When you walk
And then talk
Do you do it straight?
Or Are you bent on inclination?
The modern debate
Tiller handle movement
Has no effect on the wake
Could you look at yourself?
How much o this could you take?
And then expect it o them
That are clearly involved
With themselves
And the void
Hanging
Off
Of
Satans
Prong.

I fell down the steps
Of the Lincoln memorial
It really hurt my knees
I fell down the stairs
Of the Lincoln memorial
In front of
Near a hundred
South Koreans

We went to
Holsten's
And sat in Jimmy's booth
Bout a month before he died
Should have seen it there
In that final episode
It was written
All over his eyes.

Some say
Inspiration will find you
But it won't find you doing nothing
I disagree
I was doing nothing
Then I wrote this.

When you move between your family
And the things you still want
Do you yearn
Or are you
Reconciled with
That was the things
That don't count
Is it fresh in your memory
Or do you smile at its
Going
Content with the fact
You kept the human race growing
This is life
This family
This is the way that we are
Dreams o specialness
Get devoured by truth
In the needs o the hours.

Laughter is involuntary
A knee **** so they say
Nexus to and exit from
The darkness
Way hey hey

What are you laughing at?
I don't find that funny
I am appalled
And your in stitches
To me that makes you scummy

Giggling or not at the horror
Wether Death,disease or blight
is something instantaneous
Neither wrong or right
Then weigh and mull it later
At your leisure through the night

We've got the Greeks
To thank for that
Formulating our condition
To laugh or frown
Or roll your eyes
Is not your own decision.

There's always bin the idea
O two sets o books
Ever since books were invented
A curious process in which we all are involved
It's what keeps us from going demented

One set the truth
That unravels unheeded unseen perhaps
By those around who look on
The other your truth
Somewhat tailored but blurred
Of what you thought
You'd become

Cos the moral compass has no external dial
To ink on your page no one listens
So You can write down the details
However you like
Talk about a double entry system.

Scrooge would be just about clocking off now,the **** piece.
But at least he led by example.

Sitting in a pub at midday
Sipping scotch
And doing the crossword
I'm the only punter
No chance of a crossed word
Well maybe the barman
But he seems pretty relaxed
Engrossed in his phone
Probably sending a fax
Or whatever it is that
These crazy kids do
And im alone with the god's
Like Bukowski used to
The air is so peaceful
I can't help but smile
This is my life now
At least for awhile.

My father died of dyslexic alchoholism
He choked on his own Vimto.

The streets are too wet
The bay is too wide
The foothills are too far away for the rise
That brings the snowfall
In which children delight
And only the old despise

The chill of the flurry
Felt sharp on the face
Warms before the ground
To mix with foul slurry
From heaven to earth
A terrible mush all around

You're not a seagull
You're a gull
A Kittywake by the sea
Because seagulls don't exist
They are just an etymological redundancy

Be thankful you live here though
And not in the sticks
Where the truth lies deep in the drift
And cast your eyes grateful
Around the clear
In a land where the snow never sticks.

When the ***** is all gone
Is it worth sticking around?
No more liquid shield
Against the drone
Of the crowd
Sober
Joyful
Participation
Might be a stretch
As you sweat and you twitch and you puke and you retch
Like that night you collapsed into and slept in a hedge
Ah sweet memories.

You kiss em
You rub em
You **** em
You put your mouth on em
Or something.

All hail the Toblerone
King of the awkward chocolates
If you buy a big one on a plane
It'll drain all of your pockets
Of residual dollars or euros
Bhatt **** or lek
Or **** it!
Why not dash off
Your last travellers cheque

Honeyed almond sweetness
Who could decry that
Only the honeyed almond intolerant
And you can never trust them *****
Just it's satisfying chunkiness
It's heft and it shape
Is something deeply pleasing
The chocolate biscuit it doth take

It's true name lost to time
It should be Tobler one
For its creator was named Tobler
And he'd only just begun.

But there he stopped.

What's that thing that you Yanks do?
From the civil war to World War Two
From Gettysburg to the sea o tranquility
That haunting sound gets driven into me
Through the smoke and swathed in reverb
The nations emotions
Sonically preserved
Uniquely you
You ******* own it
That old evocative
American trumpet.

What's that thig that you Yanks do?
From the civil war to World War Two
From Getsyburg to the sea o tranquility
That haunting sound gets driven into me
Through the smoke and swathed in reverb
The nations emotions
Sonically preserved
Uniquely you
You ******* own it
That old evocative
American trumpet.

Never mind
Never mind the *******
*******!

It's not Tuesday
I hear you say
I believe that
Does matter anyway
Good lord
The facts are not real
So get ready for incredible speed
I say things that you cannot believe
But get ready
For stuff
That
Makes you
Feel
Real.

Early
Mid
Late
Never.

