In the mornings when the lights shine on me
and I wake to see her,
how she blinds me,
how she makes me gasp for air,
in the mornings,
mornings when she's there.

When she's gone,
no lights come on and
I am left
alone.

In the useless ideas graveyard
where great thoughts are hard
to come by
a lonely idea gives a lonelier sigh
and lays down beside me
to lay down and die.

I'm an idea that was
and because I was
no good
they chopped me up
for firewood
to feed the fires to burn the ideas
that are useless to everyone
but
don't think that I'm gone
I am the seed from which oak trees feed
I am the I am that I am.

don't bury me yet
before you get
the death
certificate.

Patent pending
for
toxic waste
please send in
the men in
white suits.

Homogeny
written in the rock of ages
and yet we turn the pages
looking for cartoons.


There will be blame, but on who
will it fall?
what the past has taught me is
the guilty go scot free

and now I wait for someone
in Aberdeen to cause a scene,
to cuss and create about the points
they assume that I make.

Corporate machinery
cementing bits of scenery
which
flash before my eyes

It's Wednesday
or do they mean
believe in all our lies?

Ambulances chasing me
lawyers sue democracy
Parliament on the ropes
there go all my hopes
as ships sail away from
the bay.

Let's convene an inquiry
restart the machinery
grinding out the gears
ir'll take years and years
to produce a result
or consort with the consultancy
pay a ******' fancy fee
to find out what we know

back on the underground
thinking if I had a pound
for every face I see  
I'd move away from all
that machinery

here and it's six o-clock
but now it half past two
the working day is done
I'm through with oiling
all the parts that move
those people off their
****
and
sitting quietly in the park
to charge up this used battery

Yes
I'm part of the machinery
but
I'd deny it if
you ask.

When the dry bones of reason are laid down to rest and the madness of truth was wasted on the upcoming treasure of youth,
and where the shallow graves be is where we once played,
Time,is
now stayed in the freeze of the clock,the look of shock that you gave is also now in the grave,but
we live in the sunlight and splash in the rays,paddle in the moonbeams and dance through the days in the semibreve of believing when the grieving is done,there's a brief (but) transition and we're back in the sun.

Forever we are tied to this side of the mist,here and yet missed by those over there where cares are worn heavy like an overcoat skin and the minutes tick thinly and like ticks burrow in.
We are one and the same as if two ends of a skipping rope game,twirling and hopping,stopping and whirling and at one point we shall meet,
laughing in joy as we greet
and where the dry bones of reason step lightly upon each passing season to give us that reason to be,
so shall we
step light on the memory and
light the long road of history as we
step lightly away from the crowd.

We could rest a beat
here
in the clear morning air
listening to
the birds tweet
listening to
the day begin
getting into
the right frame
of mind.

we could
but seldom do.

slightly unimpressed by being undressed I got dressed,

it was Thursday on the calendar, a disenchantment to any day
and no way to win my approval.

reviewing it on Trust Pilot
and giving it
a one star rating

five hours in and it's grating on my nerves
'great, super, smashing'
shout those boys from
Just Desserts,

namby-pamby,
says C.J
I
didn't get where I am today
and disappears into a reverie
wondering where and who he
is.

And matters of a serious kind
the things that prey upon the mind,
the closing day
the dogs that bay,
the twitches
witches
***** britches, braces, basket cases,
touching all the bases one, two, three
in that order OCD
I see or rather don't the
stupidity of what I won't and
I won't think of that.

In flat cap because I sat on it
I writ or rather wrote
a note,
look before you sit it said
or was it read,
not sure of that, but the cap
was definitely flat.

I can tell what you're thinking,
you think
we're not sinking,

look at the name!
Titanic,
her Majesty's Britannic,
we
are going down.

never in the field of whatever
has so much
been so ******
by so few,

I knew you knew or if you
didn't
you do now.

In the journal of days
I have wrote all the paths and the ways I have trod.
Now I leave it to God
To review.

Never knew it was right
But
In this day filled with night
where the shimmering past is coated in light
from a thousand memory cells
and the future has nothing to sell you
just the promise of what it can tell you.
I wait for the verdict
and predict though I may
I can't really say
how the story will end.

If the Sun doesn't get you
the scorpions will.

There were four of us in a half track and a little way back lay the fifth.

