracks in cracked out nights
and slower still the will that wills me to survive
is locked behind and under baggy eyes
where sleep to no avail
avails me of no rest.

This zest of bitter lemon juice
splashes
tells me what's the use of going on
but go on I must if only just to spite those gentlemen
with fountain pens who sit at desks on fancy chairs
and never give a thought or care to me
out here in there.

I'll make them look
let me strip off layers of ***** skin and pin it to the pinafores
of petit fours
and let them smell the smell I smell
and eat?
Well
the devil always knows his own and knows who owns the rights
to Waterloo and steam train nights.

I'm breaking out of here
once upon the time when my cluttered mind is clear
and I can see beyond the grime where lines of strategy
will parallel to set me free
the straight
the narrow streets where narrow minded minds are funded
seconded from the corporation
to adjust and tinker with my situation.

I can take or leave them
that other form that gentlemen can take
swamp life
swamped by life
trampled underfoot by feet where the shoes do fit
and do not rub or hurt a bit
and once the touchpaper's lit
there'll be no stopping me
set free
broken out
broken in
watch them gentlemen begin
to worry then.

U

All stations to..
...and then I tuned out.

Sunlight reacts with the windows
throwing shadows across
empty seats.

This must be the
ghost train.

Friday
and it's looking good
for once,
I can see the wood
the trees are a bonus
feature.

Ready to depart?
but
I left ages ago,
I think I should tell
the driver
I think he ought
to know.

' don't let your daughters on
the stage, Mrs Worthington

that was brought to you
by
random radio,
I listen in quite frequently
to the broadcasts
on
high frequency,

it's just something
that I do.

It's a twenty/twenty world of plenty
so what you moaning for?
you're getting everything you'd ever want
and who could ask for more?

Alas,
my vision grows quite dim and any chance there
ever was, of me getting some of anything
is growing awfully slim.

In a twenty/twenty when there's plenty
some get more than their fair share
I get none
but I don't care.

You'll find me at the bring and buy
where I buy some,bring some
find some,win some
but in a twenty/twenty of lots of plenty where life tramples me and I feel empty
I go gently
into the night.

What number do we
seventeen
sixty three
and does she number us so?

In feeling less than it
and
still getting on with it
head to the grindstone
eyes on the goal
I get the whole picture

I am the prime number
even as time
jumbled me up
I stumbled back up
to get back down with it.

For every funeral I go to
every numeral takes on
another meaning
do you know what I mean?

what number do we
when we only see
the next number in line?

Somewhere in the canyon of 'smack'
echoes attack me,
in withdrawal they find me.
An outline,a
chalk line
dead most of the time but
there's a sign being lit
across the river from where I sit or
the sign may be me,
the light of spirit breaking free.
I'm not sure.

The cure being in the finding out,
the climbing out from where
the echoes shout.
Somewhere in the canyon of 'smack'

She led me up the stairs
along the landing,
I wondered as I wore away
the outcome on the carpet tacks, tacked on the day
what would she say
what would she see
would it be me she saw or something more
standing there.

Nine hours gone
and
it's nine twenty-one.
the day marches on
much like the infantry

the infant me
thinks they're toy soldiers
the adult
knows they are not.

ps it's nine twenty-five now

Sang, sung, sing was in fact my musings on the bird song  and not the name of a friend of mine from Hong Kong, but close enough to make me think of her.

And I have thought many times about the conversations back and forth on telephone lines
using
euphemisms  and innuendos because one never knows when someone's listening in,

it's an experiment,
experimenting with excitement.
and a compliment
to our choice of words.

I have a shrine
mine all mine
at which I pray

' one day at a time '

even if this crazy life is
a pantomime
I haven't got time to
clown around

she told me,
keep your feet firmly
on the ground,
hold your breath
and
count to ten.

There is always that look of despair
a suicide in hiding behind the eyes
which are shining,
won't
someone put the time in to care.

One more on the to do list to do
one more thing that I have
missed out
One more devil to pay for
and for that
I will pay for
no doubt.

Window across the valley
mist on the mountain tops
the river runs ragged and slowly
until this all finally stops.

The chamois with feet very steady
gets ready to jump the crevasse
I think I might jump across with him, to
where the grass is much greener
it's making me
keener to try.