Steven Spielberg called
And offered me and my identical twin brother a job
It was on his hatchery
We'd be monitoring
The defacatory habits
Of the livestock
We were to be
Close Hen Counters Of the **** Kind.

Moon Cresta was Galaxians
And by extension Galaga as well
Sky Kid was Scramble
But they hid it pretty well
Street fighter was yie ar Kung fu
Though it made a lot more money
Hyper sports was track and field
Or the or the other way round
Memory
Is so funny
Some say Hunchback begat Donkey Kong
But that's a bit o a stretch
But nowt beats Asteroids
The original and best.

Wence when you made me move there
When I would not
All of a sudden
The argument is current
Past sentiment is not
Why would you not love me
Despite what I said I'd be
It makes sense to
Your mother
Intafrasticly
Told you'd
What
I'd be.

I did not issue
And I'm not that sorry about that
But to those who did I tip my hat
they did the work that I would not
With  faith and love
That I could not
Bring  my self
To bite the bullet
I was not able
To stand upon it
And I'd do it  again
Cos what you are so rarely changes
We set our path in certain ranges
And though I would not readily leap
I say
I still hold my manhood cheap.

I feel like Goya's dog
Staring at nothing
But terrified all the same
Contemplating the void
Apportioning blame
Some think he's scoping out
Two little birds
And if they did land
He surely would lurch
Others think his target
Is an unfinished figure
That got lost in the transfer
Twixst plaster to paper
And that's the rub
With all the black paintings
You lose a bit o meaning
When technology is
Updating.

I heard a few people say
Their fear of death was blown away
By seeing a picture
Of their folks
Afore they were born
In the snap
An older sibling
In their arms
Giggling and wriggling
Before the stuff that made them was formed

At that moment
They knew
Gave them truth to hold on to
There was no pain and anguish
And they were not bored
And it will be the same
After The reaper came
No one suffers
All is nothing
In the void.

I've been staring at a greyness of late
No joy to which I relate
Feeling both ancient and infantile
It'd be nice to be alive for awhile.

It's a cycle or so they say
From singin the blues to feeling gay
Sort the laughs out into a pile
Yes I'd like to be alive for awhile.

The mood is different the laughs are old
By your father you have been forestalled
Who layed it down in that old sweet style
I remember he was alive for awhile.

If men can be rakes
And the ladies get called hoes
What garden tool
Are the sexless
Do you suppose?

He said,
Oh my god it's ****'s enormous!
Looks like it fell
Off of a brontosaurus.

She said,
Look out love,
It could knock you down!
It could quite easily level this town,
Glass and rubble all around.
My god it's gonna **** the town hall!!!

Chewits
advert late 70's.

Just made a big whacky lasagne
Had bacon and chopped roasties
But no onion
Neither mushroom
Nor basil
But I had the the right cheese
Squashed the garlic I had
Seeped through the mozzadool
******* tasty stuff
Had me down on my knees.

We couldn't see atoms
In any kind of visual way
Till about thirty years back
And before that they did say
You'll never be able to see em
Not enough luminosity they display
Once you zoom in that far enough
The photons *******
So way hey hey

But they didn't reckon on
The sensitivity of advancement
And now
The image forms
With a radiological shift
They all look like golf *****
On Gods sacred pitch.

I remember a fella
At war with his self
At times he seemed lost
But not beyond help
He howled at the moon
He wept to the rain
The ants in his pants
Then lived in his veins
His verse was beauty
It was warm
It was tight
Right up to the day
That he turned
Out
The
Lights.

Which bits of you
Are you ?
all
of it?
or none of it?
Or just a bit of it?
That somehow controls
Everything else going on
Pretty much all the bits of us
Are automatic and so thus
In which bit
Are we to find you?

The Hobs of hell have to be operated
In a rotational system for maintenance and cleaning
Even though the work's intense
They're never exactly gleaming

Though the workforce is unlimited
And of course they get motivated
The endless drip of blood and filth
Gets baked on fast
Hard accumulated

The demon chargehands
Drive on the ******
With whip and fork and brand
But The broken barely keep up
In this accursed land

And so I think of childhood
With my poor mother near in tears
As she proclaimed the above Sisyphean task
Akin to cleaning
Behind my ears.

These statues if they were not cracked or chipped
Would seem to be recent finished
Not long passed
Just a bit
Like the final polish
Applied only minutes past
Glowed under lamplight
As shadows cast
Toward the doors
Of the inner sanctum
Which then are sealed
Against the millennium
And then another
Yet two more
Sat still in darkness
Gathering stour
After sands had shifted
And shifted back
Monied raiders
Gave the seal a crack
Now they stare over your head in the great museums
Disgusted that the proles can see them.

It went so quick
From bladder to boot
Like a Haitian
Visited in the night
By the Ton Ton Macoute
That was stark fear
Knowing that this was the end
No compassion here
Just torturous ruin my friend
Some say with a straight face
Hilarity
Does the same thing
Poetic license
Served by fools
Is one hell
Of a thing.