The Sun got him good
roasted and peeled him like a spud.

Tannoy, the radio man was the next one to go, slow like a withering vine,
sounded like static on the line
then he went dead.

Fitzroy, the Sepoy, more of a boy than a man
prayed for a day and then went on his way to whatever heaven it is that Sepoys go.

Bill, a bull of a man from Mill Hill and who spoke with a permanent stutter
uttered his last and I travelled on at half mast
cursing the Sun and the Sand and the hand I'd been dealt.

Felt the scorpion sting as I pulled up and funny thing too
I could swear that the scorpion looked like
Frank Sinatra.

The Royal Mail likes my post.

The next stop on the metropoly
pops by me
quickly

I need to up my game
or take a back seat
be like a deadbeat
and stagnate.

It's that day which is Wednesday
and not a day for me,
wish it was yesterday a year ago
or tomorrow a long time ago
but
wishing only makes the well run dry
so
I try not to make too many.

' a penny for  your thoughts '
as if any of my thoughts were
worth as much.

The next stop on the monotony
whizzes  past me and yet again
I miss the boat.

You had to imagine it to see it.

Closing my eyes to the sunrise
I could sleep for an island of days,
lonely in many ways this would suit me.

but the day marches long into the sounds of a song that I find I am singing

Happiness is somehow somewhere here
which is odd because I am too.

You,
might have thought I was ill but
I am the man
who wins through with a will,
so chill.
I've been a lot worse
been cursed with misfortune,
always got somewhere too soon
or too late.

Now,
I am the man who can't wait,
I have to be there on time.,
appointments are fine if
you keep them,
real men always do,well,
the one's who win through,
and I'm one of them.

The streets became the targets
targeted by meaner men
and women too,
in march across the capital
making capital of
circumstance.
Which would dance around the pole now that May has gone?
who are these devils in disguise who seek to tell the ignorant and uninterested lies
and lies they tell
that sell their ideology
to you
not me
for I can see them in the power zone if what they want to call their home
but home for them will never be
the homeland of democracy.
People see it every day attacks against the homeless,gay and any other sort whose parents once set sail from some distant sunlit port to find a better way
and life would only have it
that these devils want to take a bit away from them
these meaner men and women too
would take it all away from you
so watch your back
they don't care when
or how they attack
but it's usually in packs like cowards do.
I'm watching them
are you?

This being not what it's cracked up to be
we conclude that it must be a tragedy,
and Faust writes a note to agree with the vote.

In 'that other place'
my face doesn't fit
and never will,
not as long as they sit
on their arses
and waffle on
as if nothing is wrong.

Does anyone remember
'Play for Today?'
well
that was yesterday
and
the years before then
but
they should do a rerun
because
it's all relevant.

You will never see the stars propping up the tavern bars just the loneliness that weeps at the bottom of the glass.

Pass me a drink, and you think that's the way to find the solution to the problems and the questions of the day.

All things do pass at the bottom as you raise the glass up to take just one more sup, but then it's empty like you and the view is the same so you order another and you can stay in the frame but you're done, it's no fun when you fall on the floor, when one more won't do it and the same **** is there when you open your eyes and you view it again,
oh what pain, oh what pleasure, oh what treasure there be when you're as lonely as the bottom of the glass that you see.

I sit here waiting patiently
for the lead up to infinity and
redemption is the prize I see through
the portals of eternity,
the assassins waiting silently
are there to hurry me along,but
the air is sweet and the ones I seek
stretch out their arms to hold me here,
and I'm sitting waiting patiently trying hard
to catch the eyes of fate
but the truth is time will never wait as
it opens up the boarding gate and
I take my place upon the ship to
wherever it is that comes
beyond, beyond.

I am physically ******* and
mentally chewing on this factual statement
I release the pent up anger
that I've lingered​ over and
blood​ starts to boil, yet
I'm imbued with a sense of well-being​ which
is like seeing yourself with a knife in your brain
and thinking it's fine so you see it again.

Of necessity and because of my age
any rage is a carefully controlled emotion.

A lifetime,
a pastime?
but now it's time to get real.

I deal from the bottom of the pack,
got to have an edge
but that's harking back to
the bad old days and the
old ways have gone.

Game on.

