It was always going to be black and white
that's the typeface on my preference of late
defining day and night with your choice of tights
those fine dividing lines on your partnered limbs
wrapped tall in belts daring as a Lara Croft climb
a silky striped raggedy ann gone neat sensuous
tight strapped to a two striking sinuous princess
committed to lodge sins inside my Loveland challenge
hemmed in round towers together to never-never unhinge

at home we horse around and rub along together
boosted by the interplay between cotton twill gathered
pulled low one side then canter balance riding high
as you level up to a line up of outbound thigh
saddled with a lovely leg stirrup over here
and a lean waist wobble to match up there
eyebrow lifts to starch arrowroot attention
over the swings and sway of every action
so swift I play catch-up each morning
delayed by fumbling for ones gone matching
it's a wonder you don't just wander away
in a daze from my one legged hopping display

then I would travel far as a bee
long-legged as stilts could be
to sing to your nails and feet
and be spun free flaunting
our google
a red white and blue
pair of giggles unfurled like flags
in your slim line dancers' legs
dangling ideas like fair weather socks
to goggle one direction behind your back
unique like nobody else contains within
thin licked then rolled back ciggie skins
so I pinch holes in the bacci parts
sinking into slats like leaky wooden boats
your avoiding tiptoes gadfly and curl in return
my feet undoing knits with swats and swirls
toeing tinkling notes like piano keys
undertones pink tinged with tingling knees
and when a jukebox plays
my coins are there always
for I've got your pop socks in motion
your vox populi's united under my skin
with impressive pulled tight bands
embedding imprint elastic rings
inky red slinking down
leaving parallel links


ignore my pins and needles
alone in dead of night
longing for your leggings
luminous stripe tights
today it's all me put on the spot
today it's music you might hate
biographies of people you don't like
subtitled movies too deep to bother
blue jeans dull dyed against your garter belt
a one man team can't DIY a drill majorette
spiralling shafts that come to a threaded point
enthralling with alternating knee bend bit pants
so pretty poly soft I'm pulled up like a fool
fully mixed up by your weaving cotton wool
wave me down in your way of sweet patter feet
a patterned cakewalk for you to catwalk sock it
to me in a stand in posey kind of way
this way to stand outs knitted to fancy
uncross your legs and cross-stitch
my path with gaited kisses
closely

collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be


supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.





"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.

oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul

1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?

2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?

3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?

4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?

5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?

6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its *messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?

7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze)  to certain life-enhancing enrichment?

8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?

9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?

10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?


you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you­.too



S T, 16 July 2013

I'm Runnin Jews like Lil Dicky
Run the Jewels, and Ricky
With soso flow of Biggie
Ever since I quit the ciggie
Livin life straight propper
Givin props to Big Poppa
I'm off the spliffs and poppas
Writin riffs for beats that drop ya
Lingerie ladies who have
Curved bodies tight Mercedes
Hot as Hades 420 degrees
Just hot enough to chrisp my cheese
Torchin these trees
Straight from Belieze
Blowin Bolivian keys up they ***
As their friends ends they pass
None of y'all thought this Jew could last
Two days past your last meal
Didn't really know how to feel
Cause I ****** you so raw
Y'all got mistook for veal
That means hyper tender
No allussion to child *** offender
Call me a money stack lender
Back ****** but never a pretender
If I split her in half
God'll have ta mend her
This **** is known to send ya
Into bliss quick
That feeling'll stick
When the tip touch they lower lip
They get oil slick
Just the thought get's 'em hotta than a candle wick
Though you know I don't flow with no trick
Start off slow so we can show each other
Our flame be sure not to smother
Like an over protective mother
Reflect on it while it's lit
Climb inside my mind
See how I visualize thee
Undress and become pantiless
You're sittin on my face
I impress with the pace
I carress your **** with tongue
Spell sinless you'll be a wet well
When you see how well I'm hung (do tell)

we only ever call God's name in vain.
everyone's just killing themselves
around here, and I'm just cursing
his name and the choir's just singing hymns
of his blessing in intermission and I'm
just waiting for them to take a break
so that I can put on a show, we only ever
call His name when we've returned back
to the show. everyone's just killing themselves
around here and I'm just waiting *waiting.

remembering
the day after
a date in the grasslands
where our necks
ached on earthy blankets
and legs mottled by sweet kisses
delivered from flies.

my god the
jealousy
that they had known intimacy
of the softness in the calves i took to
sleep that afternoon we met
filled the short
but beautiful
sunset
with melancholy.

maybe here you found
i held codependency quite closely.

so
you took me to one of those superstores
that sell
beds.

