Shelves upon shelves
The walk to my dorm is
a supermarket aisle. It’s
all the same product. A
Cactus on a window sill.
But mine always feels
diseased compared to
their terrariums and

Boxed in comfort, measured
to cost. 4 home bought pin
Ups, Indie purple, indie gold,
Indie black and white, on a
35cm by 35cm photo board.
You aren’t allowed blue tac
on the walls.

It’s been a year since I typed some lines,
probably cuz it’s stuff like this,
I want to get laid
and i want to get ******
but instead all I feel is sick
Kedgeree thats tumbled dried
from 38 minutes of bad Elvis hips,
while legs pop like rockets
my eyes sink in my sockets
saliva swells in my cheeks
as I drift in disappointment
swimming in icy air to catch my confidence lost at sea
but its too far gone, so i just stare
at a laptops glare
thinking about my spots
my unstyled bramble of hair
my polo, too garish?
MY SPACK BRAIN!
too confident in thinking I looked smart?
as i wish for another heart
one thing sticks in my mind
a girl, or was it a boy,
looking like Johnny Rotten,
in Westwood striped dungarees and flames of hair
flashes of the Public Image, King Krule and all that in my headphones.
Words that are all in my head
as my stomach is sick
oh yeah, they played the killers
I like them
now my head is bleak like Mike Skinner
I wish I’d chosen earlier to have my dinner
another music reference lost on you
but stuck in my mind in bed
as I picture a red head
oh my.

There’s a swan on the line,
Taking your time,
So bow to the seagull in Jewels.

The Burberry is real this time,
But the face still spits and scathes
At those below his mental might,
It is Golden muscles this time,
Not concrete knuckles,
That deliver this slap in the face.

We all sigh,
And roll our eyes,
Cocking our heads like the red-eyed
Pheasant
That lies flattened on the next track over.

DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.

The Messiah in Miss Hart’s class,
Has torn his hands from the pins that stuck into him with
Doubt at success,
Doubt in the light.
Now, he wonders the desert, to live out his life.
You’re a small percent
But you’re not different

So many ideas, such a creative spark.
But you don’t write a word.
though your brain screams a speech.
You could be in a far off land.
Just lift the pen in your hand.
But your body is a tide pulled by the moon,Hidden
in the sky that’s
Grey enough to ignore.
Grey enough to anger,
Grey enough to cloud a view.
Why am I sat here?,
I have a million things to do?

Chop mushrooms in the kitchen,
Mix in the soup
Eat that mushroom in the dark,
To make your eyes droop.
Cut weeds in the garden,
To clear the flower bed,
Spread weeds at the party,
To stop feeling dead.

You want to escape, so you clasp a headphone to your ear,
But your fantasy should be here,
As you have no work for a year,
You have no purpose for a year.

Feed the pure,
As they come to your door.
You feel the need,
To sow the seeds,
To see golden corn sprout from bald heads.
They turn to you, with silent open hands,
Offering you nothing in return but the purity you have longed for forever,
You will wash their robes and days old socks.
Homemade meals in a lunch box,
Pasta to microwave for you still don’t trust them, not to live off junk under cosy rags.
On trains, back to the houses of wisdom.
That use your gold to uphold their roofs.
For Marx and ideals that exist just as dreams, they burn with sin when such tongues leave the gate.
You look on, because you think it’s too late.

The void
Or the scowl.

Are you sure you know which you’d pick.
When the right hand that feeds you,
Succulent wisdom,
While the left hand kills the next breed.

You see the void on sundays,
in time that is only passing seconds.
in moments where you scream silently.
When precious life is the cold bone you hold.
Down the path you walk, you long to be led.

Submission
Is the game for so long,
Catch a ball, avoid a fall
Until you chase it when rolls
Off the edge
And you follow it in faith
Rather than in fear
Keeping your white collar near.

A green chair in space,
Is out of its place,
Like the emerald button, haloed on you wall.
Why are you longing for

a Solid seat,
That gravity ‘cannot be beat’,
That you dare to face this heat.

When
You
         Could be
                                          free
Wheeling in space
   Taking in
                   the
                         jumbled chaos all over
                                 The place as
                       would a
        Child on
                A bouncy
                           Castle.

Your Garden is green,
So why press the button
And kickstart the process before
your eyes,
A process that had already begun.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”

The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.
TAKE ONE.
REPLAY.

“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
However!
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.
SLOW THE FILM!...”

The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.

“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”

Ha,
I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
Ticking,
Whirring,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.

