my muse teases me
with the faintest of smiles
then is gone
unrequited love
leaving a sweet taste
of what could
if only be

torturing my mind with ideas
fantasies
when put on paper
turn to epitaphs
where another train of thought
has died

I have to coax
bring out of the shadows
the beauty she has
for me
that I may write enlightened
set free

I wish I had learned to play an instrument
there is an untouched part of my soul
that will never have a voice
a chance of expression
I can never be truly lost
in music

It's an aid to creation, helps the words flow
Though my muse is not amused
By the drunken ***
Who pens poems only fit for graffiti
On toilet walls
We have an odd relationship
Based on trust and understanding
I don't trust her
And she'll never understand me
I have crushed so many worlds
With the clarity of alcohol
Including my own, left to drink
By myself in bad company
It's like a sad friend, who always turns up
When you're doing something else
Needing attention, grasping for love
That they can never give back
Only to rob you of your senses
Take over your whole life and
Still leave you wanting more
It's not me, it's the drink talking
Now ******* and leave us in peace.

I gave my sadness to my cat
it fitted his deadpan face
and generally glum demeanour,
he had the personality for it
besides it made him cute,
and a massive hit with the ladies

of course, I couldn’t really
give my sadness to my cat
apart from it being really unfair,
on my best friend and only true
companion, it is ridiculous
to think that an animal is depressed,

though I am, even with his support
endless nights listening to my troubles
his expressionless face understanding
every word, he helps me of course
having to look after someone who relies
on you, makes you feel wanted,

useful, almost powerful in some ways
but after all he is just a cat, however
much I try to make him human,
did I tell you he talks, not really
I think I probably need a therapist
and he just needs to be a cat,

it’s what he does best after all.

Henry Moore, the sculptor
has in his kitchen an original
Picasso
on the wall above the fridge
so every time he made a cuppa
he was reminded of his friend
not a fancy canvas in a frame
but a drawing on A4 sketch pad page
you can imagine the pair of them
discussing art and Henry giving
some small token to Pablo
of his work
and saying you know you should
paint some blue cows
it'll be good for you
you can invent the Emperor's new clothes
as often as you want
if you're a genius
and they would laugh over a glass
of whisky
Pablo went on to give life, of sorts
to his blue cows
oh, and I used to deliver whisky
to Henry Moore's house

my ship has sailed
I waited all my ****** life
for it to come in
and now I turn round
it's on the ****** horizon
heading into the metaphorical sunset
admittedly it was only a metaphorical ship
anyway
but none the less
I've missed it

I'm glad there are
still mysteries
like the wind in the trees
to ancient beings
faith
rather than understanding
how unbearably smug
would the human race be
if we knew ******* EVERYTHING

I would love to be a famous poet
Featured in literature, plagiarised,
Asked for comment, so and so
From somewhere (age) said
Verbatim, 'quotation marks'
To reveal a piece of myself,
Make known my stance on any
Subject, but I'm a van driver
From Essex, all I'm supposed
To talk about is football, which
I hate, though I look like Raffa
Which doesn't help (If you want
to see my face, look at him, my
Italian doppelganger)
I attract abuse,
People come up to me and call me
A ******
For some decision he made,
They're stupid but not actually stupid
Enough to believe Raffa works as a courier
In Essex, are they?
So I sit naked on my bed
Writing bad poetry
Wishing
I was someone else, instead
Of a Raffa alter ego,
A Poet
Who is quoted in literature, plagiarised
Asked for comment,
Someone who mattered and
Was listened to.

I look back at the wreckage
of my life
mass of twisted emotion
car crash of desire
watching the beauty of bridges
burning out in the night
how can you understand me
when I barely know who I am
searching for personality
a place to call myself
mirrored in your eyes
I'm who you're looking for
an oasis in the desert
full of the promise of disappointment
leading to so many dead ends
that never had an entrance
lets skip the intro
move on to the overture
I don't do goodbyes
just change the music
and onto the next show