                                   "i have a friend who's closing he always makes and double folds the quilt because it makes him feel like someone's mum."

you half shouted over
the motorway behind us- the demanding
yet
secondary conversation.

how
i wondered, did i end up here
                   - the boy i liked 6 months in -
laughing between
his downy hair and tap touchy fingers
now
so proudly leading the way
as his
friend, tired & mischievous
ushered us into the theatre
of infinite fractal bedspreads.

                                                 "hurry up so i can close to give you your privacy i'm going for a smoke."

spoken like any true
east London mum-
all ciggie ash
and true love.

i got to watch you work

which was flattering to say the least.
to stand beside
kings and queens
doubles and singles
being bent
dragged and persuaded
to your whimsy.
watching the curve of a bicep
seized up in delirious rearranging
                         - the muscles of the neck betray the youth of love-
until a masterpiece emerging
before us both
was realised.

                      "at least now we can cuddle without the bugs...or at the least these are bed ones?"

i remember
unwrapping the currently occupied smokers
carefully settled blankets like a first birthday
gift.
sliding under them,
with my shoes kicked away in eagerness.
your arms
not yet scarred with indecision
pull me closer till i forget to breathe....

this is it.
the mattresses connected sheets and sheets and sheets of feeling and this is it at once to cover and unravel against the texture of the cushions the springs the feathers locked away this is it like the words i whispered through the skin of the pillow your arm not so much pinned as smothered below the crook of my neck and this is it all there is is the smell of us in this beautiful moment that latches me to the frame in my mind against my back with the weight of the future this is it the pressing pressing pressing at the touch of our palms the touch of our lips the distances we'll learn to walk alone or together or side by side but not able to look at the path we tread perpendicular to our hearts this is it this is it this is it it it

....then i breathe.

This.
Is an ode
to Hip Hop
to Bob Sop
and Rob Top.
You flop mop the back drop
And sweep the front shack shop.

"I CAN'T HEAR ****"

Well.
Listen up gramps and stop licking those stamps cuz I got a bit more for ya then this sweet little dance.

Lemme tell you a story
of a few men who gotta bit more then glory.
We got 2-PAC, wutang, and snoop Dogg with a ciggie.
Eazy-E, Jay Z, Eminem and Biggie
Outkast to outlast 2000? I mean really.
Ice cube and Cool J won't keep it too hot.
Need a shot for the cold you just caught?
il throw you a deal- 50 Cent,
and dr. Dre?
He's yours, all yours
but just for the day.
Run Dmc,  busta rhymes, slick rick, and tech nine
Oh! And a tribe called quest.
Alright. Ok.
Il give it a rest.
Dear gramps. Dear grams.
Just want you to know
these men- they're the best.
Now let's go to the show!

I don’t know how we changed,
and when

I can’t remember the first time we kissed
or the first time we - well.
but I remember the first time you told me where you were living next year
and the second time
and the third.

you picked the right moment to meet me, or was it just chance?
that the club was closing but there was still time for one dance

and I only had one ciggie left but you didn’t mind sharing
and you knew where the after party was and you didn’t mind sharing

I have to stop seeing techno boys
Because I think that it’s meaningful when really I’m just high
on the music.

I really want to talk to you about how crazy it is that the light hitting the Earth right now is billions of years old
or maybe just how my day went because I’m not a Tumblr post

we’re sitting in the pub with two drinks between us like a moat
and I really want to tell you something
but I CAN'T because you're talking
about where you're going to be living
next year.

or what you study at uni & last week's pub crawl
you say all these words and you just say **** ALL

but I just smile and filter you out
because in the end I know there’s no doubt
that we’ll go home tonight and go through the motions
& in the morning you’ll leave to ‘charge your phone’

I’m kidding I’m kidding take me seriously, please
not that I care but it means the world to me

because the person you are in my head doesn’t match up
to the boy sitting in front of me on a ****-up

I think that I'm realising I’m in love with MY love
and it’s impossible for you to ever measure up

(but anyway you were kinda setting yourself up to fail)
(when you spend the whole date talking about trainer resales)

so I guess this is a break-up - if we even warrant that -
cause I know we won't speak if I don't text back

and then in three months, I’ll run into you again
and I’ll wonder how we changed,
and when.

