Timbeck Tyu,  Timbeck Tyu
Great City Timbeck Tyu

Coloured Walls Nicely Painted
Arts and Drawing Everywhere

Artifacts on every crossing
People's representatives feel like king

Magnificient buildings here and there
Bridges and flyover everywhere

Toll tax booth here and there
Statues standing everywhere

Banners hanging here and there
Hoardings, posters everywhere

Malls and Hotels here and there
Dance Bars and Casinos everywhere

Citizens always in Crisis
Struggling with poverty

Economical condition bad
Politicians has gone mad

Nationalism in Slogans
Here and there hooligans

Real nationalist are renamed
They are called anti-nationals

Corruption is on the peak
You need license to speak

Crowd imposes censorship
System respects the crowd

Mouse catches the Crow
Everything on the show

Real news not covered
Real issues are untouched

Fake news are implanted
Press and Media on sale

Laws are being twisted
Burden of proof shifted

Culprits are honoured
Innocents are hanged

Farmers are in debts
Their families are starving

They can't even pay their loans
Neither Principal nor interest

They either commit suicide
or land in jail for not paying loans

Hospital competing with hotels
Doctors busy in making money

Patients treatment is on Sale
Get cured only if you pay

Stray Animals on the rise
What you can do if you cry?

Black money in circulation
White money is called pollution

Rapes, Murders and theft on rise
Law and order is on the papers

Lawyers are with Politicians
Politicians are with Criminals

Criminals are with the Police
Police is with the Capitalists

Only the God is with the victims
That too only, if he really exists

Population almost exploding
Environment full of pollution

Fights and quarrels here and there
Religion and faith always on stake

Caste and Classes everywhere
Race and Religion everywhere

Common people struggling for food
Saints consuming wine and drugs

Rallies and protests uprising
The system has turned deaf

Goddess of law weeping and bleeding
Judges busy in process law and rules

Timbeck Tyu,  Timbeck Tyu
Such a great city Timbeck Tyu

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Media is the muse of our generation
Media amuses our degeneration
It's in the air abusing our obsession
If you cared it would feel like an intervention

We're failing at living upto what we're dying for

Opening our eyes
To the open skies
Seeing past the hoardings
Looking past the lies

The TV tells you a stolen story
That the advertisers asked to put before me
And paid an extra dime to change your mind
Cause it's laid on prime time

We're failing at living upto what we're dying for

Opening our eyes
To the open skies
Seeing past the hoardings
Looking past the lies

I forgot what sunrise looked like
What mama's sundays cooked like
What I really like
Before I went on this mindwarp hike

We're failing at living upto what we're dying for

Opening our eyes
To the open skies
Seeing past the hoardings
Looking past the lies

Café for Cats

Take your shoes off
and close the child-gate
we don’t want the cats
out in the street please
thank you : our cats
your pleasure their purrs
together
make for a blissful moment
in a hectic world
on this busy street
don’t leave without
taking a cat on your lap
stroking their pedigree fur
all for you and coffee too


Street Art

Prevalent in these parts
the impromptu sketch
the wildly alternative mark
on arches grand designs on
construction-site hoardings
and take this side of a building
here untouched by windows
a canvas blank of brick where
Gulliver’s sister lies gagged
and bound in a Lilliput house
her knees poking through
the upstairs floor


tokyobike

in pastel-green apricot-pink
a lithe machine of delicate frame
and slim-line wheels
would look well in the hall
and out on the street
if properly socked with
your oh so short skirt
the gym-honed thighs
the custom rucksack
tight on your back


Whirl of Leaves

The breath that blows
these notes across the page
the murmuration of fingers
against those resonant strings
up and down to and fro
on music’s path go
the flute and the harp
pursuing the ground
into the autumn air
chasing the wind
until . . .
at a passing wall
they are stilled
into motionless
their rise and swirl
emptied of breath
no more to blow
or pluck these dancing
murmuring
wind-driven notes
but into fermata’s
grasp    

(where despite
a futile final flurry
a long bar’s rest
takes hold
till Spring)