How many stretches of imagination
does it take to reach the Moon?

daily exercise?
I fraternise with this
enemy,
within me
there is untapped energy
come
'frack me'

ha
I crack myself up at times.

In the bank of humanity where Jesus saves
you can see,
saved for posterity in the house known as charity
the tidal wave of poverty
cowering in penury,
never knowing their neighbour
never loving their labour
never showing affection just the pass book
of dissatisfaction
with the debits and credits for a life
of inaction and
who's in the queue for a loan?
who would comb through their fleas and
get down on their knees to scratch out existence,
to eke out subsistence on a level unknown?
To groan inwardly
to get down on one knee and propose
to suppose it's not you in the queue with
a ring in your nose,
suppose it's not Jesus that saves.

Can you remember the memory banks
that we had to give thanks for?
well,
you should have done,
they are the things that help us
remember the friends and the laughter
something we need.

look but don't touch
even if
you like it so much,

another manifesto
and why you should know
that you can't feel the words
on your lips.

Perhaps you are the statue
and I am the one unmoved.

A uniform almost Mexican type wave of coughs and grunts shunt down platform five.

Oh to be in England now that Monday's here.

Even the canned music sounds colder today
Campbell's rambles on in Warhols
head
and we're being led down darkened
tunnels.

According to the advert
in thirty minutes give or take
I could be in Stanstead
take a break
get on a plane
be in Spain
by ten.


I could but I won't be.

If advertising wants to work
it should do my job.

Liverpool street and no one moves
Bank
St. Paul's
Chancery lane and
once again
nobody moves

Perhaps we'll all be statues
in the end.

Drones are there to find us
ties to bind us
searchlights to blind us
we
might as well give up.

Just facets
one more in a long list
of disposable assets.

Bound to be sold
indentured we're tied
and tired we get old
just
facets.

It was the busted times
it was the worsted times
a time of tweed
a time of need.
I wonder where the mice and men came into it.
I read a bit of Steinbeck just a titchy bit which itched a bit,he had a lot to say,and in turns it turned out he ripped the title off from Rabbie Burns,while the cat's away it seems the mice and men will play.
So we learn and at each turning page,each burning rage we must endure,I am sure it's for some greater good.
I wish I could
believe that.

We have an infinity pool,
two metres at the deep end
but now I'm wondering,
do two metres count as
infinity?
it bothers me, the advertising
community, how they try to
***** me,

She says,
love is deeper,
and I say,
deeper than infinity?
she looks at me
and I
become
the
one.

Each must fulfill their own destiny
or drown in the seas of a fantasy.

Basically,
because being base is what we know
we'd all prefer the fantasy and
for destiny to go.

The oceans run red with the blood of the dead,
fish fingers for supper tonight.
I have drunk of the wine
upon death I shall dine
fish fingers for supper tonight.

Each night,
take to boats and
they're rammed down their throats,
freedom's not free, but they try,
some make it through,
some of them die,
more take to boats
and they try and they try
and some of them die,
freedom's not free,
not for them,
not for you,
not for me.

It must be a heresy
this thing they call destiny
I shall stick to my fantasy
and it's
fish fingers for supper tonight.

So now, after four weeks we can look for a job in any sector or be sanctioned and by sanctioned I don't think they mean like terminated although with this shower in power one never knows.

fukin amazin'
plenty of jobs to fit your face in,
I'd try for
brain surgeon,
chicken plucker
sleeping policeman
or I could be a
dumb waiter,
ha, that'll upset some
bearing in mind that
most waiters are not dumb.

This lot in parliament
don't seem to have a clue.

(20 minute poetry)


Shameless.
The faces you can't pin a name on, but pin the blame on and
put the boot in when you don't even know them.
Evacuees
Refugees,
any Joe Bloggs you'll see down on their knees
and will you help them?

Women and children wondering if you will
and when.

Shameless
and we call ourselves
men.

We know that they're bumping the prices every time we turn our backs on them,
supermarkets supercharging, lining their pockets while we're at risk of starving,

two words,
greedy *******,

but they'll be blaming it on the war or on anything else they can think of to get that extra penny.

The snow falls off my bare skin and the ground
begins to spin as I dance duets with crazy poets
on the avenue but not with you because you'd
gone away.

a normal day
a bit dull
more grey than blue
You wouldn't know
you had to go
didn't you?