I’ve watched a banquet of sunsets
In my too many
Too few
Years

I wonder who’s been so careless
Smeared their lipstick
Greasy stains upon the walls
-Grey sand from the football grits my eyes-

The night pulls grey over grey over grey
Like winter jumpers
And woollen mornings
-Pull melancholy over sombre over sunken-

A heaven-smoked cigarette
Just beads through
Its own cloud of tobacco fog
-“Mummy was here. She left her ciggie behind her.”-

The evening is fresh pine wood
I can count the knots
And stretch apart the grain in the sky
-Walk hard and fast and watch the shadow gape-

Indigo floats in heavy curtains
Settles deep
Rock pools and cinema seats
-“You’re steaming up the glass. Pig.”-

It hangs like a dishcloth all thick
And dusty yellow
On some great washing line
-My fingers fumble over the latches-

A lime scarf seeps in like gas
Chlorine poison
All gruesome and gorgeous
-Cut me open with your kisses-

All fades out to aqua glass
Clearer than water
Oceans deep into the atmosphere
-“I’m already missing the now. We’ll never be this young again.”-

White and cut sharp like paper reams
Yet tangible
Like the pith of an orange
-I choke on my teeth, my throat, my words-

Pink props a ladder against the clouds
Parts them wide
And spills out wine
-Like seconds from our sand-timer-

And
Still I cannot
Understand why
We’re convinced that the sky is only ever blue

Greenfield lights up a cigarette
behind the metal work room
during recess

want a drag?
he asks

no I don't
I say

I can hear the other kids
in the play area
over the building
voices loud
laughter
girl's screaming
and shouting
from the their area
a fair bit away

where did you get
the ciggie?
I ask

I liberated it
from my mother's bag
he says with a smile
she won't miss it

he's shorter than I
plump with brown eyes
like conkers
he puffs away frantically

hate school
he says
all the ****** lessons
and teachers

Miss D isn't bad
I suggest
young with nice legs

not that young
he says
holding his cigarette
between *******
old enough
to be your mother
he says

only if she had me
very young
I say

what's it matter?
he says
she's still a brain teaser
he puffs away again

P.E. next
I remind him
football
or maybe hockey

sweat buckets either way
he says
puffing at me
who's the bit of skirt
who hangs about for you
by the school van?
he asks

just a girl
I say

that's it isn't it
just a girl
he says

the cigarette stuck
between lips

they're all the same
all thinking about
who to pick to marry
and have ****** kids by
and O god
I feel sick thinking
about it
best avoid them
he says

the cigarette hangs limp
from his lips

now ****** P.E.
he says
I'll tell Friggit
I’ve got gut ache

he presses the cigarette
against the wall
of the metal work room

best go then
I say

and as we go
I think of Jane
across the roof of building
in the girls' area
her dark eyes and hair
driving me to distraction
but not despair.

IS THAT IT?

Time runs out
warps into itself

strata after strata
diminishing into

a dot before me
that I vanish into

Future-Past- the Now
all one and the same.

So this is what
Death is?

I'm not
impressed.

The silence
solidifies.

Memory contrives
to put the world back

together like a cut-out
Dada collage.

A postcard blue sky
hastily assembled

against some remembered
building famous for something

or other and
a photo of you

ripped out of an I don't know
stuck in place

glue seeping around edges
like a white blood.

Life is an Hannah Höch
photomontage.

Time congeals
like a fried egg

with a ciggie
stuck in its yoke.

I laugh at memory's vain attempts
"Don't bother!" I tell it

in a voice like the white space
between written words.

The world swirls anti-
clockwise down

the plug hole
of reality.

If this is Death
as I say

I'm not
impressed.

Saba sat there
and posed herself
all ready for what
she didn't say

part of my job
she said
this posing
this being seen
as such

I gazed
like a man dazed

haven't you seen
a woman like this
before?

yes
I said
sure I have

then why
the wide eye gaze?
she said

I sat down opposite
hands on my knees
looking at her hair
at her eyes
the pose
do you do this often?
I said

only if he wants me to
she said
he'll be back
he's just gone
for a bite to eat

don't you eat too?

not yet
if I get out of pose
I lose my focus
she said

does he pay well?
I asked

this is art
she said
I get enough
but it's not the pay
that counts
it's being part
of art
it'll be me
on the canvas
me outliving him

I wanted a smoke
but I’d left them
in my coat downstairs
got a ciggie?
I asked

he doesn't allow
smoking
in his studio
she said
fire risk
oils
and other
stuff around

when do you get done?
I asked

when he says
she replied
not a nine
to five job

I gazed at her
with more focus
putting out of mind
the image of her
sitting in the church pew
with her husband
he all prim and proper
and she innocent as cream

she uncrossed
her legs
revealing
a young man's dream.

