Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap ****'s eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******* lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton ****-flesh.

Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-******.

Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****,
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.

Barry Hodges goes all autobiographical in this one

O well-renowned upper-class *banlieue#, gorgeous Gosforth,
(blest suburb of the mighty Novocastrian metropolis
majestically situated on the Northern side
of the glorious industrial River Tyne
which wends its stately way towards the sea
only pausing to absorb greedily the teeming outflow
of the sewage farm at charming South Shields),
Thrice hail to thee##, O uncrowned queen of Northumbria!


And selbstverständlich### Gosforth's greatest claim to fame
In the annals of literature and cultural glory
Is to be the proud birthplace of yours truly,
Barry Hodges, the immortal Bard of Gosforth;
O sweet Mary mother of God (Ave Maria, cha cha cha),
How could I ever forget my dearest memory there,
Of my first immense accidental ****** incurred
Whilst washing myself manfully in the bathtub one day,
Thus causing a really **** teenage soapy squirt?

Let my ardent fans gawp in terror and wonder
At my countless amorous encounters
And their tragic yet inevitable consequences;
How sad must you be reading how mistress after mistress
Comes to a sticky end (to coin an unfortunate phrase)?
And, verily, other blood relatives are not spared:
Aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, (parents even),
All are prone to going under a runaway bus or charabanc
Or even tumbling into a frothily noisome manhole,
Gargling sadly in eldritch agony as they drown
In lumpy brown-ale-flavoured untreated Geordie sewage.

And yet, one day, un bel di di maggio#### perhap,
I too may encounter a fate too utterly horrid,
Too utterly horrid to contemplate, oy vay#####;
Maybe involving a blunt machete wielded gaily
By some poor demented cuckolded old *******
Whose pathetic bedroom skills have been derided
By his gloating lady wife after a taste of love's Nirvana
At the hands of the magnificent Master ******* (me).

O dear Lord and Father of Mankind######,
Look down kindly on el gran Casanova,
El Señor Hodges, and thus let me complete
My mighty oeuvre of awe-inspiring poems,
Before the Grim Reaper takes me in his arms
Dragging me screaming o'er that sad bourne of no return,
To the shivering shores of the benighted Underworld.
But, take pause for a moment, dear reader:
If that other poetic genius (by which I mean
sweet, sweet William, the Bard of Avon)
Could manage 154 bleeding sonnets no less
(and Christ knows how much else besides)
Before kicking the *******' bucket
(and he poked that Ann Hathaway too,
a right totally tasty piece I have heard
with a gorgeously provocative keester),
Surely I may be permitted to churn out a thousand odes
(thus ensuring a few dozen golden trophies from my peers)?


If I am to be denied my just literary deserts,
Even allowing for the occasional day off
To respectfully attend the odd funeral or two
of exhausted bed partners and bystanders,
(followed by the happier reading of the will
in which I get the benefits so richly due to me
as a just reward for sleeping with some ugly cow
and thereby giving her the treat of her pathetic life),
I think it's totally out of ******* order
And a right liberty to boot, squire.

(imagine and picture your FAVOURITE THEATRE
remember that the SETTING tonight is
the stage you built)

first, i went to air my ***** laundry out
cautiously and deftly peel off the skin
from all the places touched and fold it up neatly
away, to be put into drawers
and brought out to wallow
on nights like these

the unmaking of a person is violent, yes
but it dully smells, too.
it is ***** and reeking with sharp dried sweat
wicked away in the cold
i go to fold away the memory of that cold
of my - huh, what’s the word -
b-b-b-bravery braced bent back breaking
on the side of a road that gritted its teeth

and i go to put the loneliness away too
in a suffocating airing cupboard
to not let it draw breath while it
watches the world go by
through a faltering crack in the door

INTERLUDE

(what did you do, those of you sat in the wings
and those of you pulling the strings
you washed your hands, reflexively.
you washed your hands again and again.
so nobody would think this dirt rubbed off)

now i am expected to empty the dishwasher
in front of a yawning kitchen window that
lets in not a chill but a blizzard and i am
unclothed unloading the dishes
i try to cover myself with a plate but there are
accusing eyes at the window here
to gawp at nakedness whilst i stacked bowls
into the teetering towers of a tiring told tale
i drop a misplaced cup and step on it
fall over -
doing a jig of pain, red hot embarrassing
feet dribbling lazy scarlet on the wet floor
what a spectacle, what a show, encore?