No hope I can cope with or
at least give it a whirl.

It should be sand
sand?
as I fall again through
the hand that guided me
into a sea of insanity
and
what if I can't swim
can't lose or win
and stay
submerged
forever?

We have to stay in
there's
no more playing out,
the naughty step or
the dustbin
that's what it's all about.

My imagination's running riot
doing a **** sight more
than me,
who could have thought that
freedom
was not really being free.

Going somewhere to get somewhere but it's nowhere I know, I'm
going anyway and moving yesterday back to the somewhere I once knew.

You say, that it's you and so do I,
it must be
each to their own in another one's eye.

so we'll all go there
is it anywhere that we know?
I know it's somewhere
being nowhere on the road
that we go.

I think it was a man but
it's hard to tell,
too much gel.
I yelled at him anyway
somewhere in
yesterday,
but it could have been a girl and
now I'll never know.

Time and the thrill
she loaded her eyes just to **** me
but
it could have been him
both slim
and now I'll never know.

The day shot me full of..erm..daylight
as the night drifted off to sleep
the dream that it left me was not too bad
but not something that I'd want to keep,

still racing towards that conclusion
where my eyes meet the moon and the sea
but drowning in hopeless confusion
every time that she smiles at me.

Saved in an album or scrapbook
we can look at ourselves as we were
I look to that distant horizon
knowing that soon I'll be there.

Carriage 91923
is empty
bar me
and I'm just passing through

and now there's more getting on
one is never alone for long
that
is the long and the short of it.

The tube train
is another pain
commuters must bear
to get from
here to there,
but
when you think
nothing's fair
it isn't.

In comes the cram
fresh from West Ham
like something the cat
has puked up.

Cruel though that may be
I only write what I see
and that's what I see
do you see ?

She races past me
could be Formula one
smelling of Wintergreen
she must have plastered
it on

next to her
yellow hair
a woman
not
the General.

They're stood in a queue now
all passing through
how
happy they look.

Still no Canary
can't see the wharf
If man is the giant
I must be a dwarf.

Eyes locked in
to the advertising
unsurprisingly
so.

A Friday my way
on
the underground
highway
the tube rumbles on
a bit
like my stomach.


An Oyster, but
no Walrus or
carpenter
to share
in this feast for
the eyes.

I carry on
the tube carries me
the people I see
are not real
and
that's how I feel
right now.

That seat will be wet
because
ret ro man
spilled a can of
Red Bull
on it.

An opportunity for me
to warn incoming
commuters?

Retro man
is slurping from
the Red Bull can
I doubt that
he'll fly.

Lady on a Galaxy
sat next to me,
this tube train is
a university
full
of things to learn.

Who hides in her eyes
shadow?
I see no silhouette.

Sixty three,
not so much a milestone
more a millstone,

clocking up the years
as
time rears its ugly
head,
I'm closing my eyes
(mind the gap)

It's another day on
the way to where
I'm going
and
I'm getting there.

Old
is when Ice Creams
don't make you jump for joy,
old
is when Santa's there but only
to annoy,
old
is when the glue that holds
you together
will not hold you together
anymore

I hope I never get there.

She gives rise
to those dark circles
underneath my eyes,
the tremors in my hand,
the steel band
that tightens around my chest,

this is what I live for.

watching space invaders
sailing across my eyes
which must be failing.

I could be tiring
I might need
rewiring or
de-coking
might have to
give up smoking,
surrender to celibacy
eat fukin salads?
I
suddenly feel very chipper
like a young whippersnapper
it must be nearly
playtime.

The short trial was a short trial,
brief is brief and in any case but
usually in a brief case
the verdict is set
you get
time,
not a long time
but
a long time for some.

I'm still wondering what's in
the briefcase.

Sat down to write in a broom cupboard, got the room covered with carpet from Pakistan,
a man and his pen penned in opening out on the view of a moon, a muse to get by on in the cupboard I get high on the night.

And a light draped with a cloth flown around by the obligatory moth and I call him George, (the moth not the lamp)

There is a partition in here which may be the carpet although on this I'm not clear, but a partition for certain there is.

I am content though in the continent that I know and I know that this limits my choice, but it does not prevent the voice being heard via the language of the written word.

George is okay,
he got singed yesterday
but he's on the mend
now.