It's the start of pidgeon mating season
And the boys are getting cocky
Circling each other like
That big Drago and Rocky
I hear them flap and peck
In the ring of green beneath my window
They look so clean and preened
As Into battle
They go
Both stand side on
One facing north
The other south
And flick precision left wings
Into
Chest
And eyes
And mouth
The two I'm watching now
Have near indentical
Neck plumage
I think they might be brothers
The old old story
Fraternal doomage
If these are Christian birds
To the death
They'll fight in front of me
Then follow the command
Layed down in Deuteronomy.

Are you
A Lover?
A fighter?
A drinker?
A dancer?
Which one these are you?
I said
A lover
A fighter
A drinker
A dancer
Tell me what  you like to do
Do you
Smootch?
Punch?
Swig?
Or boogaloo?

Bus poem
Bus poem
How I wish
I had
Your ma
To go on.

Caitlin Rose
Caitlin Rose
Why she Caitlins
No one knows.

Things clicked on are often not read
Or maybe haf way through
They get abandoned instead
Meter is so personal
It can certainly jar
Stripped of pre-knowledge
And broadcast from afar
so if you get a hundred views
And not a thumb nor a heart
Take comfort in the fact
It's deffo your own fault.

Your ma described it to me
Like it was sposed to be
The here and now
Me and her
It was meant to be
But then again
I'm not sure the universe
Allows
Random ***** stuff
To me it meant to me
She wanted to get rough.

The sky is clear tonight
Clearer than for awhile
Reflected off of the **** snow
We haven't seen in some time
There was an conjunction
But I think it's now gone
Like that meteor stream
Came at Chrimbo forlorn
I always miss things
I'm not that astute
But when you
See the sky through
You imagine it's root.

Do you remember
Chorlton and the wheelies?
Through the mist
It comes quite freely
But probably not that accurately
My friend

There was an angry
Welsh Witch
Cruel but unarousing
Like a some Marxist
Maggie Thatcher
On the prowl
But Chorlton was
Neurodivergent
To him it was not urgent
To seek vengeance on blodwyn
To make her howl.
But that only made her worse
To spit bile and curse
Which always led to her downfall



Clearly he won every week

Christmas in prison
Christmas out at sea
Christmas round the in laws
Christmas alone with me

Christmas with the Manson's
Christmas in the I.C.U
Christmas in Carcosa
Just the Yellow King and you

He won't dress as father Chrimbo
In his tattered rags he'll stay
As he eats all time and space
No prezzies he'll display

He won't watch vintage Two Ronnies
As the black stars rise
And in terrible twin sunlight
Your soul will be his prize.

Chistmas in prison
Christmas out at sea
Christmas round the in laws
Christmas alone with me

Christmas at the wainwrights
Christmas in the I.C.U
Christmas in Carcosa
Just the yellow king and you

He won't dress as Father Chrimbo
In his tattered robes he'll stay
As he eats all time and space
No prezzies he'll display

He won't watch vintage two ronnies
As the black stars rise
And in terrible twin sunlight
Your soul will be his prize.

Is that a **** or ***** stain on my carpet?
I really can not tell
I've got no idea how it got there
I'm not feeling very well.

Norm McDonald's moth
Dave Allen's clock
There's some comedy bits
That are just off the hook
Mitch Hedberg's rice
Bill hick's wax dart
Norm again with
Janice in the woods
It's an art
To encapsulate
Pathos bathos
And litotes
Like that
with
Absurdism bubbling
It's an Hell o an act.

All life a negotiation
From the global to the quanta
The placing o the terrible weapons
To the sub atomic particles
When you start in with a new love
You see where the borders are
What starts a screaming match
What brings peace and calm
How loud you crank your stereo
Versus the upstairs flats grandkids
Running round like micro elephants
All weekend long it appears
Dealing with your aresehole boss
A mismatch so it seems
But like any martial art
Styles make fights
And into the Fray you lean
Tense talk at the UN
Twixst The monolithic blocs
Brinkmanship an art
Best practised in the dark
The Arabs and the Jews
The Catholics and the prods
The Ruskies and Ukrainians
The living and the not
It's in the way you talk to strangers
It's in the way you part your hair
It's what it says on your baseball cap
It's in where you place your care
As we look to the sea's horizon
At the swelling biblical wave
Can I look you in the eye
And argue in good faith?

Was Alexander  really that great?
Or was everyone else a bit ****?

I don't think AI
Is as good as they say it is yet
Or it would have deciphered
All those uncracked alphabets
Or writing systems
Or codes
Or whatever you call them
Cross reading data
Dragged from
A far cast
mellenium
Every possible notion
Gets feed through the mill
Processed
Deconstructed
Then done again
until
An answer pops out
Not known since that time
And it still won't jive
With our reason and rhyme.