They hoist me up
on a pole
an act of patriotism
or oppressive control?

They paint me on roundabouts
to be driven over by
a white van man.
An act of patriotism
or the tantrum of a child
hurling toys from a pram?

They spray me crude
on flyovers and walls
red drips running
like bloodshed
from colonial wars

Tell me how?
How can society stay complicit
while the sword of Saint George
is swung by
the semi-literate?

...but love is not reason
    most of it is imagination

I've no money
but can write poetry
despite  owning very little
I'm totally happy

if I were to
have money
but can't write poetry
that would be my misery

so I conclude --happily:
between being wealthy
and writing poetry
the latter I'll celebrate fully!

At a steep angle
the bottle does glug
The glass fills fast
with awe I gasp

Stops my worries in their tracks
a salt line to a slug...
A taste of freedom
down my throat

Worries jettisoned
my sacred medicine
Temporary isolation
just a tidal moat

Why are we here?
I don't remember
The summer gives way
to the misty mornings of September

Early dementia...
Who are you?
At depth I yearn
for bioluminescent blue

You feel the dark cold?
I feel it too

Troubling proclivities
Depression through my days
Psychiatric medicine
This life is a Maze

In gratitude for my boys
Keep them forward led
Keep them keep them keep them
Long after I am dead

              Courage in the Dread.