War Memorial In November
Empty Fountain Lined With Leaves
Old Town Hall, Cherry Trees
Caught In First Winter Breeze.

Solidarity
Moment Not Soon Forgot
Not As Easily Remembered
Not As Easily Shared

City and Colour Soundtracks A Storm
Down Along The Mill
Before A Sloping Upward Hill
Wind Whipped Wild At Trees Stood Still

Soaked Wet Through Clothing
Late Autumn Truants
With No Other Reason To Be
Than To Feel And Find Expression

Making Back The Way To Work
Held Hand In Heartfelt Hand
Making The Best Of The Bland
In Such Moment's Not Meant To Disband

city in the shadow of a mountain
like denver on vacation
shady and deep
flowing down like the river
seeking centre
houses cling to the crags like barnacles
inverted ship cavity
jutting out of the rainforest

paradise of truants and travellers
eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches
and displaced ***** enthusiasts
sailors without floatation
treading land and bills and PTA meetings
cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights
rivers under troubled bridges
fish suffocating underwater
living on the refuse of the nuclear generation
transmuting the lead into sustainable energy
recycling the atmosphere into breathable air
apathetic anarchists return from extremity
living on the dole
or working for the man
we are building something greater than this

rain beats dynamic rhythm
ever changing syncopations
speaking to underwater sensibilities
feeding dreams of nymphs and pots and pans,
mushroom damp truants

records and players
lent out to the Master Librarian
hermit in her books and closets
dust on her shelves
thick as thieves
sticky as raindrops

Pangs of loneliness
creep like shadows
and fleeting images
sad and solemn
of truants hiding
stealthy as the slide of tides
observed with half-closed eyes
finding freedom in perversity
and the serenity of silence.

There is dog howl wind
behind that cold door
out there
where
all the stories
come true.

There are manic truants
running wild across
my back lawn
with
little hatchets
and bags.

There are sneaky smiley men
inside the TV box
greedy tongued
cold
begging money
and souls.

I will shut off the TV
let the dog in
lock the door
rock
creaking
dark
old
happy
safe.

oh god, how could i forget, the year was sometime in
the 1990s, en vogue released their debut single:
don't let go...
fell in love with it...
                as truant i say true:
before the **** impregnated
the white boy economy,
                 i made it to university on
two thousand and a spare allowance,
studying chemistry you get the hours,
**** knows the humanities...
any self-respecting humanities
student learns humanism the hard way:
psychiatry - not writing novels:
but doing social service - **** pay,
the man is happy,
happy girls of 12 month cycles
disillusioned suddenly by Papa Farmer
Heidegger - not really...
i could sneeze Hegel through my ***
and never get a **** from any
French philosopher's nostril:
born to ****, born to ostrich it...
and that's about as much as i'm avowed to hit...
it was the 1990s, the Poles were part
of the cultural shift including the world war
ii veterans, safety in west London,
then the kebabs came by,
and the kebabs fried the reputation,
they said: SO LI DA RI TY!
                  i remember being 9 at the time,
or whatever age suits the chronology,
en vogue was better than the prodigy,
the jilted revulsion to stagecraft,
Michael Jordan did more than Broccoli Adam
alias O,
                  silver back and the safety net of
philandering Clinton: let the white
boy eat ****... you let the white
boys do the annals and you the *******
to do the opposite of the Christian bypass:
let's the ***** experience it and rhetoric anti-gay
statements...
                       a  bit harsh, a bit too harsh mate...
you use the girl to manifesto anti-gay laws...
i wasn't born with **** stimulation,
but would i agree or disagree with it?
i wouldn't ask a girl to do **** with me...
me? too much pleasure from taking a ****,
who do you hang around with?
                           the Schnitzel Patriots?
but if there be  god i swear:
i decided to buy en vogue's single rather than
the album: music for the jilted generation...
then came about breathe when i
was discovering type o negative
             with the mortal kombat..
then i let gaming sorta sizzle, until i met a gamer
girl... no phobia... the status encouragement
said: read two books, play 33 video games...
1990's England... was it so different as it is today
or was it because i was a a kid born in the 1980's
seeing my first double deck bus aged 8 in 1994?
we never got the mafia Caribbean treatment
worthy of a carnival, i was never part of the Empire,
only a cause for war...
                 the truants moved to Scotland,
we got east London, or something resembling the east...
i loved the 1990s... the music esp.,
                                    well, that was then...
it ain't that anymore... back in the 1990s i'd
rather have listened to en vogue rather than
the spice girls' paedophilia chant
Savile's case bankrupted the b.b.c.,
   they're really trying, showing shows
from 2015 and earlier in 2014,
                                          they're broke!
broke little *******! and the chant is:
i thought she was administering consent with
that ***-selfie while i ****** off..
                i thought the age of consent was there
at the time, the age where you get to abuse
your own body...
      apparently that's slave talk: your body
isn't yours.
                     Huxley was a prophet in his own right,
but never mind the intricacies -
                 there weren't any...
she posts consent he posts shadow...
                    in the extremity of all possible laws:
we defend the defendants rights to an exclusion of conscience,
because, god-forgiving we only succumbed to the idea
of not thinking: i.e. we preferred the idea of god
managing us rather than the idea of thought...
    but it was nice in the 1990s, the brave few that made it...
then the serfs came when the Union expanded....
                         it really doesn't matter now...
apathy Regina, pathology Rex;
                                better fix the toilet
before the **** comes down alright...
                              as one half human potential said:
half of me would have made a quarter of the man
and woman involved in obstructing me teaching
in rhapsodies...
                                 oh well...
born a Glaswegian pauper, always a Glaswegian
pauper...
                       and sooner my fate among the karma
fate of words lost in Herr Censor,
              than me knocking on tombstones and saying:
your life?
                  i'm not that much interested, to be honest,
i care to remember what single c.d. i bought
in the 1990's rather than what could have ignited in
me a neo-socialist sense of community
coming from a communist society, undermined
by a society trying so hard to make the perfect advert;
what a load of *******!