If I stay I will dry up and wither
like some ear of corn in the sun,
but if I die in the taking it's
me that is making
the choice
and the one
that is loading
the gun.

The epiphany comes
when the sun's gone down
and the tide turns in my sleep,
how deep this ocean where I play
and wait for day to come.

Burnt too many bridges
drunk too much wine
wasted so much time
on the little things.

Why does the finger of fate
finger me?
why does it poke such fun?
how deep the ocean where I play
and wait for the day to come.

If it's neither here and it isn't there,
mediocre rather than rare

where am I and does anyone care?


I stare long and hard
which isn't too long
and not
such a hard thing to do.

an epiphany at
ten to three
or
shortly after two
or
is the ocean that wide
that I cannot hide and
wait for the day
with you.

We stand counting sloths
behaving like moths
attracted to the flame.

On the streets are many sounds and sights.
Like,
dragons jumping traffic lights and busses buzzing through the long and lonely nights.
In the stable where I stay
some say that,'I'm unstable' well they would wouldn't they?
I lay me down but get no peace
the sirens from the local police begin to blare
How they love to share that noise.
A different place another poise
escaping from that awful sound
I start to burrow underground.
Lie down in a box and smoke cheroots
while watching daisies lacing up their 'daisy roots'

I'm waiting but there is no evidence of anything vibrating
it's very still and dead
even spiders stop the spinning of their webs in wonder
then the thunder of the day above
hand in glove
with the cacophony of that lunacy
I often see
spread all about me
finds me out
and digs me up.

I take that cup of old Laings building site
where once the labourers might have dream't
of men unkempt in ***** rags
begging for some food and ****
and a bit of work to pay their way.
Not today
or any other day
I heard them say it
watched them spray it on the walls
and as the failing hope falls down
the ballgown that she wore
is worn again as second hand
by salvationists from the army band
who try to fill the dragging days
with songs of glory
hymns of praise.

What's the use
we suffer more than shock, abuse
and yet we stay
where we as dinosaurs
no longer play but plod.
Life's a sod laid on the Earth
we animate and give it birth
and then it bites us
on the ****.

on the walls and by the door
up on the ceiling and of course on the floor
the windows too
the glass that goes in the window
frames, taking pains to count them,
corners on the bedside chair,
on the dresser
corners, in fact,
are everywhere.

Cabin fever.

are there corners
on the cabin
am I rambling and
are there any corners
there?

If you wanted to know, you should have asked me a lifetime ago,
now everything's so fast it becomes difficult to concentrate, so
wait and I'll look in the book of the dread.
Slow, it all becomes slow and everything's speeds up it must be the law or some unrelated though relative sore that I'm scratching.

The dead beat reaches the dead heat and the book of the dread enters into his head and the fire is stoked,
no one joked about it,
perdition become a very serious condition,
often fatal like the females I knew, but if you had wanted to know you should have asked me a long time ago.

I remember remembering something I had to remember but forgot it again to the love in September, the rain in November and then May came and I remembered again and now the finale is here, they say that the end is nothing to fear, it's like going to sleep, I keep that in mind and remember to find a way out, this redoubt is no place for me, I remembered you see, you should have asked me a long time ago if you wanted to know
who I was.

Under the arches
down on their luck
tucked up in bubble wrap,
troubling no one
minding their own as
the cold day goes on,
are the outcast,
cast out by a time but
not the hands of the clock.

And when the fingers are too numb to
pick at the light that glistens like
dew drops on the windows of night, there's
a light frosting of snow and momentum is set,
moving close to each other to get that
bonus of body heat, the weather beats their faces,
like a whip it leaves traces, lines of its passing
etched and each line surpasses the last,
where they lay wrapped  in the day of the outcast.

And if Summer should come, some never see when
the chains they are bound in are unshackled but
she, Jenny Wren, who used to fly with the best,
unrecognisable now, dressed like the rest in
bubble wrap vests,
will see,
the freedom of the sky from
beneath the blue bridge,
will reach up her fingers to pry
yesterday from her eyes.

Under the arches,  there is a silence,
a reluctance to cry, the
outcasts know but
nobody asks why.

I can get along
with
the cackling geese
roosters at daybreak
the bird song
that wakes me
it's
the daylight that
makes me
want to join in.

