******* and your dear old trains,
hard seats and beat staff selling
rip-off chaff on chariots of mass
profits. The **** merchant gazes
through dead eyes and scratched
plastic as he charges up my **** with
an astronomical figure. A smile
on his bosses face as he races
into his office with more bloated
profits is all he can think of as he
sinks my high hopes into an oblivion
of rage. "*******" I tell him as he
flashes his price, 'that's twice what
I've already paid', but "mind your
language" is all he says as if that's
worse than ****** a man half your age.
He can't use his brain independently
from the movement of his masters
strings, he must watch the news
as if he's staring at his personal
kings - what a *****. All I can do now
is accept my fate of a few boring dates
with the telephone and my mates
at East Mids Trains, but that's in the
future and the **** merchant's in the
past, now I speed towards memories
I hope will far outlast that **** behind
the plastic and the ***** to whom his
thoughts are cast. Bring on
The Big Smoke.

Humanity's plight began
with the dawn of reflection.
The first flipped image returned
to the ape man's retina
conjoured a romantic enchantment:
The birth of a sin.
Glorified and horrified by our
Mother's indiscriminate hand,
we elevated and relegated ourselves
above and below the land.
Our conceited self-perception
forges the belief that we can know All.
But if the Great Wall were to know
of its magnitude it would fall;
if the pig heard the slaughterhouse
call it would fly -
The day we live to live will be
the day we learn to die.

Time to distinguish the linguist from the clown,
the smile from the frown, the man from the town.
There's no way upward and no way downward,
just a longshortnarrowwidestraightwindinglightdark
path ahead. Dreams of tomorrow's epochal moments
spin me with dread. The lead of a bullet elsewhere
punishes bone as a kid somewhere else does a runner
from home, yet I sit here alone saying little doing less.
My memories are fragments, my best answer's a guess.
Is the world really more of a mess than it was yesterday?
I guess that depends on what you like to see.

There's no such thing as normal,
no such thing as fate,
no such thing as day and night,
no such thing as straight.

Real is breath, food, water, soul.
Real is death, crude, slaughter, tolls.
Real is out there, open, ready to drink,
Real is inside the mind, all that you think

Forgetting what's real we stare straight at a box,
as birds fly north to south the pattern never unlocks.
False importance blocks thought,
as imposed ideas force retorts
at an allied enemy whose similarity we forgot.
The cycle of hate leeches the
unguarded brain. Over. And Over.
And over again