The diamonds come free when the Sun shines on the...see what I did there?
Just messing about, but not on the river, the boat's in the shipyard, they have to refit  her.

It's not going anywhere and neither am I.

Now
where was I?
oh yes,
not going anywhere
staying indoors beside her.

A chess set,
the Queen and
the pawn,
the knight takes the bishop
controversy is born.

She's salty
and bolts me to
the floor and then
jolts me
with
checkmate.

Did you do
'spot the ball?'
did you ever wonder
if the ball's there at all?

Slightly off center
the Yankees invent a
new centre.

on a final note
the last piece of the jigsaw
is always under the mat
or
inside the cat,

take your pick

Wake up feeling fruity
but
it's just the apple in your mouth,
things then take a downward turn
and everything goes south.

Thursday and the sky is clear
the weekend's near
so a win is in the air

but

then I lose the thread
just
shaking cobwebs from my head
and so it goes.

The evening rides in on a piebald pony and it is only I who see the sting in its tail.
and yet we're all gripped by the madness of self service checkouts that speak to us as if we're all soft in the head,

unexpected lifetime in the bagging area!
are you over twenty five?

if this lunacy is allowed to continue,
we'll continue to be medicated,
tranquilised and doped up to the eyeballs
and then
we won't care about the pony,
the checkout, the madness
and we'll only wait for the end
which will be an in store special
in selected stores on Saturday.

It's not Mother's ruin that's the new *****
of the masses
it's two pairs of glasses for the price of one
and
buy another at a quarter of the cost.

we have almost lost in the game,
****** and we don't know what anyone's
name is anymore
and too drunk to stand up and fight.

Class
the lass had class
a distinctive look
a face
like a leather bound book

ooh
she was what I took to be
the lass who'd be right for me

then I woke in the fireplace
having slept like a log

ha
old jokes like dreams are the best.

They stare at giant Sequoia trees
as if some secrets hide inside
like how to live a thousand years.

I look at Sunset mountain on
the wide side of the sky
thinking of enlightenment.

Paper, scissors, whetstone blue
I need to sharpen up
so you
put me through some hoops
and things
until this body
sings

(still out of tune )

the Moon and I are old friends.

can you feel me
on your lips
on
the tips of my toes
do you
like this
kiss?
ah
surrender,
that's what I miss
when you're away.

So I dream
I mean
the fantasy
that you're here
with me.

can you feel me?

Hi,
my name,
incognito
and where does the
night go when the Sun
shows her face?

My favourite place?
you don't want to know,
but it's somewhere the night goes
when the Sun shows her face.



The government..

..Living wage?
a crying shame.
and shame upon those
who support this.

Oh many, many and many times more have I knelt before the face of God and asked him, why?
and many a more time after that
watched death
do a pirouette across the kitchen floor,

what more
what more
can a man ask why and what for?

I return as a yearning in the heart of a tree
to be free,
to go where the wind goes
to blow away.

The dawn they say is the day
to be born
and today is the dawn for me.

Even if you never notice the glaringly obvious
those things don't go away.

Like Tuesday,
I try to sleep on, but Monday has gone and left in its wake,
one more day to break me
one more day that makes it so glaringly obvious that time doesn't die it just lays there in waiting to catch me,

tick
tock
knock, knock,
I know who's there.

funny thing about time is,
we leave it behind to move on and then find it got here before us.

If only we could start at the end of it
work our way back through it
that would be so
much easier,

but we can't
So we plod on
Tuesday will be gone
and that's glaringly
obvious
to me.

Dear Santa
at Christmas you'll be
as jolly as jolly
but we have to work
for a living
so be less jolly when giving
and we'll get along
real fine.

The power to open a portal
to create monsters
mayhem,
to make men
immortal.

ah
poets have their uses.

The thing is
one never knows
what's around the
next bend in the road.

I kissed a frog once and
it turned into a toad,
but that's beside the point.

If I had second sight in my
third eye
I'd at least try to see
around each corner before
I got to it.

I got the 'Gun that shoots around corners'
which was a krap toy to get for Christmas,
especially when I wanted a chemistry set,
but you get what you get and
that's beside the point too.

In fact most things are beside the point
when you don't really care
and you don't know what's there
waiting for you.

That though might be the point,
the feeling that you're never really certain
about anything except death and to be frank
we can no longer be certain of that
because if they can find a way to keep us in
harness
they would have us live forever
and that would never do.