Laying low and waiting
in the grass, see the sky.
Light above is grating,
caught, perfect, in your eye.
How the moon guides you by
its untroubled movements.
Pristine, untouched, how thy
hand makes no improvements.

With the spear you’re weighting,
once again you will try
in the dirt translating
(caught, perfect, in your eye)
that unbroken line. Lie
that your own amusements
could hold that light. Each sly
hand makes no improvements.

While you stand hesitating,
I place your hand on mine.
“Look,” I say, “duplicating,
caught. Perfect, in your eye,
the moon reflected, spy.
Despite the light’s influence,
to your beauty, his high
hand makes no improvements.”

In vain we satisfy
our heart with our reply.
All of us are truants--
all of nature’s students.

It's funny seeing us all turn into the same person,
The same taste in music,
The same fashion sense,
The same events attract us,
The same mediums refract us,
Our skin is inked with the same tattoo over and over and over again,
Our hair is clipped to flow in the same wave that each ocean moves,
Our voices all make the same noise because we all say the same thing,
Our camera lenses are always pointed in the same direction and we all take the same photo over and over and over again,
We all feel the same high because we all use the same drugs,
We all have the same house, the same car, and the same salary only because we all have the same jobs,
We all like the same people because we are all the same,
There are no rebellious truants because we all rebel In the same way,
Our hair is but one shade one pigment,
That compliments the same shirt, the same make-up that we all wear,
We all wear the same sizes and have the same bodies because we all eat the same thing,
We all make the same jokes because we all watch the same shows.

Deafened by a similar silence,
We reach for peace through violence,
Similarly hurting one another while similarly trying to heal our brother,
All carbon-copies of an image displayed and projected from the Great Wall of China to The Grand Canyon,
And it's probably because we are all the same species
No need for discrimination because we are all the same, pathetic animal,
Grooving to the same funky tune,
In the same sunny meadow,
We are all one herd of buffalo,
One congress of baboons,
One flamboyance of flamingos,
One army of caterpillars,
One tower of giraffes,
One school of fish,
One heart,
And one
One love....

But maybe
Just maybe
If we all are part of one love,
Then that means we unify to create only one part of a relationship,
One half of a house,
And only one side of the family....

It's as if
Uniting and grouping closer together,
It just makes us crumble apart..

