“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”

Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.

“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”

The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.

Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).

Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.

Overnight the years twist.

Edgar Snooker has  heard he is to play ******'s dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.

As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,

As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,

As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,

As her money is without temperament,

As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,

So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.

As candles whisper in the middle of the road,

As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,

So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.

Talk often so that others may find mirth in your stories
and laugh at yourself, help destabilise all ego's.

War is profit full stop.
Let’s get it straight and start from the top.

Who are we fighting? What do they wear?
People who live in caves and don't have life fair
This is the enemy of us all, really?
Blowing up city buildings from mountains easily
Our soldiers searching rocks in a far off place
Looking for an enemy that has no face
Financial overlords from across the sea
Learning early that war is profit and a guarantee

An event, then a call to arms will be heard
As soon as the building’s in New York were disturbed
Terror spreading across our great nations
We’re under attack, we’ve been threatened, our families foundations
Fake reports painted to portray
Confusing leaders into mistakes of a massive way
Intelligence agencies with links with the banks
Just to raise funds for more missiles and tanks

Iraq, Afghanistan, pipelines through the Caspian Sea
Establish bases and destabilise the Middle East
Then the big one, there’ll be no choice
They refuse to reform claims a muffled CIA voice
That’s it, they’ve ignored our instruction
Time for democratic war, oil and destruction
Turning children into terrorists for decades to come
An eternal war, good for a few and profit for a hidden some.

Through media hysteria people will cry
‘We want blood, revenge, the enemy must die!’
Funding war by borrowing from the bank
As we pay for death through some awful tax prank
The evil distain of the cancer man must be reined in soon
Or the earth and the average man will all be doomed
They laugh at our boys searching in caves
As they sit back sipping whiskey at the Bohemia parade

South America, South-East Asia, now Arabia
Is there anywhere left?
The element across our shores will not quit
Their lifestyle too much to sustain fit
Their currency shrinking, the banks desperate
Robbing honest American homes to address it
Carving a war path for far too long now
****** and death acceptable as long as profits grow

*“Give me control of a nation’s money supply,
and I care not who makes its laws.”
Mayer Amschel Rothschild.

There are communities
that
feel ill at ease
I'm in one of those

and there are men
who would infiltrate them
to
take advantage  and
destabilise them
I'm not one of those.

I feel sure
that if we don't live as one
we'll never get to an
understanding,

it's time to band together
forge new allegiances
to feel at ease
in all communities

I'm all for that.

What has the power to destabilise the economy;
shut down schools;
put millions of people under lockdown; inspire people to buy inordinate amounts of toilet paper;
wish they had never gone on that cruise and cause global uncertainty, fear and mayhem.

Yet is invisible to the naked eye, inaudible, cannot be per se physically touched and is borderline between living and non living?

How would I draw
my mental line?
the contradiction
of the 'is' and 'isn't'
the accepted
and rejected?
the perennial issues
that would always be mine-
life's variegated events
are in an endless flux
what I've drawn for now
circumstances would later
upset and destabilise anyhow-

as everything does change
certitude is never to be found
I'll draw my mental line gently
recognising its temporality
and at all times be ready
to alter, erase, reshape
such that I won't slip
from my self-crafted ground.