She throws me a kiss like she's blowing out candles.

I smoke long into the night,
there's a party at Everley mansions,
tensions
recriminations
which we'll blame on the *****.

She
flickers like lightning and strikes
I lick the Rizla and build
a new smoke,, looking
long into the candle light
waiting for the day.

I might grow
might get up and go to face
what the future has in store.
But what if it's not more than what I desire?
what if that future fire is cold and I get old before it's lit
what if bit by bit I dissolve
revolving around my own axis
and as far as I know you don't get to practice
growing up.

I might not grow but again as far as I know I won't get a choice, it's written in ink upon the list of wishes and dreams but somebody missed off my surname and gave a lame excuse that I'd be no use as a man.
can you believe it?
As if I'm already evolving into another bit bit bit
but I sit in the bedroom or lay on my bed with the thoughts of growing up going around in my head
and it scares me.
that which cannot be seen,already dreamt of in a forgotten dream and I feel as if I've been there before
but that can't possibly be because I cannot see any more than today where I sit or I lay and I think.
In the blink of an eye and as time rushes on by
I have asked myself over and over again the same question ,why?

When the dew of the morning has cried out of the sky and the birds are all chirping and go about working the fields for their food
and I, semi **** decide to get dressed.
I am always impressed with the way life goes on
whenever I feel something's wrong it is right
I might grow up some day or tonight
and if something just is
then just might
is another thing wrong
but it's right.

Every second locks us out from the clock that locks us in and we begin to see the crime of time,
an
accomplice to these thoughts of mine.

The millisecond dilettante can't change the fact that I'm being backed into the corner where the undertaker with his measure waits to stake his one and one time only claim to this my body, time's insane I'd never give my precious day to anyone who'd take away my right to life and the wife of time who I don't know but feel sure that she's no friend of mine sweeps steadily with her busy hands readily taking the minutes away trashing them as if to say,
they're no use get used to it.

Any shilling in my pocket is one more shilling I'd be willing to give to live,
I have fifteen shillings to midnight and the clock still locks me in.

The dream state is not one of those American states.

I looked under rocks, frocks and umbrellas for it, but
no joy,
could be the dream state is a decoy
only there to pique your interest.

England's in some state
but you won't find it on any map.

Now in my sixties and still believing in elfins and pixies
and wondering about hobgoblins, my only regret is that
I haven't yet met Sinbad, met Popeye though, met Oliver,
Gulliver, Crusoe and Ahab, really want to meet Sinbad,

One can always dream.

Craving the touch of her
wanting so much of her,
where is she going
tonight?

It must be the nights that run into each other
or the days that pass by me when I can't be
bothered to dress,
there are too many reasons to reason with

and
I walk away from them all.

Someone asked me the other day,
what was I doing now?
I replied,
'gone Buddhist and bought some yaks,
making cheese which I sell to the
Trappist monks'

that didn't impress them,
so glad
that I never dressed then,

things will change
or I will,
not sure which is my will
yet.

(20 minute poetry)

I see it for some time and then it fades away
On a bad day it might stay with me a little longer

Hunger is the thing or so they say to get you moving
I heed no adage having
heard them all before
not one of them changed a thing for me
the ghost is always at the door
but then it fades
or is it me that disappears?

At other turns of time there's a rhyme for most occasions
and on occasion occasionally I find in there a rhyme
lots of time for that to be
an occasion
occasionally.

He
with the hooded eyes and eagles claw
is he one more ghost come to knock upon my door?

It doesn't bother me

a
comfort and a lover
she
is all and more
and keeps me
far away
from the
ghosts
that knock upon my door.

I **** alas spasmodically
the shivers really get to me
she's there
by my side
with her hand in mine
and my hand is the hand
of time
that drew the line
that stopped the clock
the hand that made the rhythm
rock,

the ghosts still knock.

I know it's sometimes better the devil I know
but I really don't know him at all.

Earphones
iPhones
headphones on
zones
one to six.

Sticks and stones are
weapons of your choice,

I listen to the voice
my choice.

Friday and I float away
the air waves me
goodbye.

This'll be the jade
the green on which
was played the games
we played,
hardened now and
lacking lustre
just a thought away.

It's an inner place in
which I hide the face that
hides from me
a sanctuary
thanks to me.