I gather my thoughts


The ***** broke
but I know a bloke
who sells them to
hard working men
so
I'll have to get one
elsewhere.

Meantime
the ducks chime in.

There are
quacks everywhere
I go.

There is nothing peculiar
that isn't so similar
to how we behave.

Behaving badly,
madly, oh truly,
sweep me off my feet
and you're wondering,
I can see it,
but I can be a wonder
watch as I blunder my way
through the day.

She loves me
She loves me a lot,
she loves me not is
not in my bunch of roses.

.
I wonder why
it's called human
nature
when
it's becoming less
natural,

saturated with fats
monosodium's
appear to fascinate
must be something in
the glue to make
it so.

No wonder those on Star Trek
boldly go
except for jean Luc
he baldly goes,

I save the shaved ones for
last.

(20 minute poetry)


Flash by lights
seeing sights
sifting Christmas Gifts.

I wander through the market square, but I remember well when there was a market where now is just a memory.

And flooding back to me are streets full of gaiety,
stalls full of fancy inexpensive wares.

She had curlers in her hair and a golden ring in her nose, lips like the petals on the finest summer rose, but time goes on and the market is long gone, only the square remains to remind me of gaiety left somewhere behind me.

She married a man
out of town on a government plan,
became a £10.00 Pom,
time goes on and I can no longer recall her only the old market square remains.

We are coming back
but it won't be the same,

we've been crippled,
made lame
by something that
they gave the name to
and who cares what it
is called when it's who it has
culled that counts.

thoughts like this
should taper off
over the edge
off the cliff
where we have been
standing
but they stay

and this
is what will haunt us

the politicians that have failed us.

Imagining our way to when this thing
ends,
imagining meetings between friends
imagining playtime for the children and
away time for the adults,

imagining no positive results.

I am the loading of the gun
revolving rapidly
about some Sun.
When I trip the wire
and start to fire
the fun begins.

Get out of town
which is near
to what they said,
but the language had been watered down
what they actually said was,
get the **** out of here.

I listened with an eye on my gun
my fingers,
ready to strum the banjo,

the thought,
'set 'em up joe'
inappropriate.

there is no deliverance
only perseverance
and a strict adherence
to,
shoot first and don't miss.

There is the smell of cordite
a whiff of midnight in the air,
I stir two sugars in my tea
glad that's it's not me,
outside smoking bullets.

Autumn,
not a friend nor foe
but
I let the Summer go
each time
it comes,
knowing that
the outspread hands of Winter
lay in wait to clutch at me
whilst Spring looks on quite
helplessly.

It would surely be the death of me,
but my faith is there to bolster me
and a six-gun in my holster, she
insists I wear,

Have you had PPI
and if so
did it itch?
you can check it out
on Docdot.com
and
that's their latest pitch.

I don't have a bank account
unread
I'm a blank amount
of no account and certainly
not a bank account.

and the thoughts dwindle
like the sunlight over
Sheffield.

She's sat whistling
unusual?
but good
little red in the face
with a blue coat
and hood.

The big fellow with a moustache
cigarette ash on his lapel is
whistling as well.

A musical start to the day hits me
right in the heart,
this is the way that we rock.

Monday
a shock to the system and
weekends?
seems that I always missed them.

Mr green shoes
humming the Beiderbecke blues
I
know how he feels.

The lady in the corner seat
looks dead beat
fast asleep
no one disturbs her.

I'm standing as usual
and
when they say,
'all change'
I really want it to be
a game of musical chairs,
it never is though.

This tube carries my load
until I arrive at
Tottenham Court Road
and work begins.

Imagine
16 bit mapping
and it's really
the life that we live.

Return to the screen
and refresh
a new screen appears
16 bits for
62 years
that's one hell of
a trade.

ready made and
a band aid
for the cracks
you don't want to see

We're going to live it up
before we give it up
and we'll  soon get fed up
with the limitations imposed
by the memory clip.

In the end or just before it
when the override hits our
implanted chip
and our eyes go blank
we shall remember who to thank
but then it'll be too late.

Patience?

we're all ****** patients in
the new Bethlehem
where men are men and
sometimes
Napoleon,
patience?
I have lots.

I'm wearing a hat now
made from tinfoil and
coathangers,
keeping out the aliens
and making the most of lockdown
by looking to hook up
with other headbangers.

