Won't someone come and decorate my rather large country estate
I asked the butler to renovate.
he asked for the going rate
which I can't afford to pay.

The voice as a note from
deep in your throat
and you read it as
you speak it
wreaking havoc,
let them eat
cake.

My contribution to  
this crumb of cold comfort
is a spoon,

spewing out my innards in words,
setting fire to my senses,
trying to build dams
when the floodgates are open.

They'll say,
he's getting on
losing it a bit
best leave him alone
but
keep an eye on him.

It's like Cyclops is waiting
for the moment to move in
or is it psychosis
kicking in?

still writing reams
with no idea where they come from,
but I am getting thinner
so
it could be my soul.

Reflections I feel.
Reflections that steal like a thief in my eyes.
In a day full of highs...reflections are low.
Sometimes I wish those reflections would go.
Another wish unfulfilled like a dream I once had,when things weren't so bad and all I could see when I was looking at me was a young man on the make.
If I could take back the years and the time that has passed,the ref...lection I see couldn't possibly last.

But now I see deep inside..where Devils and Angels play games and in those hide and seek names they remind me of Heaven and Hell.
The Sunday School bell.

I look for a while and realise all is well and that this is the way I suppose it to be..
..in reflections of me..
...I can see shattered stones,mountains of bones and dry river beds, uncoloured sky and a time that won't die..a peace blown apart.

A start an an end
A refusal to bend
A message I know I must send to apologise.
In a day full of highs..
..Reflections are low.

First
she revives me
then lets me
slake my thirst,
sees me at my best (and worst)
fills me
'til I'm fit to burst.

and

I am going back to sleep
going back to keep
my dreams
alive.

We live,we learn we have to turn and bite the bullet.
why not bite the bullet maker?
take a chance,take a stance,make a stand and bite the bullet makers hand, or he'll mould you, hold you,put you in his purse,what's even worse he'll put you in his gun.
Politics are so much fun
Whitehall's overrun with
bullet makers.

every start is just another way to end,
we live and in the trying
we find that living's just another dying,

how many lines will you stand in?

your patience wears thin
your skin does too
we're being fed on the scraps
in the rich man's zoo.

Ever looked at or felt the notches on your belt?
did you forget a better time?
every start is just another end in
the ending of another line.

Obsequious and fawning
their **** for brains
say Good Morning,
well that's not for me

I find it best to ignore them,
but
I always disliked the pinstripe man
with the pinhead mind
the greedy man who'd
disrobe the blind and tell them
it's Summer.

I am sure the unintended consequence of mixing past and present tense is in the future,hence I shall go on to see
what tomorrow holds for me.
A thought,the brother to each other wraps itself around me tightly.
I tread lightly on the stair leading off and up somewhere, where I will no doubt find the sisters to these thoughts in mind.
Pay no heed,
I lead to a cul de sac,don't follow there's no coming back,I am the stippling of your day,stay where you are or spread your wings and look to what tomorrow brings. the mountains sing your name,the eagles dare play games with time,floating points within the rhyme of life.
Unwrap your hope upon the slopes of gentle rolling hills and still your  dreams until it all seems
all right.
I walk the line between the good and bad time that we all will know in time,shaving whiskers off the hours until the year that comes overpowers me,
falling free, how from these chains I shall be now,
the spit of rain
feeling nothing
but the feel of your face and the touching of skin,
pinned to consequence of intensity and your elegance
unashamedly.

When the clock strikes nine..there's always time
Time to sit and think..
..to blink one's eyes.
To gaze in wonder at the skies.

Time allows these moments..but they pass..as we amass more minutes..
..underneath the floating second hand.
Only to lose them in the end as time begins to bend us to its will.

Hard as it may seem to realize that life is just a dream..
..and everything that's in between..is...unreal.
It's true.
Whoever struck the deal..would make no friends..
..as time slows down..
..the ends appear to join together..
..and whatever else we'd like to say.. it's swallowed by another day..
..of which we're not a part.

Some say that time beats like the hardest heart..that may be right
As I approach the night where all my days have congregated
Where all the seconds I have known are seperated from the rest
The time allotted for my rest...is actually..
..no time at all.

The final strike on the stroke of twelve
And now it's time to delve into the uncertainty of the unknown hour.
Where the power of time..though it still holds sway
Has lost its right of night and day.

For me...this is the untrod way..the way that I remember..
The time..like snow in late September..
..lays cold.
No longer old..not even..odd...and feeling sick..
..that reassuring tick..tick..tick is gone.
And yet I know that time goes on.
But not here.

I hope the industry
that there used to be
is resting blissfully,
somewhere unaware
of how it was lost.