(and for those of you in the front row
i am deeply sorry.
proximity is pricier and more painful
and what i regret about this graceless fall
is that you had to witness it at all)

but all that’s left is to sweep the floor
so then i kneel down and sit there legs in dust,
inhaling until my bones are sandpaper and
chafing against the inside of my skin.
draw the curtain and

let me sit a while, please. in this dirt.
let me sit a while in this dirt.
oh, i know. i know my knees are white and
it is settling into my hair and inside my eyes
but i just want to sit here and be *****.
i have the broom - i am holding it, see?
to sweep away and brush apart and
pack it all up into a breathlessly shiny sack
but not just yet

(bored now, you make to leave)

unfinished i step underwater
but the shower is scalding and yes -
yes the ash falls off and the hollow thud
becomes a wet sludge
eking itself through the drain
leaving a grand total of nothing behind.

(SPOTLIGHT: and suddenly! the airing cupboard bursts open and reveals that the piles of laundry still reek, stinking sharply of sweat and ***! and it seems my dishes are still *****, lines of grease splattering down the clay! oh and the floor is just as gritty, smudging oil into the creases!

you in the wings, tired of this PLOT TWIST
you pulling the strings - wishing to cut them
you in front, i am sorry again but -

i can’t bear to try and clean again so -
let me sit and pretend, please
yes, yes, in this dirt with the curtain drawn
just a little bit more and i will get over it and
go through another spring of cleaning onstage so
please, let me -
let me sit here just a little while longer.)

Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my ******* oozing desire,
My groin drenched in desire for his wanton ****-flesh.

Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my twitching buttocks;
My screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of Parisian dawnings.
My clear goal: swallow his salty comings.

Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami bozo,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.

My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.

A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna*

Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton ****-flesh.

Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.

Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.

There are two ‘Institutions for the Mentally Ill’ in my town
One is grimly Victorian. Lunatic Asylum.  
Forgotten by all but the pigeons and pylons
As it thrashes and wrangles and mangles the memories
Of the ghosts of the ghosts that lived out their non-lives there.
The other is a modern, glass, Christmas tree
A circus tent in brown and beige
Like sepia and coffee stains.
You aren’t Lunatics anymore, we got told
Like renaming a problem could diminish it.
You slip past us just a little too quickly
So that you don’t see the woman who smokes cheap cigarettes
Out the front
And who bites December like it was something that could be torn from the walls
And pressed out of sight somewhere
And the metaphors in her head get muddled in her oesophagus
And she speaks to a man who’s never been evicted from her right ear
And who’s never been born or been buried but has simply whispered
With meretricious comfort
Up the road you could pay to gawp at the carol singers
But why bother because she’s singing
Driving Home For Christmas
Like no-one ever wrote her a melody or an audience
Gives a nice festive atmosphere, our psychiatrist said
And I asked the car park if optimism had ever been so odious
And if the snow around our feet was ‘festive’ and ‘nice’
While a girl as papery as December
Tried to smother herself in it
She rolled it in her bare hands as if hoping there’d be nothing left of her
If she could only freezer her heart
And scrape back the whiteness of the snow and her skin to the ivory
That still lingered beneath
Unstable death trap, rigged scaffolding
Although it was threatening to slice its way out
From her shrinking face and arms and thighs.
She lay down and made a snow angel in the hope that she’d become one
If she could only riddle out a way to please Anorexia.
And did the car park see that no one cares that there’s a fourteen year old
Who’s hung a cigarette from his lips and is chewing on it
Because what more damage can be done
That isn’t already curdled and notched into the skin of his wrists?
And written into the lining of his skull
Or branded in each heckled vein or carved into his gums
By the lip piercing he’s worn since he was twelve.
He has pulled the arms of his sweater beyond his finger tips
And hugged them into him to stop the secrets
He’s stashed there from spilling in front of a car.
If only he could forget what he was.
And I kick my boots against the curled up world
And want to shout it out of my vision
And want to ask if I’m thinking ‘nice festive’ thoughts
Because I’m thinking about the snow I’m ploughing  
And the way that I’d like to tie fairy lights
Over my eyes until I can’t see anything but fairy tales
And I’m thinking about our parade of broken-bottle people
Wearing masks so empty that we don’t look human
Not to you
And I wonder if this is enough of a pantomime for you
That I’ve dressed my thoughts up in drag
And they’re telling you a ****** joke from a ****** Christmas *******
Thoughts rolled and congealed like the rims of strained bathtubs
Thoughts broken and fleeting and self-imploding like headphones
That got left to tangle beyond redemption in a back pocket
Too far gone to be saved
Thoughts that are forever curled back to the replay button
Re-destruct, re-punish, re-****
Pink Elephant thoughts that will never be sorted and thrown out
Cynical self-disposal
I’m on a retrieval mission that never knows what it’s trying to find
Because I’m a Chinese doll
And each face is cruller
And uglier
And blanker
Than the one before it
Until at the centre you find that the last doll is missing
And there are only a few jumbled messages where she’s supposed to be
And fairy lights
And maybe a memory of when Christmas meant stockings and fireside
Not carparks and frigidity
If only all my ******* repeats led to redemption.
Look;
We’ve built you a snowman, is that enough of a freak show for you?
Can you move on and join the carol singers in glorifying God
Safely out of Purgatory and back on holy ground
Or do you require something more?
The pitiful Christmas Dinner that’s currently being counted out in teaspoons?
The girls and the boy who’ll press their fingers across their lips
Like prison bars
And keep themselves under lock and key in their own
Lunatic Asylum

Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.

Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,

When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.

When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.

He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.

the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.

He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.

The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.

The blue pales white above the echoing horizon
Seen fourth times, edifice, sea, wire, sky
Venture, traveller, approach him at last
The air blazes all approaching, stabbing the sense
Palpable is none among you, gliding through
The streets, the cars, those striking titans lining
The eclipse, shivering white cloud on cemented bone
Lackadaisical walk, breezed by wind into drowning
Dusk, when the aching red pours, staining blue, lost

Our sky vibrates, oscillating, drums on sea
Vision blurred, though it seems natural, myopia
Taken by the Pan, made real on nature
Isochronal to all around, who watch in vivid gawp
Neither spectacle, sight nor sear, means much to other
The world breathes, not to ignore, or worry
As clouds drift on, through the rose-bleach
The animal clings into itself, all moves toward
Horizon, a carnival to unknown spots beyond sky
Denizens to the untouchable, we onlookers know

I wake up: the sun lights up my day.                                         
Another day this prison; a place where I do not belong. As I open my eyes, it is the same as the day before:                      
these creatures on two legs gawp and point at me.                    
These 'things' wear extra skin on top of their normal skin.        
Why do they do this?

To start the day, I walk around. There is not enough space.               
I take a step and I'm in the corner. I feel thirsty, so I drink.           
But the water is murky and barely tastes natural. Polluted.       
There is little to do in the cage. So I sit around or walk about. Same as every day.                           
The only other thing to do is to let the watchers stare.                 
Some shine bright lights into my eyes. Blindness. My vision hurts. 
Some want to pet me. Little cubs reaching out.                             
Their faces are innocent, but I do not trust them.                         
Later on I get fed. The only good part of my day.                        
Good food.Yet I hunger every day.

I hear from the other prisoners about paradise. At night I visit it. Open areas where I can jump and run as I please.                
Freedom is gifted to me.                                                              ­          
No murky water. No two legged,                                                
clothed watchers to bother me every time I desire peace. Blue skies. No fences. Oh how I want to breathe fresh air, to see the promised land.

But freedom is miles away.

My entire life has been a prison.                                                          ­    
I ask the watchers: Why?                                                             ­      
Why do you imprison us? Why the cages?                                   
What have we ever done to you?                                                             ­                                       
Did we hurt you? No: but you hurt us.                                          
Every day is torture.                                                         ­                   

You crush me.

I wake. I drink. I watch. I sleep. I dream. Promised land.    
Promised land. Promised…

Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.  
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.

Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel

Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens

Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.

Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty

Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.

Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.

Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...

There is a stillness of the night,
and it yearns to me in places,
dots aligned from street to heart -
and that is where it starts.

A hushing breeze – finally –
the lapse of gathered calm.
Through dawn to dark, a beauty black
falls softly in my palm.