It’s a slow slide to somewhere else...

He shuffles, stumbles stammers and he sleeps.

He knows I am his brother.
I help him go for a wee in a bowl,
we’re standing by the commode.

He shuffles back to his comfy chair

but only with my help.

“Are you my brother?”
“I am,” I say.

Six years is a biggish gap between siblings.

‘Our Brian’ tolerated me...

”Take Chris to the pictures”...
”Aw Mum, I’m 18... he’s only 12!!!”

He headed on out with his mates, smirking,
waving a *** and a ciggie.

But, when he needed a whizzo batsman for his cricket team,
who knew?
 I was strangely unavailable...
But, I capitulated and said “OK I’ll play for you!” We won!
At 81 he shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He employed 300 people in factories overseas,

spoke with authority, negotiating with emperors -
always with total ease.
Today he talks in whispers, his larynx squeaks;

clatters like a broken pipe, every time he speaks...

He shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps
...for most of every day.
“
I am your brother aren’t I?”

“You certainly are”, I say.

He was the head of magistrates handing down the law...
I joked... I called him ‘hang ‘em high Bri’,

him judging slightly to the right of Atilla the ***.

I remind him of his past... We smile ...
(because of course it wasn’t true)....

The last thing to die will be his sense of fun.
He shuffles, stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He played prop forward for Birmingham Moseley’s first team, maybe his problems started way back when...

too many head clashes, line outs, scrum downs...

That’s the last thing you’d think about back then.
But there’s long term damage you might do...by just ‘being’.
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, 
dummies
and scores in his dreams...as he sleeps.

He even went to garden parties at the Queen’s Equery’s behest
as well as, whilst in India, often - he’d be a Maharajah’s guest.
And, when you mention it, he just smiles wryly

and stares, with rictus grin. He IS in there!
That’s the trouble though... he sometimes IS locked IN!
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, smiles -
and he does love to rest.
But sometimes he will rally with a string of memories
all lucid and true... and, if there’s food involved
he’ll be at the table way ahead of you.
That’s the quick shuffle!

He makes good progress 
through all his favourite stuff,
Then he’ll lie in his reclining chair 
and enjoy that customary nap

You watch him closely - making sure he’s still breathing
- thank heavens for that!

He stumbles, wheezes when he talks -

and shuffles when he walks...
He shuffles, stumbles...then he sleeps!
“You are my brother aren’t you?”
“You know I am - for keeps!
Love you Bri!”

Big fat guy ******* a ciggie
Pushing a pram
Will he be around for his next birthday
Does he give a ****

Young kid wearing a suicide vest
Full of hate
What's his fate
Sees his mother as he pushes the button
Is it too late

Young girl in the clinic
Time not right
Life to lead
Her body
You have to concede

The Soldier on the screen
Sees the target
Surrounded by children
Is it a moral dilemma
The few for the many
Is it his duty
Does he walk away

They all walk down the same street
Don’t meet
But united in the universe of time
Life will go on
It always will
Actions have consequences
What would you do.

my tongue curls as i light my ciggie boy and pull in, fire to a furnace, i wait for ash to spill as i tick near its tip, and of you, much like the wind, my mind wanders and shifts and settles, steady mania spirals through me, grabs me and drags me by the spine. if it wasn't for the hood of my sweater, my head would've blown away with the dead leaves of my backyard's oak tree.

oh, believe me jimmy
                                     (the scoot),
they're afraid of me...

because what could
possibly be more
intimidating
  than a niqab
if not a "madman"
twirling an umbrella,
sitting on a windowsill
just so he can
smoke a cigarette
           without
it getting soaked?

who the **** needs
goth make-up?
all it takes is the right
hour, the right weather
and a coursosel...