I have never owned a pet
I borrowed them from God
to test my humanity
put another's needs first
teach me about unconditional love

there is a special place
in my heart they always have
when they go
it is a little darker and quieter
but it always belongs to them

their time is short
I want to make each day
their best and
in my clumsy selfish way
make them human

an intimately vast space
spread out in small pockets
where once a treed horizon
dared to peek out into view
now walls enclose the square feet
so precious to the privileged few
real estate, though nothing real
about it at all, built on dreams
and promises unfulfilled
you can plan your OXO lifestyle
advertised on billboards
of temptation on the roadside
that passes what looks
like a battlefield, nature making
one last stand of liquid mud
to repel all boarders, but to no avail
tarmac veins snake and harden
making new arteries to a future
braver infantile world
of possession and greed

From far away they come
hard men all,
mercenaries under a foreign sun

oblivious to its rays they
bare all, turning puce red
or peel, under hard hats,

cut down jeans, working boots,
tool belts, like desert rats
fighting for a new horizon

Scouse, Manc, Paddy
nicknamed and framed
by the mockery of their peers

shouting language across green lawns
not yet laid, that most definitely
won’t be heard in the select circles

that will inhabit these modern homes
castles one and all, individually the same
oh no, they won’t be welcome

lowering the neighbourhood tone,
four wheel drive and pick-up
replaced by Mercedes and BMW

Nature settles in again, to frame
like the scar around a wound
healed but never quite the same

So they move on, soldiers of fortune,
mercenaries under a foreign sun
building new structures to change our futures.

This year clothes me like an old coat
Worn at the elbows, with saggy shoulders
A smell that suggests more wears than washes,
***** tissues and receipts filling pockets
A tear in the lining from a drunken fall,
A tear of pain from an emotional fool
Wiped on a sleeve to preserve my masculinity.

I need to shed this year like a skin
As a spider, a lobster, a snake in the sun
To outgrow and move on from restrictive tissue,
Embrace the world as new again,
Fool myself on New Year’s Eve
I emerge like the butterfly from its cocoon
Reveal my flamboyant new wings,
To kid myself I am reborn.

I smell on your clothes
the reek of addiction
yellowed fingers betray
your burning passion

are my dreams real or fake
from this sleep do I awake

fear swallows me

will this road ever end
this corridor hold a monster
at the bend
how deep is this watery abyss
how long do I fall from precipice
before ground comes up
to meet me

jolted into an altered state
I pull on garments that
are a uniform
to join an army of zombied rats
in commercial experimental maze

are my dreams real or fake
from this nightmare do I awake

I can hear the noise of the world, always
In my ears, like the sea never leaves the shell,
No matter how far travelled by a beachcomber
Who takes their souvenir home.
No matter how far I roam, the world follows up
It’s chaotic tone, voices shouting, ringing phones,
Cars with car horns rushing to be late
Somewhere they really don’t want to go.
Fools, vagabonds, gypsies, businessmen, wives
Police and thieves, cannot escape the gravitational
Drag of the world on their destiny.
I can hear the swish of their existence in my sleep
It never leaves me, like the restless tide it creeps.

And while Notre Dame burns
Conspiracy theorists rewrite history
On their terms.

he cuts the grass into stripes
annoyed that the fence
doesn't run parallel

he will sit with a beer
after a long day
watching the sunset
his OCD screaming
it's not symmetrical

it's all he will see
amidst this natural
beauty

the blind is broken
on the back door
where I try the handle
maybe one two three four
times before bed
my foot treads
wear a furrow
into carpet pile
patrolling by the mile
a circuit I navigate
from door to window
and back again
checking checking
my doorbell's camera eye
spies on the street outside
intruder alerts on my phone
warn of incoming......
something
all so I can complete
a nights sleep
with one ear open
tossing turning
I have covered all eventualities
except the Bogeyman
in my head
under the bed

eggs
jug, broken shells
in the sink
Radiohead wails OK Computer
from Alexa archive
Jack glugs from a freshly
unsealed present from my wife
am I hip like Motorhead
or just another tipsy old dad
I wonder what Urbex explorers
would discover if they
crawled through my letter box
into this mess of a kitchen
onion makes me cry
something I never did
as a child
cheese and ham
how much **** can I cram
into this frying pan
an alchemical cupboard
of herbs and spices pervades
my sense of smell
am I brave enough
should I have beans
I’ll only eat half a can
people are starving somewhere
out of date packets call
do you feel lucky punk
but sliced beef for **** sake
who can resist that
a forgotten sandwich
never made
the truth in the pan
unmixed ingredients
never mind says bourbon head
it’s all the same
gas ring ignites
north sea pipelines
fishermen risking their lives for
for Brexit quota lies
the fiery grill, another bourbon
once you pop
small one in a big glass
carnage of packet autopsy
for the morning after
waits

no sunset tonight
clouds cover the grand parade
of the dyeing of the light
today will end with a whisper
not a shout
we will not notice the passing
of a time we won't remember
to forget
no tears of sorrow or laughter
or regret
nothing exciting ever seems  
to happen on a Wednesday