St Paul’s by Night

From across the river
an unexpected view
not just that gracious dome
but the building below
substantially whole complete
for once not hidden by proximity
or an errant developer’s whim
the progress to the great south door
unimpeded when we walked
the well-tempered bridge
as high on the lofty cranes
bright red stars guided
our journey home


Askam Square

In this London square
the trees hold still
as sculptures in
the nothing air
no breeze to animate
their leaves except
a steady gaze might catch
a gentle oscillation
here and there

La Maison vert foncé

So very green this perfect Hoxton house
it could be in a petite ville Française
incongruous here – but such a treasure
geranium-filled window boxes
lace curtained attic rooms
just-have-to-have-a-look inside and see
the dress-maker’s table the library of books
the posters artists’ prints and all
a purposeful lady sits typing at her desk
costume directions for a Pirandello play


Daughter

Last year she’d bought a boat on the river
this year she’s in New York for the week
Keeping tabs on daughters can be wearisome
you hope for hug and to hear that certain voice
see eyes that haven’t changed their depth
since a child when you marvelled at their colour
so - it seems you won’t be seeing her this time around
but she’ll be in touch when she gets back she says
and ‘we’ll talk’ . . . she says.

Urban Fox**

dogs don’t have such a brush of a tail
a flattened skull or triangle-like ears
one was about to cross our path
thought better of it and retreated
behind a bush content to wait
till we’d passed on by
I
writing just the other day
about the fox of Chinese lore
remembered this celestial dog
had nine tails, four legs and a golden coat
served the Palace of Sun and Moon
transcended both the yin and yang

String vests with spittle trailing
Budvar to invariably show independence,
they snare the spectacles of the respectable evenings sheen,
later calling the night *****, and kicking  hoardings
as if they had wanted to disinter the dammed.
The former love of parakeets,
by once fine people,
also released Yellow to this New World
matching the jaundiced jab
of a hooligan denying  his head

Benedict waits
by the pram sheds
in the Square
for Lydia

to come out
of her flat
he wants to take her
to the big bomb site

behind the tabernacle
although she won't
tell her mum
where she's going as such

she'll say to the park
to play on the swings
or slide or other such thing
just as he did

to his mother
the baker rides by
on his horse drawn cart
the horse walking slow

the baker sitting
on top of the cart
nodding his head
still no sign

of Lydia
Benedict sighs
he hates wasting time
likes to be out

and at it
a man with his boxer dog
walks by
the man puffing

a cigarette
hat at the back
of his head
the door opens

and Lydia comes out
in her red and white
checked dress
and white cardigan

she looks stressed
and walks towards Benedict  
looking behind her
at the door

of the flat
got out then?
he says
just about

she says
had to help
put the washing
in the copper

and gather up all
the ***** stuff
and take *******
to the shoot

and just done
he nods
and says
a girl's work

is never done
as my old man says
well it is for now
she says

where are we going?
she asks
big bomb site
behind the tabernacle

he says
isn't it
dangerous there?
she says

not if you’re careful
and don't let
the Rozzers see you
he says

so they walk
down the *****
and along
Rockingham Street

she talks of her mother
being in a mood
about her father's drinking
and O yes it's all right