**** yeah! another
google hack!
  
    http://tinyurl.com/yasd9onk...

i swear i could do these
with my eyes closed...

i only love spelling mistakes
if they continue
and morph into google whacks...
e.g. coursosel...

in this instance?
  an umbrella carousel...
i'm getting dizzy...
   i finished my ciggie
    and i'm staring
into a fourth dimension...

funny that, opening an umbrella
while stretching yourself
out of the window...

they really start bewildering
themselves
when you have a chance
     to entertain
yourself:
  i.e. make yourself laugh,
i found that when you reach
this tier of "awareness"
   people are curious
      as if regarding
dorian gray...
  
         but it's not about
      keeping good looks
and youth...
   it's more about:
   how does he
       manage to laugh,
and at the same time:
keep no company?

    was stand-up comedy
  supposed to have
an "egalitarian"
purpose within
the framework of
  other trades?
           is there
       a cost-effectiveness
in the comic
          "job" description?
            plumber
        beneath the comic?
unless he does puppeteer
antics akin to lee evans...

they start to fear you
when they find you,
sheltering yourself under
an umbrella,
   peering out the window
perched on a windowsill,
rotating the umbrella
   at the same speed
as a moth flapping its wings
becoming dizzy...
laughing to / at yourself
in your own company...
       saying:
i'm only shaking off
the raindrops
               off the mushroom...

              people really have
forgotten to laugh,
i blame canned laughter
      in t.v. shows...
              i blame
      a loss of appreciation
for ridicule as a form
of humour...
                
     people are becoming more
demented day in, day out,
esp. in old age...
    since they've forgotten
how to be ridiculous when young...
i hate liars,
        but i'd pick
a ****** comic than a liar
to be friends with... count:
either monday, tuesday all the
way through to sunday...

still, that umbrella "pirouette"...
  dizzy dizzy dizzy...
ah... a spelling mistake that revealed
a google hack... ha... ha ha!

You look at me like I'm stupid
ignorant or just plain insane
and try to remember my name
but don't you dare to forget
this sodden hunched old busker
squatting huddled in the rain

I hear you comment on how I smell
of cheap cider, bitter and strong
but don't ignore me
as I sit here with my guitar
on the street corner
amongst the hurrying throng

You, who pass me by
trampling on my old cap
with a single coin in it
looking down on me,
who was once a household name
as you munch on
the sausage roll
the Big Mac the slice of pizza
or drink the espresso or latte
then toss the dregs
at my sockless feet
and light up a ciggie
as you hurry down the street

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."

Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Huddersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.

IS THAT IT?

Time runs out
warps into itself
strata after strata

diminishing into
a dot before me
that I vanish into

Future-Past-the Now
all one
and the same

so this is what
Death is
I'm not impressed

the silence solidifies
Memory contrives
to put the world back

together like
a cut-out
Dada collage

a postcard blue sky
hastily assembled
against some remembered

building famous for something
or other and
a photo of you

ripped out of
an I don't know
stuck in place

glue seeping
around edges
like a white blood

Life is
an Hannah Höch
photomontage

Time congeals
like a fried egg with
a ciggie stuck in its yoke

I laugh at memory's
vain attempts
"Don't bother!" I tell it

in a voice like
the white space
between written words

the world swirls anti-
clockwise down
the plug hole of reality

If this is Death
as I say I'm not
impressed

*

Jan had fallen and hurt her head at Valletta...a great big blue ****** bruise. I was very worried about her and she awoke in the early hours of the morning. I got up to make her tea. I had a very sore throat....could hardly swallow my own saliva. I was waiting for the kettle to boil and idly bite into a slice of bread with delicious Maltese marmalade. I had just made the tea when I found I was unable to swallow the last bite...it got stuck in my throat and I was busy losing consciousness. Time was running away from me and everything was going black. Jan said I just collapsed and crashed to the floor...all I knew was that the world had gone away and everything was dark. Our Maltese friend said that the famous arch in Gozo that collapsed had collapsed from the bottom...."...like a too large lady on too high high heels." I was obviously doing my charades impression of the Gozo arch meeting its end. I too was busy meeting my end....but just before the world was cut from under my feet I dashed a slurp of tea into me which must have in turn helped to make the bolus of bread go down just in time. When consciousness lapped back into my skull I was only aware of water in my mouth and coming out of my nose....I thought I was drowning in the dark and had no notion how I had fallen into such a notion of an ocean. Jan was beside her self and then beside me as I made it back just in time to crawl back into life and the being of me...