I was told (once) that if I could only make up a perfect story, that, that woman, who stole almost everything from men, would fall for me; would, maybe destroy me and leave me for dead. Would, maybe, ship me off without my pen and belt, and force me to paint her with no training. She’d want something that resembles something by Claude Monet; Do you know how difficult that is? That’s the fun though; she’d cut me off so many times; she’d remind me how many others could paint better; she’d explain, in beautiful detail, just how useless my hands were. Well, I hope she’s satisfied with my work; I’m sorry I finished early; I’m really no man; Goodnight, goodnight, I hope you’re sleeping; so I can finally leave.

playing with the bulls
stabbing the cattle
they are keeping me starving
whilst locked in the castle

ugly politicians
but nothing uglier than me
their friends are at the harbour
whilst strangers drown at sea

lying through their teeth
like the old lazy drunk
the ships are on fire
and their friends have all sunk

we're selling the bulls
eating the cattle
the politicians are hanging dead
and the people have the castle

jealous of that taxi you rode. jealous of that man you rode.
jealous of the shelf space you made for him.
jealous of the polaroids of polaroids taken.
shame he's prettier than me. jealous of your mirror.
jealous of your curtains.
jealous of your tibia.
jealous of the light switch.
shame we weren't prettier.

my dog covered in fleas
we're feeding the cuckolds
we're painting the motel
where notes a folded.
we're keeping the aeroplanes
whilst burning the trees
all whilst the cuckolds song
just hit its refrain.
naked violin playing
we come to call
we had the midas touch
but she didn't budge at all.
the cuckolds song is done now

wake up wanting to cut your ear off. the moons the only thing laughing at you for not being able to sleep. you're reminded of the eyes you've fell for. sway with them for a bit. drink red paint to ease the pain. cut it off. give it to some girl you just met. playing only the white notes on a piano. drink more paint. cut off the nose this time. give it some other girl you just met. read Tolstoy. to ease the pain.

we used to share a bed

my writings aren't pretty enough for the front. i swear too much. too many mispellllings. too many references to g-ds but not the right ones obviously. too many words on women. when I write about ******, the perverted take notice. maybe I should write a ballad to the perverted. it'd only fill my ego to point of ending myself. and we don't want that, do we

have you ever heard of
a Victoria
who spells Victoria
with a W

cause I knew one
oh she was fun
cycled like the sun
you could put her in a bun
with a bunch of W's

have you ever heard of
a Victoria
who spells Victoria
with a W

Sounds like New York,
That noise that comes out,
Out of her mouth,
Sounds like New York

You live across the bridge,
And we meet there each day,
I just need to say,
You sound like New York

We’ll shoot clay pigeons in the dark,
We’ll talk to John Henry,
We’ll watch Submarines,
We’ll share a bag of toffee

Sounds like New York,
Sounds like New York,
Sounds like New York,

She sounds like New York

sounds like new york. that noise that comes out of her mouth in perfect cadences. she's ruined me so many times. i believe her still. when she promises she'll leave for good. she sounds like new york. my name is james and this is my muse. and it sounds like new york.

they only wanted to rule the world
with a cast ironed fist
"one more, one more"
until we inevitably kiss

oh, i'm talking about hiking now
thinking about paints
doing much less
whilst lifting my weight;

"can we talk about Marx yet?"
"sure - i never finished though;
i get bored"
"why do they call you james?"
"ask my dad"
"i'd like that - now?"
"not now"
"how come?"
"i need to do the gardening - the grass is too long"
"have you read Marx yet?"
"nearly"
"nearly?"
"yes - nearly;
i'm planning on voting first"
"a light bulb needs changing"
"yeah -
do we have any framed pictures of us yet?"
"no - the lightbulb?"
"yeah - the lightbulb"
"what do we do when finished?"
"nothing - leave. smoke"
"i get you - thank you"

never read Marx. never smoked. paid her. left.
car broke down. called her. stayed. married.
went into the garden.
smoked. read Marx.
bought a lightbulb.
framed pictures. paid her again.
my name is her

got on the train today,
and as it descended down towards home,
I got off two stops before.
saw a girl so empty and ugly,
I wanted to join her.
I met a little boy today, he was wearing blue, not red. got back on the train, felt bored, and as the train descended towards home, I stayed on, learnt my lesson, from the previous off. the windows covered in veins, like highways of rain. It's 11:03, the train was late. or I was early.