You want
space?
what space?
the place where you think you'll be free?
exclusively yours and
no space for me?
what kind of place do you think that space would be?

A lonely habitat that's what I see
a place full of ghosts just aching to be
in a space with you
not me,
I want no space
no room to maneuver
no bed to make
no carpet to hoover
just me in a crowd with nowhere to go unless
my neighbour goes with me
unless all of you see me
and I'm not alone,
in your space you may roam
in my crowd,it's
not allowed
but of the two,space or no space
I put an X in the box.

Three units
Three places
Three empty spaces.
Me,myself and the other one who likes to carry on
But he's getting old and will have to be told
To cease these shenanigans.

So I speak to the other one when the other two
have got up and gone
And he agrees
Seemed quite pleased
Said,'the cold made his bones ache and the old
shouldn't really take
Such liberties
Make people feel ill at ease
and that his knees were going
So it was time to be slowing
down'

I told the other two,
his brothers in arms who'd decided to
leave me to explain.
Sometimes it's a pain having a brain like mine
Sorting out problems and sometimes three at a time
but it's cool.

They too were pleased
and peace came to reign.
It's not the same though
Not sure if I know
just how things became different but now
we watch daffodils grow
watch the river and its flow
count raindrops.

when life stops this is what remains.
Chilblains and gout,medicines and milk stout
And it's all inside out.

There is no Peter Pan
To transform this elderly man and turn him into a boy
That is the realism
That is the joy
Of getting old.

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.

With the down I've been edited out,
I don't fit in this place anymore,
shoved from pillar to pillar and many times the imaginary killer in me has almost but not quite broken free.

Edited out and the programme goes out without me, it means nothing to me I'm not there can't you see it's the property of the B ****** C, and they tell me pay for a license, we are not free there's a fee, but me, I just tell 'em, open my big gob and yell at the studio bosses, tossers and dead losses, I wonder where did it go wrong?

The words of a song carry on my head , I open my eyes and wish the **** I was dead.

Going home now and somehow the words drift apart it's like someone is mending a once broken heart.

There's a method in the sadness,
We all reach the impasse where the sand waits for the looking glass,
I only reflect what's directly in front of me
And the B ****** C think what the **** is he on about, he's down on the East side of town.

Thought it was Friday
it could have been Friday
but
I opened one eye and it's
Tuesday,
still feels like a Friday
no way is it Tuesday
I
want a stewards enquiry.

The tree fell
screaming silently
dreaming of what was not to be.

On the forest floor
it screamed no more and dappled light fell into its night
this is the end of it
we grow a bit
live a bit and bitten by the axe
we die
a lot.

Forget the tree
analogy
antipathy will always rule
man the thinker
man the fool
the tree's the school if we but knew.
Hew away
take a little every day
and we will also fall
unto the floor
is this what life is really for?
grow and cut
cut and grow
and before we go leave some seed
life needs these beads of sweat to water yet another tree
and if no tree
where will we be?
but on the forest floor.

Keep the change, the customer said,

but I haven't changed have I?

casts a quick eye in the mirror
and sees that he's just the same.

He became the unknown algorithm,
a figure defined in schizophrism
all hail,
the archetype has risen
and let us go to war.

An integer slung beneath a gun
crunching bullets
watch them stun,
all hail
the archetype has come
and let us go to war.

It's Friday did you expect some peace?

I have seen the dark eyes of the wolverine,
she who walks through all my dreams
and I have touched her even
as I screamed her name
and in the echoes
became
her partner.

In the final selection under funeral direction
I shall lay at my rest
Hopefully dressed in my best
Because I want to look good when I'm laid out in the wood.
At my wake some of you may wonder why you came
Some of you will not even remember my name
But that's alright it's just a part of the game.
Then as the vicar says his bit and the fires are lit
I wish I could sit upright to give you a fright.
Alas I am finished and gone and soon I'll be ash
Don't worry about splitting my cash
There is none.
When I reached fifty nine I decided to have a whale of a time
I fed all my needs and paid a lot for those deeds.
And now I'm not just dead I'm broke
But oh,
I died such a happy bloke.

When it all looks so final
totally banal
and the canal looks like a nice place to sleep
so cool and so deep
and it would keep you forever wrapped in its water
caught up
in a green swirl of a dream amidst the pike,carp and bream
that would nuzzle your nose
and pick at your toes
blowing bubbles
your troubles are but drizzle on the breeze
here and there gone tomorrow.

