I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.

Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine

People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.

Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine

I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.

Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine

The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.

Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine

I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.

On our terms, through our eyes,
For us to realise
The gorilla on camera,
Signalling and signing the scripted message, knows not what she speaks,
But anticipates the treats.
We see not the eyes, if the tongue is not in our ears.
As a result, they let loose their
scythes
on the wide-eyed plants in Oz before the 1960s.
They believed the pottery were their own lost property,
Until they realised the kilns were the same in Bechuanaland.
Someday, such museum specimens, can be translated.
Allowing our selfish eyes,
To X-ray through such veils.

I would never wish it on anyone,
But I ache to see through your eyes
The person who smiles
In the age of the internet’s pythonesque wonderland,
Seeing the joke of the world, but remaining in hysterics.
In the corner of the class,
I get hints of this friends other side,
An impossible voyage for all foreigners there.

To see tinted in such pain
Just to try and understand,
To somehow
help.

Is it discriminatory to hate
the fungus that can spread in the bodies of ants.
Creeping
through the nerves
infecting
until it scrapes through the cerebral nerve
driving them mad
climbing the heights of rainforest giants
which they can’t get back down from.
When it takes their mind,
Are they now the same?

Is it discrimination,
If I **** the select black pages of a book that tumble along the desert winds, their words cursing those
under the God.
For those in letterboxes, I have a message: do you want to be defined by your value as a possession?

Is it discrimination,
To wish us rid of those who will condemn our humour and joy,
for it is a sign of humanity.
On online forums that do not have to except a human flood and a culture crushed to single metal pieces,
Will not except a yellow glutton carnivore
as president,
Will not except the red and blue beams from the sun being darkened by a night-black swarm of red and yellow striped wasps,
the vibrant joy of star fruit now as constructing as imperial gold.

Speak,
Rid your bike,
Shine your light
For Tiananmen is abroad.
Location decided not by a treaty,
But by those who cling to a rising sun,
Not shineless stars.

“When ignorance is bliss,
Tis folly to be wise”.

I’m a fascist,
Whenever, I can’t make up my mind.
I’m a fascist,
Whenever, I anger those around me.
I’m a fascist,
Whenever, I mumble and my thoughts aren’t heard
I’m a fascist,
Whenever, smiling faces are
disconnected.
I’m a fascist,
Whenever, I memorise another useless number but not the answer to the sum.
I’m a firing squad leader,
Whenever, I see the slobbering Spastics.
I’m a firing squad leader,
Whenever, I read the slobbering spastics minds and I’m millions.

I see it,
Through the same alien eyes,
But I feel
no sympathy.
I would gladly command the firing squad,
Upon those who don’t have to exist,
I would leave my own child to the wolves if it were such.
So I could smile,
In my solo fish tank,
But without seeing my reflection in the glass.

I beg you,
Lend me no book,
Make it, instead, a log,
To keep the fire warm.

I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.


Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.

As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.

Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.

Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.

Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.

But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.

It’s a hateful love.
As I see them head over, prepared to be bored and depressed.But it’s not hate to her, it’s hate for her condition.Despite the sighs and groans,We are caring and praying for salvation.

We wish to return her energy,
Give her a skateboard, a boom box, rocket boots to blast through sunny streets and laugh as the wind frazzles her silver twizzles.

Alas they sigh, but I never will.
I still remember being in wonderland.
Every meal a banquet.
From hand labelled tins of sweetness
Which have made 1950s adverts just as nostalgic to me.

Get off the ice floe,
Your blanket and water bottle are ready,
As I give one more hug.

The tortures couldn't break them, so they tried to replace them. Mutilating their form
And ripping and shaping their flesh to mould some mutilated plastic doll of conformity they forced. Turning them into outcasts, not to see family.
The 900.
A new birth certificate, an
attempt to **** the persona and replace with moulded soulless form.
Many half finished.
In the military.
Committing suicide after being abandoned.

When a boulder is on your spine, about to snap it,
even a clawed hand,
is seen as a helping one.

1993-The puritans at work again.
injecting oestrogen to force a character into a form they deem fit,
for 'delicate minds'.

In spirit it's all the same. crushing those who don't fit in to the model village. with its identical plastic figurines. Crushing them. in an eternal smile. In a model world. All dead plastic.