They say it could be the Bible; the manual on dealing with defeat. Composed on top of Calvary, where they often let me sleep. But they ****** me and kicked me out, at around book thirteen;
- “You’ll never understand, until you’ve fought in World War Three”
My heart is no good, and my hands are tired from fighting; I tricked myself into thinking I was worth something

clinch my fists, like the coward i am. there's men in the hallway, and there's g-d in the living room, shining his throne. making war on love and killing butterflies, so he has something to write about. make love to the men, siting in his throne, so they'll show me the door. make rejection to war, your pastime. make love to rejection, like the old ******* you are. make war to love, whilst g-ds are running.
clinch my fists, like the coward i am. there's women in the hallway, who'd make love to me

don't do it, unless you feel a strong urge to compel others to turn around, smile and make a fool of themselves along side the ******* worthiness of the woman who robbed everything of men. a broken heart will sometimes turnover, write and convince others that they too are ******. that the g-d has ****** them. my cigarette hurts from being awake at this hour, talking **** about how you'll quit tomorrow.
you don't see anything other than the orange tinted filter that half-empty glass gives you. it makes everything a little easier to stomach;

thats the first time i've admitted that to myself

barely spoken with my book open
wearing aprons with hay fever in full affect
woke up the neighbours four doors down with the shouting
and she calls me unreasonable
did they water this ******* aloe vera plant
or am I making up that it looks dry
shifting through these papers and the paperclip
that's holding everything together
stabbed into the tip of my thumb
and I can't afford my daughters wedding
brilliant that. cats that spat,
sat next to the lamp that leaks lies
like her on the third wine
she used to burn the union jack
now she laughs aleesha or mahil
because they don't look like
jack, jill me or him.
close the books, ask the waiter
bring my breakfast in the morning
under the name surrender
call the banks, tell the teller
rebuild my economy
without the one percenters
we can't agree
which is worse
surrendering
or halving our net worth.

she wants a divorce
who could blame her
she wanted a husband
and we left her in labour

I still think about you sometimes. Why do I carry you around with me all the time. I let you cut my hair. I remember cold showers together. Your cold hands are probably loving some other man now. Forgive me for disclosing things about the past us. But I still think about you sometimes.
I thought I saw her on the train tonight.
The ******* hair, that yellow raincoat that she got on my recommendation. We took trains all the time. We still do. I’d love to say something to her. Something she might say. “You’re ugly inside” yeah. That. I wish I could say that to her.
I didn’t see her on the train. Just someone who looks like her. She’s moved forward away from me. I still think about her sometimes.

move country, don't eat for three days, freeze on your own watch. own your own life, don't throw it out. it's not an ex-lover. you can fail at what you don't love. move country, don't be your father. be broken, be homeless. don't be a character, a script, a book. don't need anything. fear love. know life. know your life. know your ex-wife. **** butterflies and wear your dead dads coat. know pain. but you'll learn that soon enough. move again. don't eat for three more days. learn about the slave trade. climb a train and sleep on oranges. find a home and go there. then ruin it. you can take shortcuts but your father will judge you. don't listen to the *******. he'll die before you. sing about credit ratings. write about herbalism. take on the spanish and dream about portugal. think about moving.

hearing nothing but the wind
and her husband in the trash
smiling at the thought
of living in the past

on comes the train
it’s paved in gold
forgetting at last
accounts from the soul

locked safely in
no room to remove
all of that baggage
locked in their room

bed of railway
pillow of stone
no life taken
only her own

hey, do you really think that I would leave, if you told me all these things. well I don't think that I can go just yet. you knew that I was ugly and you loved me anyway. well I never was the best at loving you

well I think I need
to treat you better

hey brother, you know I'm leaving. hey mother, I shouldn't be bleeding. but you can say anything, anything you want
and I think I need to treat me better

and I think I need
to treat you better
__

haven't done this before but these are the lyrics to a song of mine (as i'm
a singer/songwriter) you can find it on Spotify or listen here
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1tZwg-X8g&t=20s

There's a wedding sat across from me, her and herself
herself making love to her coffee. her making love to me.
There's a wedding on the table, just like you thought.