You don't get to see sorrow until you've been through the mill
paid the dues and wanted to **** yourself at least twice a week
and leaked blood from your eyes
when you've seen her out with several better looking guys
when you've prised off the top of your head and in bed when you can't even sleep.
Then
the canal does look so cool and so deep.
I keep a canal in my heart
it's been broken and I don't want to start looking for another place to sleep
so I keep and will keep it
bit by bit
it will drain away
and another day will begin.

Just another day to watch him and see her
and see that grin on his face.
but I'll show him how to grin in a deeper place
somewhere off the beaten track
he won't be coming back
but I will.

To get a degree
you need to be
(which I was never)
clever.

I'm what they called a late developer,
the picture being taken I was just late in
appearing to be
and no degree

It makes sense to me
that's more sense
than the syllabus made
and
educated on the lean streets of a mean town
is it any wonder I let people down?

whatever
how clever or if ever I'll be
I can't say I miss not having
that degree because
I've met idiots with honours
and
fools with some brains inside
and out of those
hallowed
halls of academia

being a romanticist I realise I might muse on what it is that I missed
but
if it was never no matter how clever in the stars for me

I will not worry endlessly.

The monkey chattered in my ears
his laughter became my tears.
A dry cackle that slipped through
each and every link that shackled me
and bound me to futility.

I called him Manny
mainly because it wasn't funny to give him a name at all
but strange things happen to those that fall beside the wayside.
There was no parable to make my life bearable
no miracles and no burning bush
the monkey pulled while I pushed or perhaps the other way round
until finally worn down to the ground
Manny decided it would be quicker to walk and bid me goodbye.

I wonder why I fed him for so long
right or wrong that's what I did
but now he's gone there's more for me
and I can see
that I am greedy too.
What is there left to do but fill my head
with thoughts of the living and of those that are dead
and decide into which category I fit.

To bite the bullet or take the bit
and cut one's cloth so it will fit
is the order of my day.
Manny's gone and I am on my way
hip hip hip
hooray.

This is not me
and I typed that slowly,

poetry is not me it's just poetry
although some of you know
that some of it is,

I wasn't listed because I never existed,
I was all in the mind.

Not really Godlike
more of a sod,
(like that if you will)

Nothing is hard to swallow when
your stomach is hollow and you
haven't eaten for days.

You are the Euphrates
longing
to be a Tigris
only Mesopotamia
could put the blame on ya
for wanting more.

Involved in the skill set I don't get
a multiple choice
one, two, three
I use it as if it's a tragedy
and
tragically it uses me.

These lessons they give elude me
I conclude that they're trying to exclude me
If it's Greek then it must be a tragedy
She
of course doesn't agree.

So
we argue and kiss and make up and then this is the moment the iron is hot, but we don't strike we caress and with no undue duress I confess that she's right about me
It's just one more tragedy
a little bit more of me
forever falling
and she
doesn't agree.

How do you get back to redraw
your life map?
because
if X really marks the spot
we'd all hit the jackpot,

some scoop the big prize someday,
but
I am a millionaire in every way
that I need to be,

she looks at me as if I'm half crazy
and yet she knows I'm not.

I'm going to rise soon, said
the doughboy to the cowboy
oh boy, said the tall-boy, woodenly,
but he would, wouldn't he.

sorry 'bout that, I was
just oiling the typewriter keys and
those words slipped out from the ribbon.

I took her picture,
should have used a Nikon but all I had
was an old Box Brownie and a new Instamatic
alternatives give but sometimes the quality is taken.

I was resting in my bed and
wrote out a notice which read,

DO NOT DISTURB.

then I was disturbed to find
I had to disturb myself
to put it on the outside
of my door.

some things are not thought through
though i do try.

These are the wheels
that turn and
who is it that feels
the turning?

Only the wheels?


I hear the chanting,
see the fox
the buffalo panting,
the mist that rises above the
morning lake

this is the first of many steps
I must take.

In the sacred fire where the
dreams lift me higher
and the evening fades into
the song of a choir
the wheels turn.

If I have yet to see them
it is
because I am among
men
who are grounded to
earthly pursuits.

and the song,
'for every season, turn, turn'
rings true
and the wheels turn through
three hundred and sixty

who is it that picks me for this trial?

If I dare to swear on the oath of a
God that no one thinks exists
does that bring me to the edge of
some cliffs that stand on the ends
of his world?

what will be my plea?
I'm not guilty.
it was not me?


who can see the wheels that turn in this
who could among the many feel
such bliss?

It will when all things are considered
be considered quite considerable
leaving me miserable, but
the wheels will turn again
bringing me back again
to the fox and the buffalo
and the lake that I know
is there.

