Pain in a ring
Slip off into the dirt

Ring of hurt
Fall over into gray

Circle around decay

Stumble again

A flint axe hacks away at October
which is moving away from me
chips from the masonry
falling haphazardly

and a prayer in the abbey
as if that lot could help me

Limbo feels something like this.

We are all being threaded into one giant needle which is part of a sewing machine
to be stitched up and switched on to a Christmas long gone and we'll all make believe that this dream is the one from which we shall wake.

I take the Flint axe and chuck it, say **** it and get ready to work for the man
I am
Novemberless and
trapped in the wilderness
where
forgiveness is sold by
the litre.

It's when you get old that the monsters you thought were long dead take a hold
again
and I wonder if all that pain was worth it or worth ****,

Paul with his Nembutal woke up in the hospital and died five minutes later.

It's always later when we think about it and then sometimes it's too late to think.

They told me that Cath' who smoked crack and was as thin as a lath could **** down that pipe and blow smoke out of her ***,

urban myths

I never miss the things I used to think I'd miss
thinking about, but I see it in my dreams, the roundabout,
the swinging doors, the ****** and the street *****
selling more than they had for some more of what more they could get.

Jackson and his chemicals
made it look industrial
which in a way it was
because
it poisoned us all.

The traffic cam's on Peter Pan
but he flew on through the red.
and
it was Wendy led me down the path
but
I went willingly.

One day when this has run its course,
the well being dry
I'll take this horse to water.

The lesson taught
taught me well,
well as well as it could do
and the loop runs on
Peter still flies through.

I never know where a poem will go
it's like it has a mind of its own,
a diversion
of emotion until the poem
finds itself a home.

No apology from me and
what you see may be
what you get,

no promises though
although you never know
and I think that may
be the answer.

Mortality's a dying art
once we start
there is an end.

Most tend not to think of death
even when
every breath they take
takes them closer to the
close.

Who knows
things may change
or maybe not

I've got a soft spot for
the doubters
the hand wavers
the shouters,
but
living's still a dying game,

anyone want to play?

Be oh be
he said,
silently
she
listened
With half an ear
and a tear in her eye
I
blew a kiss which
hit the dartboard
scored a double top
It didn't stop

the volume increased
even as the silence
ceased
and I knew
that
it would be.

Day care for the elderly
and that'll do for me
when I get old.

A gypsy once told me
that good luck
would follow me,
it's not caught up yet

and yet the older I get
the less that I fret
about such things
such as
what
luck brings.



I favour fortune as much
as it favours me,
which by the way is
not a lot and lately
I was wondering what
it ever did for me,

the gypsy knows, but
they always do or don't
you
believe in that.