The piano in the corner is silent
Now Johnny’s gone, shot down over France
And the bar is so much quieter
After Toby died with some Fokker up his ****;
The reality of war has now hit us
The next scramble could be your last,
So let’s have one for the road, boys
Because outside its dark and its cold
The wind sounds hungry to take us
To places we’d rather not go.

The man we all know as “Red Leader”
A *******, but a ****** good laugh
Now dreams each night he is burning
His screams voicing all of our fears,
But we’ll still put a brave face on it
Stiff upper lip and all of that jazz,
Although it feels like we are waiting
For the very last call to arms;
But the bottle on the bar isn’t empty
And death still stands in the wings.

The drone of a “Doodlebug” overhead
On its way to London Town;
How much more can the poor buggers take
With another street blown to hell?
Today, I believe, is Good Friday
So let’s raise our glasses to a man
Who sacrificed life for all our sakes
As we may lose ours for our freedom:
But there’s still some feeling in my body
And time for a few glasses more.

A young kid, just arrived yesterday
Looks at these haggard faces in awe,
To him, this room is full of heroes
Not the ones who have so far survived;
Trained for half the time needed
He is willing to go to war
Only nineteen, but by this time tomorrow
He’ll have aged about ten years more.
So let’s drink to you, young fool
May you live to see a better day.

it is strange to see
irregular lines scrawled
across the page
in some small way I made them
helped to shape from where they came
then it slowly dawned on me
they could be better than anything
I have ever penned to page

an inconsequential lyric
battles an annoyingly catchy tune
and I'm reminded of you
this was our song baby
three minutes of tortuous
heartbreak memory stew
this actually used to make me smile
before memories shelved
come tumbling down
like tomes from a bookcase
we built with our glue
that couldn't even keep us together
I was never honest with you baby
I only ever liked rock n' roll

some time ago
I went out to get
a packet of ****
and forgot how
to find my way
home again

cocooned
surrounded by food
hibernating bear
waiting out a cold winter
Smaug on a pile of gold
secure
bolstered against the onslaught
of an unseen enemy assault
more provisions than Tesco
locked down
sweating on sell by dates expiring

The shiny blade cuts
Running with the blood of the forest
We must have trees for books
To pass on knowledge
And political ethics.

So we destroy the world
Telling everybody how bad it is
To destroy the world.

At first you will love me
With an honesty and truth,
Before you learn to use me
And abuse my love for you.


After a while you will hate me
Everything I do will be wrong,
And no kind words will touch you
Or cure the ills I’ve caused.


Then one day you’ll meet me
As an equal in life,
And find you never beat me
Or turned my love from you.


When you become a parent
You’ll understand such love,
Given without condition
And more than you can tell.

I couldn't have made it
without you
from recognising a kindred spirit
to discovering a soulmate
beyond passion, beyond even love
you are part of me

we encourage them
to carry on
as though the party
isn't over and everyone
that matters hasn't
already gone

not a word written
not a word uttered
thoughts stream
like traffic on the motorway
so many journeys
so many destinations
not even sure
if they all make it
Sunday fades into a sunset
Monday looms with it's onset
nothing to do but wait
a perfect moment passed
a perfect moment lost
darkness descends
this will be no more

she bought me more pens
from zoos and amusement
parks than I’ll ever need
for miles of thoughts
I’ve no time to travel
envisaged a desert of
white paper waiting
for the sky to rain
words turned to pros
and verse, you are a
writer dad she said
in need of inspiration
and this is all I have
to give your fertile mind
but she is wrong so wrong
my inspiration is her
my reason to carry on
belief in what I do
all the ink in the world
could not express just
how much I love her

we are all accomplices
the plate cannot lie
something murdered casually
so we can finely dine
oozing still the blood
that once coursed it's veins
a rare and gruesome pallet
enjoyed with chips and peas

yet we pet the dog
call him companion and friend
invited into the family
like a furry surrogate child
stroke the cat on our evening lap
cooing and talking
like they understand
they have the protection of PET