I'm
probably losing the plot,

he garbles,
my marbles are quite secure
under the aluminium hat

Christmas lights?
no mate,
we all need to get switched on
switch off what we know is wrong
and put things right.

Underneath the shadow of the
old Yew tree
where the dead men sleep
in the cemetery,
there's a woodpecker pecking
constantly,
so much for
'Rest in peace'

It's only ever that day when it's my turn to be the one that pays on those Saturdays when the chicken lays fourteen Easter eggs and somewhere Peter begs,
'let me go'

Oh jeezus, don't you know we've moved a million miles from the Mount of Ararat and Arafat is dead,
Moses set no fire alarm, the ark was built from plans made in his head, caught light or set afire by some hot town gospel choir and sunk before it sailed,
it seems the ****** failed to float, no new world orchestras, self supporting lace trim bra's, silk lined half price cocktail bars and Saturday is the boat to blame.
we sink to fill ourselves with shame.

Jeezus,
you should have got your dad to build the world a bit less mad, a bit more ground to go around and a lot more love for crazy folk.

Like a curtain being pulled across the windows of the town,
where no one steals a crafty look because they know
outside, it's lashing down but
in the snuggle at the hearth when toes are warmed and
marshmallows toasted on the fork,
the talk turns to the season due
and Santa's on the mind.

I hope that when this Christmas falls
the rain has stopped and
Santa pops in for a pie,
Mum and I have baked a few so Rudolph and
his reindeer crew can have a feast as they go on
into the breaking of the greatest dawn.

I have been good
I have been good
I knew I could
I have been good and
Santa better know it too
or his few pies are
going in
the dog.

When it slips away
when the banging in my head and the beating of my heart can only stand so much and stand apart
to stop and start another day as one night slowly slips away
and daylight sings as if you care
because there's no one left
no one to care
no one to share that drift of waking, when taking oceans in my stride,if only you were by my side,
but this dreaming rides me fast
no shadows cast
no ripples on the stream
It seems as if the whole world's dead and the banging goes on in my head
in my bed.
Stop and start and fall apart and stop and stop and will my heart please entertain this strain
wallow in the,
swallowing more pain.
Such a shame that night would end
would send me off to start,
more strain upon the muscles that would exercise this tired heart.
Part of me would like to cease this endless quest and find some peace and yet another part would like to stop and start and start
and fathomless is the beating heart.

I wonder where the time has gone
it's gone to Babylon and on and on the heart still stops and starts
until I've had my fill and overflow
and I will go to Babylon to find
the peace.
A piece of me would wish to stay but only if there was no day
no one to say
it will get better as time goes on,
on second thoughts
I'll go to Babylon.

Creeping over the skyline
sneaking up before
me
the sun

come shine
on me.

Morning broke the night in two
and spoke its words so
sweet with dew
to you

come shine on me

you woke to birdsong
longed to be
a sparrow warbling in
the tree

come shine on me.

Noon arrives and splits the day
morning feels like yesterday
the afternoon hastens
to fasten the ties



I watch the night undress the sky
pay the piper to
play the tune

a moon dances in the heavens.


This fragility
humble enough to outlast eternity
fascinates and frightens me

who am I to be awed this way?


A robin with cherry red cheeks seeks a mate
realises it's no good to
procrastinate
and flies away

a wondrous day and a part to play
In the makings of the universe.

what more could any
man wish for.

Only yesterday when the headlines told me we're okay,
we're on the mend,there's improvement on the way
Only yesterday and I paid to read it,paid to read that crock of..
.. in a bit I'll get over it,get over all the barefaced lies
that I read in the daily, which I now despise and
I shall not buy that rag again.
At times the news is,to say the least,less the news,more of a feast
of fairy tales.
i.e
Mother Hubbard had no home,had no cupboard and therefore did not give her dog a bone but they say she did.
Well,
she got rid of that old Mutt and now lives in a garden hut,but the papers never tell you,do they?
Make hay says the Times,
which Hay? say I
Will hay? he's dead
Hay On Wye?
but that's in Wales and holds another crock of fairy tales.
Mary never had a lamb or if she did she ate it one day,when in a jam and had no food to give the brood back home
which by the way was by a field of hay and the home where Mother Hubbard once gave a dog a bone
and that was only yesterday.
I'l go online today
it's far less confusing.