The evening clouds,
are grey from increasing shadow.
The jagged mists, according to my minds eye, take the forms of dragons,
Encroaching upon me
Until they shatter into ash, their own burning might having destroyed them.
The skulled faces stretch out as if in one last grimace.
The second sooty mass forms into hooks, as the monsters’ lower half tries try reconnect with its collapsing upper.
Rose and tangerine flames waft,
Vanishing into oncoming blackness,
Like spirits hiding into caves, to be reborn as the souls of new mythic reptiles.

The waves are dredged along. Under the constant gaze
of the shimmering top floor moon.
Down to each second to each hour.
But, you are the angel fish, floating
free
beneath the cover of these tides.
Your shoals guide, the humble anglers
home
a silver blonde amongst the bigwigs,
The local red army, clothed in Cex shirts,
not needing an October symphony,
but now I sing your praises.
The bag you gave, though I had no 5 pence to spare,
lightened my load as much as any camel
along the silk road.
My journey is eased,
by your projected hope that my railcard,
will be renewed in future,
for your faith gives promises the
weight
of Gold.
You allow me to watch the guided heroes in explosive flames,
despite my smuggling
of Jelly babies under a hoodie.
For the shimmer in
Your
eyes, I will leave no litter,
for those with the blonde glittered scales,
From cold night, let the sun rule,
And the sea shall shimmer too.

This is it.

Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?

This is it.

Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.

later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.

these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.

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.

We were going for a walk, sea view, ocean blue.
But the tree needed cutting, can't have work on the mind.
Need to make sure that troubles left behind.
Should've done it months ago.
Ladder up.
Wires plugged.
Cutters out.
In the name of a neat garden for gorgeous nights when the sun is still bright.
Picking leaves, off The ground we dusted Wednesday dawn.
Yanking up crops crawling with harvestmen.
But wait, the holly bush needs doing too.
Should've done that days ago.
Dad does that.
As we sweep on.
Waving at friends.
Walking the wasps in the way.
They might sting.
"Don't bend, it hurts your back".
Mum says.
Advice never works.
The leaves go on.
More holly teams down.
Oh well, the journey of a thousand miles starts with one step...
Then another...
Then another...
Then another...
****, ****, bang, bang.
The chainsaw wires cut.
We had those for years.
So I keep my mouth shut.
Destroyed in a millisecond.


Our cat sat as calm as Confucius
From the sidelines, onlooking our endeavours.
A kitten kicking a katydid like a kid.
Confused, but definitely not concerned.

But wait, the wild flowers need watering.

My dad and my neighbour don't get along,
Clashing at the borders.
Consistently igniting the gross mess and grot in his smoked stained living room, where guard dogs bark and gnash freely, even when he is still in his house.
Luckily, our allies surround us and agree on our distaste, despite our own differences and lack of communication.
But my neighbour has allies from the other side.
A dodgy lot who we also despise.
But this could be changed, couldn't it?
His daughter is young and open.
A Romeo/Juliet story potentially?

Don't make me laugh.
The grot has raised her, that is her cemented.
His mind is hers as my dads is mine.
Intervening won't solve it.
As I shouted one day.
Screaming, swearing at the mongrels believing the main threat was away.
But their allies, the girls boyfriend, nearly killed me had it not been for my fathers main forces.
So I secluded me self, turning to faith totally.
Something I'd never done before as a logical atheist.
Until my life was threatened.

The kids are mad
The press'll say
Child **** festival
Suicide tips on blogs
Cheap drugs on eBay
Terrorists on mumsnet
Five year olds download pirate films and that's just today.

Oh dear, oh dear
What are we to do
Someone didn't look on the bright side of life.
Do-do do-do do-do

Well they need a story to tell.
And being able to see, to talk to someone
5,000 miles gone
Who life had torn you away from.
That's not news.

A library at your fingers
As they tap, shimmey and strut along the keyboard.
Any fact, debate settled.
That's not news


They said the world will end.
1881
2012
Or when the HAL's of tomorrow computer generatedly jet off the TV set.

April, 2017.
The CDs on the shelf still.
The library is still where the students study their fill.
Friends go out or have coffee, depends on weather.
Family on Christmas sit together.


But I guess that's not news
Not as much as manic hackers
Or celebrity blues
Or the troll overreacters.

That's my argument for the day.

With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....****
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill

In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.

The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.

All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****

Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair

Oh, so there is a god.

I guess Jesus didn't lie.

On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.

In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.

Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'

We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.