otherwise we'd be cuddling a snack

I feel my phone vibrate
in my jeans pocket
even though it rests
in front of me on the desk
like a severed limb
can still itch

emotional kata
series of strokes
against the resistance
of canvas
a picture evolves
almost like nature
becoming organic
an extension of emotion
battle conquering calamity
the brush talks
even shouts some passages
poem based in
pigment and oil
at the end
everyone is exhausted
something happened
beyond the reasonable
control of evolution

take up valuable real estate
live in their own ****
birthing in their own faeces
we call them vermin
and hate them
because they are so much like us

we went out to the desert
my young daughter and I
looking for the pilots
crash site shot down in a dogfight
over this strange landscape

we found the memorial
to their sadly shortened lives
and my daughter who had
collected shells from the beach
to take home
placed them as offerings

tears welled in my eyes
and I thanked them for their
sacrifice and this precious
moment in my life

he said he had a bad back
(the front wasn't too hot either!)
playing for my sympathy
looking for a pity party
trying to be the bigger man
struggling on through
the storm of pain

I hurt every day
because I'm supposed to
it's how I know I'm still alive
I didn't tell him
he might've cried

do you want anything
from the shops
she said
it used to be pizza and beer
nowadays just
you home safely
my love

tonight I am a poet
but that could just be
the drink talking

the clatter of machinery
invades my bedroom
as rotors defeat gravity
for as long as fuel allows
someone's on the run
headed for the woods
at the back of my house
why do they think the
darkness of trees and
undergrowth will hide
them from infrared's
all seeing eye, their
journey to freedom
is about to end dramatically
under spotlight
I've got to get up for work
in under four hours

I offer my prayer
to the ancient Gods
of sun and wind and rain
for they are the only ones left
when all the others have failed

prostitutes
who walk the streets
for the relief of men
unhappy at home
check out girls
at the till of empty promises
waiting to be discovered
and whisked away
young ones in yoga pants
jogging for a better body
and a better future
counting the steps
to where they could’ve
been today
the ones pushing prams
who are too late to corrupt
but you’d still give it a go
the tempting schoolgirls
in their uniformed uniformity
who’s radiant faces separate them
from their peers
they are all someone’s daughter
somebody’s pride and joy
they are all loved by fathers
who would lay down their lives
for them
who have made sacrifices
for them
and would again
precious
missed
special
remember this
as you glance a lustful eye
in their direction

sometimes the prisons that hold us
have no walls ceiling or door
we are our own jailer
judge and jury
we’re the only ones
can set us free

they are going to save the world
one protest at a time

but what they don't realise
is the world doesn't care

billions of years gone
it will never end

same old circus
but the monkeys get changed

you dream the dream
of what's in their head
lost to the living
sacrificed to the dead
spirits rise within you
Ouija magic Ouija curse
they walk among us
hidden faces a veiled darkness
they walk among us
secrets half learnt

I write lines that are sublime
I write lines that aren't mine
words are written on the page
by my hand but not my mind

It had an unbridled joy
Screaming guitars, weeping
As the current flowed through
Pickups, feedback and tremolo
Arm distortion, a cacophony of
Chords, played by would be
Rock stars, accompanied by
Thundering drums and a base
Turned up to number eleven,

It wasn't about the music, it
Was about the noise, the energy
Generated by hundreds of sweaty
Bodies out for blood, out with
The boys, nothing pleasant here
An outpouring of emotion, beyond
The pale, it exists in us all, but
Only some could tap the source, for
A chance to be a three minute hero.

Commercialisation won in the end
Bringing the ugly monster to its
Knees begging for fortune, craving
More fame, as soon as the track was
Recorded punk died on a mixing desk,
Some kept a little kudos, pretending
Not to play the game, some died trying
To be an eternal flame, some are there
Still, banging out the good old days.

I have spent my life so far
looking through a window
as the parade passes
searching for a door
some way in

to date this hasn't happened

stuck in purgatory
awaiting an official decision
of my fate

I patiently age
beyond recognition
having little of myself
left to give

I will know the sign
like an aneurysm in my brain
bursting to let my spectre escape
a change is  a-coming
but will I survive
my coming out

we build a bridge
one brick at a time
that will hold our weight

so we can run into
each others arms again