of course i believe in an after-life,
well, let's say ~life, or
passing on tradition "life" -
however you note it down,
because that's what this out-of-every-instance
is described: a second chance -
however hellish or heavenly,
that's beside the point,
either way the idea is not a torture rack -
but nonetheless,
serious intellectuals are reduced to
smithereens by merely considering
arguing such realms -
the **** do it better with Manga cartoons,
so ******, so exotic -
by the way? Tokyo Tribes is the
most ******-up film i've seen
since Battle Royale - new-age propaganda
spinsters... Alistair Cambel looks
like a boy-scout by comparison...
oh, rolls-Royce- royal, roy-all - not the
tip end of ale from Roy Orbison,
roy-all - ******* missed the diacritical
marks and went mad with punctuation
nobody ever ******* minds:
laugh now, pay later.
but with all these people concerned
with their body image, their hologram
selves, it's no wonder that Darwinism
is apprehensive about it's archaeology
(******, please insert the presence of
the æ γραφημ) - when the fashion
industry is doing, what the hell it's doing -
why would i believe in this world,
this world alone, when people
are adamant to perform hologram spectacles,
the: let's try to make it all look pretty,
but ******-up beneath all the fake aesthetics?
it doesn't take questioning the entire world,
or abstracting this world and questioning
reality to provide the answers...
it simply takes the fashion industry
and the ******* industry -
or 17th century sensibilities of painters:
plums versus twigs -
                                        and you think this is
the only world? given that people around you
are not being who they deem they are
because they're more concerned with
projection rather than perception?
i love these alphabetical clues...
                                  they're the rhyming couplets
i live for outside the reach of a thesaurus -
if a person stages concentrating on
a hologram ambition, and empties himself
so that he's constantly c.c.t.v. prone to
sit up, never pick his nose, wipe his *** with velvet...
well... how can you experience this world
for its worth, when a person also involved in
this world, monetises the world into
a hologram flip of the otherwise dormant stone?
only a fake world would ever provide fakers
to reside in it and reside in it as the highest authority...
there's the television / Plato's cave to mind also...
i just don't see it fulfilling in what Heidegger
deems being - comfort in concerns -
or simply there - so what compliments
this world is illusory, a hologram that isn't neither
being nor non-being -
                                 i'd call this world
and all the powers involved in keeping it
an assortment process - allocation in extreme -
at least a way to see the full potential of
humanity's free will... or the least desired
verse alter of the collective: making your mind up.
all in all: thespians and make-up artists!
  and the need to keep animals for company
to shy away from social-mobility (lying)
                       of the everyday and tell the truth -
to animals, who bark and meow,
the true onomatopoeia poets of our truant morals
and they too: truants of speech, knock on wood,
lick the testicles, play ping pong.

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

and the moon high above its iris -
in the bony sclera " noon" of 3 a.m.
in September -
            or as the western philistines
said: we need the Karaoke -
and we need the Judas cult -
as sung king David,
and evermore the kind of
comparisons of *** with brushing your
teeth: simply, a matter of, hygiene -
and wasn't Tailor's 1989 anthem
an ode to overcoming h.i.v.: bad blood?
wasn't that part of the narrative?
if it wasn't... shoot me...
**** me, by being a poet you can
become such a smuggler of images,
of a fake Mona Lisa (e.g.), you can turn into
a right oddball smuggler if you want...
you can smuggle so many paintings,
ad desecrate as many icons as you might
wish to speak Somali...
and sometimes the odd huh...
is enough: like Hendrix with Dylan
and all along the watchtower -
or Jeffdoing one more for the encore
against the Cohen variant -
because the Gentiles always sung better
than the Jews... truants are named
at every bar mitzvah - ben shalom -
or son of a hello...
                       and none the wise-thinker
in kinship with Solomon...
                    as the one stressed:
in solitude you will find me,
as i find no one in taking me to the wilderness;
yes, the gentiles always sang praise
to usurp the jews - hence tier above
soprano with the castrato - banned by 1903 -
sometimes you rarely write poems,
but, rather, connectivity of encyclopedias -
at times you think: when the son of Bruce
was named Jeff, and died a death akin
to Caesar - and you think: too wish
t have been spared the hospital bed,
and the inconvenience belt Hermitage of
those awaiting the butchers' slaughter -
i too, among the angelic be of kin...
but, from vaguely to a reality: sadly no.
they never really love the smart-***
that doesn't perform well in mathematics,
they just love how  pervasive the Axis
evils have become synonymous with
sanctimonious grace of those defeating them...
how eager to sing-along than
sing against... how easily the argument
against euthanasia quashed by the new humanists
of Benelux - god, the shivers,
                   the fates of ghost writers
haven spoken last...
                    in an age when those who
publish literary works are dyslexic - and who
hardly read... well... aren't we living
in an age, when the least, and most you can
even do is find space-exploration a salvation...
for a while...
                           just a while...
                as the Beatniks said in accordance with
the Sputnik missions... and later Jim Morrison
immortalised - this is the end;
                     beautiful friend... this is the end...
              my only friend, the end...
forgive me in a 100 years... should i shy from truth,
and say: i agree with you - that it was actually otherwise...
            thus: i'll simply reply: inshallah -
for i'm a foreigner to state as having any responsibility
   occupying wording handshakes,
                     and not shaking hands with agreement,
and of all political games, i chose nouns to mean
ambiguity, and conscience to be actions worded,
diverging from actual actions undertaken -
   thus so distant the word bombs
     and the action undertaken - so, inshallah -
and Pontius Pilate to boot.