for him to *****
and sing
and play the fool
but it's me

who has to feed
you kids
and keep a roof
over your heads

she says
her mother said
Benedict listens
takes in

her straight hair
her thin arms
and legs
her pale features

her mouth opening
and closing
like a fish
in a bowl

they cross over the road
and walk up
and along the street
behind the Trocadero

by the smaller bomb sites
along the narrow alley
and out
on the main road

where they go down
the subway
to get across
to the tabernacle

she still talking
about her mother
and her big sister
and the bloke

she brought home
the other night
and wanted to take him
to the bedroom

for some reason
or other
Lydia adds frowning
the subway echoes

her words
they float
then bounce
off the walls

as they climb the stairs
up and out
she stops
and looks

at the bomb site anxiously
will other kids be there?
she asks
usually are

he says
but that doesn't
matter none
they'll keep to themselves

and we can keep to ours
she bites her lip
and follows him
as they climb

between hoardings
and up and into
the bomb site
with its half standing houses

and ruins
and walls
and houses empty
with no roofs

or roofs
with only three walls
she hesitates
stands with her fingers

in her mouth
want if the Rozzers come?
she says
leave it to me

he says confidently
she follows him
as he climbs
onto a wall

and over the top
come on
he says
she climbs after him

mind you don't
scrape your knees
he says
and helps her

over the wall
holding one
of her hands
she gets up and over

and stands inside
a bombed out house
it stinks
she says

yes probably
some tramps
****** in here
he says

not still in here
is he?
she says anxiously
no long ago scarpered

he says
he walks through a room
and she walks after him
holding her nose

looking around her
bits of wallpaper hang
from walls
a doorway with no door

a window without glass
that looks out
on an abandoned garden
full of weeds

she follows him up
a riggedy stairway
holding on
to a rocking bannister

and up
to a landing
with three rooms
going off

in each direction
he stands still
taps the floorboards
with his foot

should be safe
he says
is it?
she says nervously

course it is
he says
walking carefully
over the floor

of the room
she stands
by the doorway
what if the floorboards

are rotten
and you fall through?
she says softly
then I get

to the bottom
quicker than I came up
he says smiling
come on

he says
beckoning her over
she stands still
fiddling with her fingers

then she bites her fingers
of one hand
and holds her groin
with the other

it won't give way
he says
she holds herself
it might

she says
then we die together
he says
what away to go eh?

she looks at him
standing there
with his hazel eyes
and quiff of hair

and his hand
held out
towards her
she walks gingerly

over the floorboards
one step
after another
until she reaches

his hand
and grips it tight
and they are there
in the middle

of the room
she feeling
as if she's wet herself
and he like one

who has climbed
Mount Everest
and is about
to plant a flag

with glee
she looks at him
and he looks out
the window

as far
as his hazel eyes
can see.

Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest

bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek

and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings

put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said

gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here

and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult

in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left

of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away

the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered

washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what

her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger

at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room

was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor

a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand

with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest

and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew

you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know

will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house

you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight

seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared

and could you go down  
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight

Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old *****’s ***

and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old ******’s tricks

with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen

carefully
went out the door.

You have been living as a ghost for too long.
Too long under the flood-lit hoardings,
advertising a necessity
you have never thought of before.
Too long spent pushing someone away
rather than letting go.
I thought of you in bed last night,
your pale complexion
and the way you smoke cigarettes;
an ache of habit
disguised as a fashion statement,
spinning into a pirouette
after tripping over the step.
You chose a career of kindness,
siphoning knowledge to a new generation
at the expense of your punk-rock credentials
and afternoon naps.
I thought of you again today.
How you are leaving the house
and all your old selves;
how I lag so far behind,
that I can barely see you now.

Market car parks all but empty.
Wind blown bags and wrappers plenty.
Windows mirror deep depression.
Wily whizz-kids lack discretion.

Hoardings, dulling, staining, tearing.
People facing lack of caring.
People scraping, scrounging, screaming.
People coping, calming, hoping

Market car parks all but empty.
Wind blown bags and wrappers plenty.
Windows mirror dark depression.
Wily ****-kids lack discretion.

Hoardings, dulling, staining, tearing.
People facing lack of caring.
People scraping, scrounging, screaming.
People coping, calming, hoping.

There was a little boy
he did not prefer any toy
living in dark corner of an alley way
for him, weekend, festival was any other day.

Early morning the empty space
gets filled up with a sea of faces
who walk around in search of more
occupying the mind of the boy, making it sore.

(all alone his mind gets tainted as he observes.)

Fueled by greed all travel very far
In search of a more powerful car.
Lack of time only moving by flights
In ******* of sort getting into, mental fights.

Trapped in hoardings, advertisements,propaganda
Confuse lust for love, set up traps, new agendas.
send love and flowers through net and phone
end up broken hearts, breaking homes.

