She carried her burden of woe
like the weekend shop,
never stopped her from whistling a tune and
not many women do that nowadays.

in the old days when Auntie Emm was not so old
and bolder than she was later
she had what you'd call today, Swagga,
she'd wag her finger and say,
'follow me, I'm not the pied piper but
I'll do for a start'

Uncle Tony who worked in the shipyards and
did other things to bring the money home
was grey haired
although it may have been jet black
back when Emm was younger.

Hunger they knew and few didn't up on
Tyneside,
but they had neighbours, good friends
and a radar system that could trawl a wreck on the shore before Her Majesty's customs even heard of it.

A moment in time and a peek at the place where a part of my family where points out in space.

There are more memories than pebbles on a beach
just reach in and touch them

In the two up, two down with a tin tub to
bathe in, a cellar to put coal in,
a kitchen and pantry
can't you
be happy?

If his Lordship willed it we'd all live in pigshit,
that's Nobility for you

but
I work in the grounds of the great hall as a groom
for
sixpence a week and a small garrett room
and don't feel hard done by,

still a prison though.

I'll die in service but will need to give
a week's notice
such a shame you can't put a
poultice
on death.

It was the full English breakfast with extras that did it,
Wetherspoons got rid of the evidence, but my gluttony hung like a tyre around my waist,
at last I was sated but I still wondered why I hadn't ordered some potatoes with a hot shepherds pie.

Holidays become me
and the blimp in my tummy
reminds me to go on a diet.

But it's back to earth with a bump
as I jump out of my bed
and instead of the beach
it is work
I must reach before nine.

You can always skip the adverts
better to be converts to reality

I deal in the facts
I do not sell
fantasy

come to me and see
the brutality of
mass media

cruising like
an oedema
black and bruised


we and only we
stand accused,
we become the abused
and get used to being so

track me on the back streets
in the bedsheets
watch me whiten
lighten
in the bio

watch them as they know you will,
still
it beats the hell out of education
init?

Impulse beats
Up, down
Hello. Greet.
Hands do what they do
What they need.
Heed greed far too often

Have I had good times?
A few
Have I made any good rhymes?
Maybe two
Do I believe in signs?
As long as you do

Where did you go
Lines I recognize
Not as my own
How did I become this thing?
This white, solemn bone
Only wanting you to sing
Clearly
Through the haze
Through the black
And the white
There would never be darkness
Without the light.

Pills and rocks
Take them to
Not feel tired anymore
....If only

Diamonds like ice
broken glass
Cut cold

Age gathers bold.
Not so pretty
When it melts;
I long for, I long for
Choosing something else

Life behind the yellow line
a falling star
a burnt out car
beside
the Purple Heart

all the time
the yellow line.

Fill in the gaps
hang onto the straps
all the time
it's the yellow line

don't park here
park over there
park anywhere
behind the yellow line.

I don't care
I've had my fill
got a prescription
for a suicide pill

to be taken in time
behind the yellow line.

Sweat's dripping

the salt is stripping me away
I may not be here tomorrow
not feeling the greatest
I sway

today
is the test of me  
this latest and best of me
and soon I'll be fine
behind
the yellow line.

Here's to reasons we fly
between our dreams and the sky
to the heavens above
here's to reasons we love.


In the desolation of a bankrupt nation where the hard pressed, distressed, the poorer and depressed in a state of denial put Jesus on trial

I read a story that was written about the time god had smitten the wicked,

it was wicked though I suspect also untrue.

Why would a god of love do
such a thing?

We all sing out dirges
we are the victims of pogroms and purges

It wasn't just you
I suspect that might be true.



Projecting ahead
I forecast
the dying are already fed up and the dead will then try to rise up as Babylon falls.

in the priest hole behind the false wall there's a skeleton
a relic, maybe holy or that may be
hocus pocus
it's up to us
to decide

If he died did he rise?

I don't know religion like the back of my hand
don't have a grandstand view
but it could be true.

Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community

Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,

I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face

That place is reserved

In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe

and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.

If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?

I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and

erasing my body chemistry

I can see it
if that is it.