I'm wandering again to
ease the pain,
earphones on
zone one

and zoning out is what
the day's about
to
scrape away
rough edges of the day
to oil the wheels
let's see who steals
a little more,
to find out what
I'm doing here and
what I'm working for.

Kismet?
and yet I
don't believe it.

Irate is good
in fact it's great,
ballistic
would be better though

I don't know how deep
the ******* goes
but
it stretches as far as
the eye can see
and stinks to high heaven
of hypocrisy

She,
wraps me around her little finger,
bends time to suit her and
marks her patch with a scratch

it's natch, she says,

now
I haven't heard the word natch used for donkey's years
and I'm wondering just how old she is.

An airport is a rare port for me,
I
just want to fly,
but then I sink into the sea,
an airport is a rare port for me.

..and now
there's a bit of toing-and-froing
about who gets the vaccine
and where is it going?

Political bollix if you ask me.

But it all boils down to
who has the biggest
clout.

Let's get it straight,
it's the minimum rate for
the maximum work in the
minimum of hours.
True what they say that ****
showers down from the
powers that be.
One day they'll pay what is due
I don't want to wait for that day,
do you?

I don't want to be here any more,
don't want to see a thing
and wonder
what the **** its all been for,
don't want to be here any more.

Somewhat distressed and more than just
a bit depressed,I
walk into another smog,another fog to
fog my brain.

Sanity goes insane and I,
upon another train of thought,
thought that I might do the same but
this insanity is all in vain,I know exactly
where I want to be,and,
I don't want to be here any more.

Pencils that write me in words that delight me and play fights through long nights with verses so light as to almost float away.
Then there's the day,
Where reality bites me in scenes quite unsightly and 'words don't come easy' among the dropouts and ****** of society,where poetry is not spoken but ripped off your tongues by the hopeless and broken and pledged in the pawn shop,
all we become as we become tokens to buy are the mute and the word blind,the cruel and the unkind and there's nothing to find here in the hearts of the lined men,
whose faces belie the truth that rockets inside them.
And some speak at times in riddles and rhymes but the words come out wrong because the days are so long and the alcohol's strong and nobody hears them,more silence from lined men,
when will it end?

Oh Babylon gone,
done for and taken and left us forsaken in this land of the prophets and the profits we take from the fakers and spivs,give us some sense of living in the land where no giving is easy and it's easier to take than to ask.
All hope has left on the last boat to Zion and those that are left have no shoulders to cry on,
but the lined men are here to take your last words,to write them on moonstones,the groans of destruction,construct your own melodies
as the blood in you freezes and the heating goes off
as we all do
at some time.

It's because nothing is real that I feel like I'm coiled in a spring, sprung in a Hopkins type rhythm,
has the poet risen or is he still in the void? Oh but
there is death in the typhoid that holds no malice,
dead and so young and one more rhythm sprung.

I have in the mirror the face of tomorrow, the steam sweats up nice on my brow, but the how and the why of it take me now and I die a bit makes it impossible to see any more.

Witnesses at the door try to sell me salvation
I furnish their coffers with my own brand of damnation, they tell their Gods law,
I close the door and store this information in a box under the bed.

And nothing is real in the virtual age
we turn virtual pages and use visual aids,
there's virtual writing on vestry walls and
Jesus calls virtually every day.

We loathe one another
they love it
brother against brother
state against stateless
and unless
we change, then
them
will be the death of us
the death of me
the end
of it
and
yet we pray to
those gentlemen
who work us for
pittances
I say
give them the shoelaces
and
I'll tie the bow.

they **** me with eight to four
eight hours?
what the **** for?

We are the servants of
the super hate
the gateway to the
altered state
but they
have beaten us there.

I'm going
not sure when
unsure of where.

But it's twenty seven to five against
that they'll sit on the garden fence
like fishwives on their
periods.

Makes sense to the lunatics
who get up to
all sorts of tricks
I ought to join them
become
one of the
stateless men.

One of the gentlemen
but
they
are not
me.

The only way is to sever all ties,
to forge ahead,
forging new liaisons
better reasons
to challenge me.

In the sea of a million regrets where debts fall due
and make up but a few this is the thing that
that I will
and will do.

Solitaire is neither here nor there to
a soul who's survived the curse of the worst.

Bursting out of a shell where hell is not life but **** near
and my eyes quite clear unaffected by mist or the fog of those
who have ****** me off,
I am off.