There's a wedding on the table, me and myself. Myself wants the wedding, and I want the divorce. Bored in the courtroom, where I settle the divorce,
But there's a wedding on the table, just like I thought.

they're watching us talking
just like observing ants work
there's helium in their ego
and lipstick on the mirror
they're idle to the agreed
arranged to the disorganised
they've planned the route already
just like in an ants farm
there's welcomes at the hallways
smirks at the poor
they've drowned millions of us already
and we're only on the first floor

you have her ears
she tucked hair behind them too
her songs were kind of like that
but she only had a few

she's been gone now
but i'll see her sometime soon
you've painted the clock face
and it's always noon

she left at 1pm
over the phone
she had her heart open
but you couldn't afford the toll

message to my future kids. don't try too hard. dont be smart people. ask questions. you're innocent. you don't deserve my ****. don't wear thin circle glasses. but you might have to. don't worry about money. if you can, don't fall for the wrong person. if you can't, i get it. write about sheep. think about suicide. but don't do it. if you do; i'll spellcheck the note. i always was a smart ****. don't do what i did. don't take my advise. listen to your mother. if she's an idiot, don't. i might not be around. don't hate me. it might be complicated.

Wave your **** eye-roll, salute my attempt at least. We can no longer please; perhaps we never have. I’ll hold up, to when we next meet; I’ll shake your hand. I’ll be waiting for you, myself, when I used to be able to command the man. The man with no new qualifications, other than to displease. Hold your judgement please, lord. You're biting to hard, with your golden teeth.

woman with a fold away bike, a fold away life, a stolen orange book. a throw-away hat, a collapsing body. woman with a fold away bike, a mans love, some old muddy boots. a fold away wedding, a tired accent. woman with a fold away bike, kindly sleeps over, mothers children. raise a little cain, a dead father. woman with a fold away bike

If we're after UK Independence, we should give back what isn't ours .
don't tell me we're strong when we let our friends walk the streets our poorer ones die on . but life's a cycle, they'll be back soon , asking,
'do you think getting rid, would really help' . hell, sell a lie on a bus, promise of wealth , telling you it's true , 'these' are the ones that ruined you . 'we're an empire' . don't you feel cheated; i don't blame you . but you'd blame the poorer ones for cheating you .

if you have the ability to love, try to love yourself first. if you can’t, try running. if you can hurt, try not to. send people home. and put the dog down. life is an improvised thing. no one knows. try not to eat. sleep till mid afternoon. only then can you see it. desperate for a future, a fix. don’t forget your frying pan. and on the way out, don’t forget the pain. attempt to help. try to hate. issues with humanity. playful with yourself. draw everyone naked, if you’ve seen people naked. change the light bulb and eat spiders. if you can stomach people, try to talk to them. If you can’t, try to sleep outside. that’ll make you hate humanity more. love the cold, the situation. own yourself

bite your lip. don't look up your future. it's overrated. try to forgive. don't try too hard to understand. don't give me a funeral. go to somewhere i like instead. shut up sometimes. tell someone you love them. tomorrow will be better. remember when you laughed. i could simply say i love you. but i won't. don't run too far. don't lose yourself. marry the moon. make love to your breakfast. close the door sometimes. open it if i knock. forget who you were. don't repeat yourself. throw yourself at the future. listen to Leonard Cohen. don't listen to jazz. you'll lose yourself. thank you. for treating me so well. i wasn't born to fight. don't fight. you shouldn't fight. accept yourself. that's the only good fight there is.

i was that girl from alabama. denied the basics so you could have her. i was the spanish, the belgian, killing my brothers. i was in israel, seeing those brothers. i was american, forgetting those sisters. i was that man in alabama. denying the girl the basics so i could have her. treating her worse so i could have her. keeping her worse so men could have her. telling her worse so tv could haver her. hitting her worse so courts could have her. i was the portuguese, selling brunoise. i was the english, selling those brothers.

i was that girl from alabama

you she’ll always keep
and she never seems leave
nowhere to run to anyhow

knowing that she’s there
and always in your care
moon time ain’t that far away

and there is no
turning back from here

always so confused
loving with a view
that's what she means to you
  
you're both almost there
arriving at the tear
time to walk away and find a new

and there is no
turning back from here

there's a king in the mirror
and the king needs a shave
there's anxiety in the razor
like the men stuck in his cave
we will stay on the corner
we will sleep on the street
we hold the sign
pointing to sometime
next week