Shall you try to eat me?
you spit me out and smooth the frays,
that in the day but tingle limbs
and leave an itch, confused, afraid.
But the city sleeps and I brave a whim.

Not aflame, I am just one.
Survivor of a mundane talk,
that sends a spin which causes some
to laden me a dampened gawp,
Why don’t I just walk? Just walk away!
it is known for me to often stay.

Alas a chance to scuttle to
a central storm of silent peace,
transform motion of small to grand
that surrenders me on bruising knees,
to that time that some have always seen -
a glimmered chance to understand
the source of my serene.

Melted pass, in the dark I ******,
a dripping of a solely love,
retrieve my jaded fears that push
and sink to me like a toothy flesh
and rip a smile from ear to ear -
What can I do? When this blooded mesh
is the source that leaks my fine ideas!

Intruder thoughts, retreat to dome
closing slowly, leading home,
a sprightly sprig to dance in-front -
seducing me of what’s to come.
When I arrive, a-new, unknown,
until the door is closed and candle lit,
my-self I sought to laugh, un-wit,
a place lay set with vines and grove!

An open truth, of raw and felt,
a bleach-ed canvas who only sought
a place to ***** their mind to words
not crudely spoke or illy-thought.
Scarcely would it seem to spelt
in skies of which a heart could flutter,
and even through my solemn stutter,
it chimed that time was bought.

And so I have this much more -
through spot-light streets and shadowed doors,
the lastly glow through peeking blinds
that glow and leave me late to lay,
on patterned bed, to rest my mind,
I will weep and inspect my spore -
a speck of drying cosmic spray,
that seeks to soothe my bowing back
from the thought of choking, fleeting stay -
so when my hand moves to adore
the curvature of timeless waves,
it moves, it drives my endless core
and in the night I am but saved.

In Ancient Rome the Emperors ensured the populace were kept quiet,
With bloodied slaves to gawp at and a stomach filling diet,
Of bread and wine and spectacles before a baying crowd,
Soporific panaceas channelled the roars they were allowed.
But on Bulbaos’ house in Pompeii he wrote “Militat om nes”
Which in our simple modern tongue in an idiom he says
“I am just a lover but I know that I must fight”
His spray can was a chisel and he made his mark at night.
"… Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses."
Juvenal AD100

Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.

It is 16:18. It is April.
Winter has thawed and all feels new
now that I can sit outside without discomfort,
without pale, immovable hands
and a wind to unsettle my thoughts.

My first beer of the day,
no idea of when the last will be.
An ashtray of previous cigarettes;
two of them are my own.
Always the follower of better men,
of charlatans and well-travelled fools.

I refuse to be a consumer,
yet I live to consume;
the pavement beneath anxious strides,
the warmth between her ethereal legs,
the drug still in my system,
the cold sweats in a half-empty bed.

My first crisis of the day,
exchanging money for a quiet place to sit.
To find my poison, toast my newfound health;
a wealth used to line my stomach,
or else to devour a box of cheap wine.
My last day off work,
last chance to sour in a sulk,
to gawp at the shapes in the ceiling,
to stay up through the Sandman's song.

When will I learn to turn with the world?
To not cling on in desperation
through each changing, unfolding scene.

We ain't no showcase
not pictures to gawp at
or books you can pick up
so
shut the **** up.

I could tell you all's fine
when
I've drunk all the wine and
the
streets are inviting
but
that's just ***** in a tea cup

and swearing,
so what?
what the **** have we got to
be Christian for?

While they're having their *****
while democracy falls
while the drones keep on flying
I'll keep on trying
to put across the message
that this ain't no picnic.