Cutting the links and laying flat those links in the chain and every train sets me on and my thoughts ride upon a magnetic impulse.

Radar as far as it goes shows the way, but it's the internal compass that directs me, deflects me and ultimately at the end of each day wrecks me.

perhaps the universe turns and it's we who expand.

sand and ***** and slabs of Kendal Mint Cake
I ache for simpler times

but who can say their yesterday was better than
tomorrow is?

perhaps when time contracts to bring us back and
take us further away from the onslaught of today
we can relax.

We'll still be sill with the universe to fill with
stars to remind us that we are just stardust
(but I never believed in that)

clued in to the minutes
imbued by the moments
and
torn by the hours that wrench our hearts

the galaxy farts out another star and
that's how far we have come.


Not still but still and still climbing that hill
and one day I may reach the top
one day it might stop
but I
hope
and it may not.

Taken on a trip through the why don't I slip through the net?
set back from the light in the shadow  that might be the shadow of me and
who is free is he who can see the night shift its shape,
landscapes on canvas and seascapes in galleries, it's no wonder to me why Valerie went over to the other side.

Positive thinking in the tin where yesterday is chinking its chains does  my brains in,

Weary,
eyes bleary and nobody hears me,
it's that kind if say you get lost on the way, but I'm used to it.

On the tube.

I stand can't sit and these people just look and don't give a **** about me which all sounds like Valerie.

If this is the day and I am who I am, who's got the script
where is the man that I used to be

' why don't you come on over Valerie'

At the point where the afterburner turns into the foreground I look around me,
there is no Valerie and
only what's left if the dream wasn't right,
the night shifting shape
the rim on a wheel,
sometimes I feel
unreal.

Down on the boulevard the boys try so very hard to impress the girls, but these girls are real fly and don't want any sidewalk guy,
they're looking for A number one.

As time goes along it's like a slingshot and you suddenly find that what you thought was about time has gone.

Boys on the boulevard that the girls try so very hard to ignore.

On the chair she sits and pits her wits against mine.
I love her,
she wins easily.
I love her,
every time.

Walk on the blind side
see nothing.

I have seen stars that collide
the World torn asunder
people going under
and no one to help them

and in those places where we sleep,
where only our body heat keeps us
alive
I have seen the same people thrive
and the same people die
for lack of affection.

the deficit disorder.

We have to be able to adapt
otherwise, we'll get trapped
in a rut,
my gut instinct takes second place
to the benign face I show
when others think they know
better,

but surely
a rut's not a bad place to be?
just look at the cemetery.

Tell me
what do you miss?
what you missing the most?
is it me?
is it you?
is it the last thing you post?
what you missing the most?

It's temporal distortion
when time's out of space
or is it a spiritual restoration
that shows on your face?

We pretend that we don't know
when we know that we do.
and at the delta together
you'll flow into me as I'll
flow into you.

I'll tell you
the things that I miss
when the night flickers on in
the lightness of your kiss
when my heart beats to time
and your space
is my space at a pace
that is yours and
matches mine.

It's the language see,
what's written down
in Oxford English,
and what's a dictionary
doing here?

cue
Robespierre
who might know but will not tell
and he's flamin' French as well,

the Italians could know
that Da Vinci chap or
Michelangelo,
but would we care
if it's not written there
in
Oxford English.

What happened to those years?
all gone,
in blood and sweat, well
not so much sweat, but that's made up
for in tears,
where can I get a refund?

numbed?
I should say so.

But it goes as it goes,
everybody knows that
except for me,

I'm still under the mulberry bush
thinking it's a tree.

It's a wind-up mechanism
and it's the ism that makes it go,
as if there wasn't enough ism's
already.

Hands up
who wants to be a battery?
ha
wishing all the time,
you'll end up with the fourteen-pounders
out on the Maginot line.

Desperate like Dan,
the
Dandy man,
but
life is no comic book pie,

we try to laugh all the same
fits and paroxysms are all in
the game,
more ism's to chew on.

There are more crooks cooking the books than cooks in a penitentiary and as far as I'm aware every penitentiary is run by a plenipotentiary
which makes some sort of sense to me.

are you following?
not on Twitter or else I'd know.

@jsirony

Missed off the A list
the B and the..'we list
them in order of importance'
said the man with the list,
'but you missed me',
I said wearily

she still loves me
until and even at
the end of the alphabet.