This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.

11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.

Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.

Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.

I don’t believe in growing up
I’m still a schoolboy pratt
Whenever I see bra-straps
They just fidget to be snapped.

Sunburnt brit:
It’s the new colour
In the Dulux range this summer.

If dogs had people’s thumbs
And people had dogs’ tongues
Would they be texting messages
While we were sniffing bums?

The cutest thing is when confused
Mummy’s little soldier
Waves the skirt of truce.

I guess there was a last time
I sat on daddy’s head
And grabbed on tight to his greying hair
As he led me by the legs

‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.

The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.

What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?

Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.

‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.

‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.

Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.

‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.

‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.

Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.

THE RED DIGITAL CLOCK REMINDS ME I AM at 21,112 feet,
a palindrome at 6.06 in the morning,
drifting from sleep to wake,
back to dreams of reality.
The man in my dreams.
The man of my dreams.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
crows scream ****** at each other and the world turns.
Men at work.
6:16 says the flashing clock,
flashing to remind me,
flashing to forget.
The man in my dreams
The man of my dreams.
Pilots fly me onwards
to a knowing destination,
a truly murky crystal of logic and stupidity.
The Chelsea hotel reminds me
that love is not dead,
that it lives on in the hearts of the workers of song,
at least for those of them left.
Mountains of things,
rings,
wedding bells chime and time,
time slowly marches by,
races,
paces,
one way streets.
Time.
Castles the colour of ink,
landscapes of pink mountains.
Snap back to reality.
The sun kisses the distant horizon,
as planes tear holes in the sky below
and the old women weep for the days that will never shine again.
But the children laugh for the days that are yet to be born,
the days of promise and peace,
war and understanding.
A new era?
A new beginning?
A twist in time to take us to where it all began
and the beautiful moon watches raucously from above,
smiling on his children,
sending kisses to his cheating lover, who still wrestles with the horizon.
Colour floods.
Grey, grey, grey.
A dulux of colour.
Man made.
Your body searches for me.
My mind wanders to other things.
The heat of your stare envelopes every pore of my being
and I freeze,
immersed in a mountain stream,
drenched in the sweat of love.
Doors open,
archways scream
and silence is our only food.
And yet reality still twists you from me.
The man of my dreams.
The man in my dreams.
Crows cry and children sing.
Happy nightmares, wearing thin.

i feel like i'm dreaming
all the time

like somebody took it upon themselves to throw words at a wall
and turned what stuck into doo-*** scatting nonsense
which was then assembled gracelessly into a scathing neologism
something that scrambles into some semblance of an inner monologue and circles my tongue like treacle or a lab rat's ****

and if this is the scattered fantasy that my brain cells have scraped together from that primordial soup
then i don't think i want to wake up and see the aftermath of what feels like an eternal loop

but it's so scary to live life like a browning dulux colour swatch
businessperson's rolex watch
vignettes of vague consciousness vitally percieved through a time machine of moments and a swelling kind of grief grieved
for the moments inbetween that are lost and i'm pristine in an ocean of dark marine wondering where in my head my emotions and i have been

i can't ******* remember what i had for breakfast but i can recall that i feel like i've come last
in some kind of riddle where the clues are in a language i don't speak but could read with practice and anguish and the rhyming becoming more linear and fluent but i wish i could tell you what i said's congruent
to this fairytale drowsing that makes me feel alone and i think therefore i'm in a state to atone

i can't wake up
i'm going to throw up
similarly i think that i don't want to show up
tomorrow
i'll see you when i'm better or better yet never but it won't last forever
right?

There's a man reading aloud from what I presume to be the Qur'an
and another who may or may not be his brother with head bowed, ( not aloud, but certainly allowed )

A girl with a hoopla hanging from her ear,. here is where it be
circling around on the Jubilee.

It looks like Dulux, but it's probably mascara, maybe to mask her, perhaps I should ask her or possibly not.

He has tattoos
she has black shoes
I'm sitting quietly thinking
I might close my eyes.