Let's dream and twist the words when they arrive, and if
some words survive,
they are the one's to wonder at,
to gawp and gape and bristle with pride,
to have lived and died in this,
This,
the time of genetics,frantic phonetics, bodies in lines, that like the words twist out of time,
'and all this is mine', said the man on the throne and we should have known, it would have been stolen away.
Dreams for a day and then death,
on the mountains in space we shall draw again breath,we shall ignite and burn,turning out twisting words,black holes for birds to fly in,
plenty of space left to cry in and no one to hear when we do.
Through all of this comes the lass with the kiss which she plants on my lips.
I was wasting away but today I will shine and in time she will kiss me again.
In the drought where the rain was a stranger,I am strangely elated
wondering if this was fated
and if so,
why did I not know?
Am I not man born of man,am I not in the plan,am I out of the loop,
can I ever recoup what was lost?
Shall I toss out my dreams with the greens I can't eat,
Will it be salad,will it be meat,is this meant just to cheat me,to
put me down and to beat me?,this is what survives,
the questions that arise
when all's looking well.
If man makes his own hell then it's inside his head, where the words get all twisted like the blankets thrown down on the bed where he lays,
these are the days of dreaming and death and kisses on lips, where the breathing of life slips slowly away.

It fills the room and strokes each wall, a stale
and stagnant smoky pall as if the seasons
stuttered in late autumn, and time hangs still
awaiting its post-mortem. Soft moans escape
from urgent lips, the sound of silk on fingertips;
sweat congregates upon our skin and emptiness
pervades within. Tomorrow it will start again,
light tapping on the window pane; the steady hum
of early traffic  parking where these autographic
voices whisper, whine and hiss - you cannot take
much more of this. There are those who gawp  
for hours in mausoleums, become the very stuffing
of museums. Sentences both short and long
pace the space where time is hung and strung out
on a line its fingers flapping: admit defeat,
it’s to this beat your feet are tapping

It is hard more than you may ruminate
living with disability,
a wheelchair to make a move,
white cane to ensure safety,
While on other hand,
kids jeer left and right but be
Proud as a peacock in your condition for you didn’t choose it.

People talk,
Some gawp,
Others giggle in your condition but it matters not
Keep your nose to the grindstone because
Fortune favours the bold.

Some of you thought of suicide,
some of you suffered depression,
some of you believed that you are not good enough,
with tears in your eyes, questions you asked yourselves,
how did this this happen?
why am I different?

Who are you to judge yourself?
If you could read my mind
You will see that in you, I see
A tycoon,
Philanthropist,
I see a winner in this journey of life
Get out of that cage of self-doubt and put one's shoulder to the wheel
Don’t throw in towel, remember
No arms, no legs Nick Vujicic conquered without an excuse

You can do it,
Believe in yourself,
No matter how hard it might be,
how painful it might look.
Don’t be too ******* yourself
Pull up your socks in that inflexible locus,
because every cloud has a silver lining,
Head up.

Crack pipe lyrics
Can you feel your lips?
Puff in the smoke
Ocarina of time,
Smoke on the water
As you ******* your mind.
Blanket of troubles,
Show bed relief,
People passing by
Let them gawp at your needs.
Handle circumstances
All that you can
Fumble in the playground
Of the world in hands.
Smoke another pipe
Let it sink in your skin.
The world's no longer sideways
And you can hear yourself think.

The people gathered all around ,
to see the Spector that had fled,
when the sun went down .
With forks and anything else they could find ,
so to save the sick ,
the lame ,
and the blind .

Far in the distance the red sky a blaze ,
set alight by the suns burning rays .

For every night just before sundown ,
Ghostly apparitions were seen in the town .

They came to gawp ,
they came to stare ,
so poets could dream ,
and write without care .

And so the red wing which looked for bugs on the ground
soon spread its wings
amugst the wind and the snow, and the foul ,
and when it left it could not be found ..

And so darkness fell on this land from dawn to night when the
Sun went. down ,
and spread from afar ,
Untill the morning light .
they just wore masks to dig a hole for their dead ,
into a pit their bodies layed .

And so the ghosts with their gawps and stares ,
we’re only there to help the folk in their prayers .
And when they had left the boils and the **** ,
that clung to their throats ,
and ****** all their blood ,
left without warning as the red wing sang .

So the child who had the fever and the sores ,

could live and breath and shout and scream
and dance for the joy of the Lord .

His rotten sleeves waft in the wind
Sleepily staining the air
He swirls in his stench
Flouncing in stink
Hatefully spinning his song.

Wildly turning
His zombie breakdown
Bellowing a gutteral noise

He spins till he bleeds
Staining the earth.
The onlookers gawp at the show.

The circle slows down
His pulverised ankles
Can no longer keep up the dance.

He slumps in a puddle
A grave of his making
A corpse
A posterity curse.