How many times, have you thought of me this week, and are you still angry at me?
You can hear me, but you refuse to listen.
Do you have permission to fall in love with me? Read up on me. Here are my credentials, my cv. Here’s my list of recommendations. I can not do it for you.
You can hear me but you refuse to listen.
I heard you last night, I refused to listen. It’s a two way street. This relationship. You don’t believe in it; you don’t think we can make it. It’s turned abusive, James. Again, here’s my recommendations. I don’t want to listen to your side, where are your credentials?
You hear me but refuse to listen

if you need some time
just have some of mine
don't feel obliged
if we collide

on this starry night

we don't like anything alphabetical  
and we don't like suit and ties
we don't like disaster capitalists
and we don't like the outside

on this starry night

I have nothing to say to you, no poetry, no song with or without a melody.  I put my guitar away. Pulled away from the piano stool. No more lullabies to waltz's with your name etched in. No more finger picking in C for three days with your voice echoed through. Goodnight, or good morning, wherever I find you,
I think the days of you being my muse are over.

off the aeroplane
meeting me is christ
he doesn't say a word
he only fries rice

useless tables
are useless politicians  
they should be practical
but you can't throw them in the chipper

i'm in-between cupboards
and in-between wards
playing drunk on the piano
so i'm not drafted into war

born sick
and commanded to be well
asking jesus for the secrets
that the useless **** cannot tell

back on the aeroplane
which only now is a spitfire
i'll see you all in newyork
and with all our hearts tired

don't give me your excuse. find new ones. drink only using your teeth. just act natural. clothe yourself in deer skin. neglect your children. hate the young and ruin their future. laugh at yourself. be a monk. you can't do better. burn the bible. cut off your hair. learn mandarin. wait to die. leave your wife. vote conservatively.  wait to die some more. eat toothpaste. hook the moon and bring it right down. talk deeper.

but don't take my seat on the bus.

Going for coffee, when the heat is strong.
Chained to this table, humming this song.                                                
Christmas dinner is in Mexico, New Years on Mars.
Making love to the depression, that’s been here from the start.
There's women in the windows, they are all scarred.
I should have seen it coming, but the heat was not strong.

scribbled into something that resembled a diary. Fell out of love all over again. Entered the chemist to better my inconveniences. Nursed my virginity until 24. Wanted to give myself something to talk about in my later ages that (maybe) wait for me.  How about the army, kid. Well what about it. Snowed for the second night in a row. Hair cut, days halved, love overfed, life dulled.

dying clay pen, slaved yellow streets, where I often let myself sleep.
sounds from the motorway, sounds like the slave trade.

i put my lips around my neighbours
car exhaust to see how it feels
to be a tree

no one tells you about the suicides
the biscuits tins
and fatherless fathers, fathering the biscuits tins

no one tells you about the *** workers
who work for biscuits
but paid in peanuts

walking through John Coltranes garden
hearing Nirvana
cause he likes them

like that, please. like a monet. i'd look handsome. my ugly body would look handsome.

the woman with thin circle glasses kept me warm. i'm not a good lover and what goes up, must come down. unless it just stays up. she said she was disappointed. i said i tried my best. she wants a divorce but said i can keep the bed. i have no use for a bed, you take it. you need somewhere to sleep. there's no one i could keep warm. the woman with thin circle glasses kept me warm

queenies gone, she's gone for today
I wont see her tomorrow to today
the lamp bulb needs changing, but I'm too small
I'd share my tooth salt water with her, till I'm eighty four

when she came back, I was cello-taped to the floor
I couldn't tell you how, I was just that bored
the people here hurt my head, and eat all my dreams
an appetite so big, I had to double up on greens

christianity but not much christ
not many drinking, but all drunk
housing for everyone, but all homeless
afloat but all have sunk
burning trees whilst watering cacti
arbitrary kindness whilst loving your wife
keeping the bank account to the brim
god is dead and they have killed him

i left you. you were ugly.
we heard you playing. i put my ear to the wall.
your naked banjo playing doesn't impress me at all.

you are ugly. and so am i.
we all heard you playing chess, with those other guys.

i am ugly. my banjo is old.
you heard me playing the prayer, to all the cuckolds.

i left you. i'm glad i did.
we're both ugly, i saw you salute.
we are both ugly, so we went and hid.

friendly with starvation
and friendly with the guards
but no one goes hungry
when the prisoners are in charge

billionaires are second-class
'god bless the debit cards'
we run around in circles
without Marx in charge

reminded of the moon shaped eyes.
my disgusting body next your perfect one.
i miss you.