This is the way it will be
we'll be
locked up in lockdown
and there'll be prisons
as far as your eyes can see
which won't be too far
as each bar blocks your view,

one room for me and being
socially distanced
one room for you,

no congregating
no dating
no kissing
no mating.

and it'll get into your head
that we're living, but dead
on the inside,

No passport
no land,
and you will
not get in,
unless you're a
member
there's no way
to win.

You'll be detained
restrained
allowed only a call ,
there's no duty free
when your back's
to the wall.

The premise is
this country's not his
well
it **** well don't
belong to me

what's free if movement is not?
what chance has anyone got
if not half a chance at a better
life?

When the rapture comes and the rich men line up with the bums and wait their turn,I shall stoke their pyre,
burn the flaming lot of them upon a fire fed by banknotes rammed right down their thieving throats and hear the screams as lifetimes filled with credit notes go up in smoke along with any dreams they had,
they don't know bad at all and think they're tough,let's see how tough they've been when I get rough and douse them all in kerosene.
When the rapture comes and the sun's no more
I'll be waiting with a Lucifer.

If these are broken lines
then
these are the broken times
in which to write them.

Time
because it's always about time,
no time,
too much time,
never enough time,
sometimes there's
time on my hands and time on my mind
and sometimes
I can't find the time at all.

How precious
and yet we throw it away
and lose time or we
choose the time
making time and still we wait
for the right time
the daytime
the night time

what time is it?

And I breathe deeply
thinking that time will keep me
safe.

Now
it gets exciting
someone
turned out the light
and let the night in
and it's
backs to the wall
as the shadows
fall
from the rafters.

You must be ******' insane
if you drop in again
out of choice
but
there's a voice in my brain
saying,
what's wrong with insane
because we're all a little
bit mad.

I'm mad that it's Thursday
not Friday and why?

I decay
one second a day
I decay

a petal an hour falls
from this flower
twenty four petals a day
I decay.

(20 minute poetry)


Tomorrow
when and if it comes.

I am of late
disposed
to
compose.

Whether it's me
in poetry or
poetry in me
each line I loose
sets free
one more

and late is not
a state
for which I'm known.

Once
when my wings had grown
shown how to fly
I flew,
then forgetful of the night
and naked flame,
circling the storm below
I dared to go
into that fretful light

such are
the might have beens
of emperors and
queens.

Blistered and the worse for wear
I'm still torn between the
devils,
but the deep I know and
share with careworn
philosophers.

It is as always this way
this day
that may be true
once
I flew
I won't forget.

These castles
where we keep
our memories
are few,
true
but
possessions though they
may be
we disinter and
set them free
a bit like poetry
really.

I could love her forever.

She reaches out to touch me
I turn and move so delicately
as if she's made of china and she'll crack
or even break.
And I take her smile and file it in the memory stack
where,
when I'm sad and lonely I keep going back
to look at her.
I really like the way she lets her hair
hang free
as if she leaves it there for me to let my right hand wander through.
She knows just what to do.
She lets me know that too.

I could love her forever

and if forever does arrive.
one look into her eyes
and I'll love her even longer
when that love will be much stronger
and forever won't exist
only in the mist of our imaginations
and the creations of our minds.

(20 minute poetry)

Friday is a good day
a day to say goodbye day
to the week that went before.

no tears for me
happiness sets me free
yes
Friday is a good day.

Even now when the tube train's full
I can feel the pull of
Saturday.

and I see the gleams of
weekend dreams in
my fellow passengers
eyes.

We're all explorers on a trail
underground
networked by rail

I fail to see a reason not to smile
and that goes in the file of things
I haven't seen.

Short of nuclear annihilation
there's nothing to do
but
get off this train
at Tottenham Court
which is a station and
not a court
not in Tottenham either.

the best thing
is
the birds tweet
some can't sing
I hear them
anyway

and it's a good day
Friday.

In some you fail
and in others
excel
but before one tries
how can one tell?

Well as we say up North,
if ya breksit
ya gots to mendsit.

simple really.

(20 minute poetry)

And what's it to you if I'm here going there?
If anything I'm anywhere but bound.

What's it to you if I'm mad or as my dad used to say,
'Son you're as sound as a pound'

I'm getting along here moving on and a bit freer
how the pain disappears as the chains are dissolved.

Constant and ever some time feels like it's never going to come and for some that is true.

You who have been there in the stare of the spotlight might be right,
perhaps the devil who knew you is shot all the way through you,
printed like a stick of
Blackpool rock or maybe you're not right
perhaps it's the light as it leafs into the day
perhaps it's just me on my way again
in the chains again.

Forever feels like it's never here or there or anywhere I care it to be and I think that's a happily
ever after.