Sense of false practicality, work through the night.
Take a trip, caffeine sip, forget to turn of the light.
In want of time, give up leisure
trapped in insidious prisons, suffer mental seizure.

walking on the tight rope, never to relax at all
Unknowingly unacknowledged, take a beautiful fall.
And  imagining, standing tall
and lining up innocents against the wall.

The boy observing this everyday with his wandering eyes says
" lights from the traffic, blind my eyes
  obscuring me from the starlit sky.
  I am one of the faces in the hungry seas
  Every moment to survive, I must seize
  and yet I long to enjoy the cool serene breeze

There's no sign to tell you it's heading your way, no friendly face that pops up to say, don't worry it never lasts longer than the hours in a day, but what if you're a mayfly? that's a lifetime, throw me a lifeline or a bottle of pills.

Hills.

Peculiar things which we climb and the higher we go and yet cling on to the things that we know we never really leave the ground.

I have waited in subways expecting the writing to happen on the walls and that's a load of *****, if you don't pen it yourself it will never appear.

I don't go near subways now I prefer hoardings and boarded up basements crouching and whispering to ink out my fears on casements and windows, the bard of glass shards and broken down men.

I cut out imperfections to place in my scrap tray and they tell me,
it never lasts longer than the hours in a day.

It's funny though
I never know
what day that
will be.

By evelight lay lackless when by happenstance,
Moved to stoke fires by a wordsmith's en-trance.
Salute you Oh Scribe whose savour words evoke
Mellow cheese, crusted bread and drippings fire smoked.

And on to kitchen with hungergreed,
Then to see what we shall find.

Greeishly seeking  ** hum! Hubbardmum!
Remorsal to not spy no plump honeycrumb.
Hoardings bereft of gorgeulent fripwhips,
Desumed save for wholesmug and blandiment pips.

And on to bed with hungerneed,
Then to dreams alone to dine.

Ill-matched vestements, quick-foot before routine,
Grogful from slumberfast, not spruced nor clean.
Green of the wind that bites first to incense,
Cornflaked under boot, toiling towards drudgcompence.

And on to secure with hungerspeed,
Then to home with food on mind.

To sizzle, not to bake,  fits the need to be sated,
Though the tangs now unaired bring relief once it's plated.
From first ****** to last spurt no sooner guzzied down,
With all gourmeaches now quelled and all yearnishes drowned.

hoardings.

It's not easy to see
just
how small
a deposit can be
when you're being
paid sod all
and don't you think that
these kind of adverts stink?

' a small deposit secures '
and
in some cases securely in debt.

We're being teased into parting for goods,
' get a start in the game' they'll say
but we'll pay and pay forever
on the never ******' never
I never buy nor
try to keep up with
the latest in whatever latest
there is.

Easy to say now I don't have to pay now and
easier still when you're not climbing the hill
to the high court.

Listen to the silence

As the world holds its breath

And waits in hiding

Grass grows in the streets

Parking lots entwine with ivy

Around the rusty carts

And the spaces in-between

Yellow boxes faded by sun through empty windows

No breeze stirs the pavement cracks

Due for mending long ago

Thin cats lick their dusty paws

Stretching out on the hot trunks of cars

Sleeping peacefully

Until the bold rats come out to  play in the moonlight

Skipping down the hoardings

Unafraid

And what of the thousands

Their pale and haunted eyes

Looking from behind every curtain

Radios tuned

Listening

As the world holds its breath

And waits for life to begin again

The love of difference is our strange attraction
I blew at maths and copied your fractions
Not caring if you are black, white, green or yellow
I rocked on guitar whilst you plucked that cello
With instruments like that we'd never start a band
Just laugh at our disparity whilst walking hand in hand
The cool kids loved you as I was just a mess
But you loved the way I sauntered, not trying to impress
Hey, why try and improve on whats never likely
Just hold stance, slip her the key, to the backdoor of what may be
Nobody said a word as they shared ice cream on the pier
Eastbourne had its gossips and those you regulary sneer
For she didnt drive and took the bus afar
As I souped up my Cosworth to be the fastest by far
Not a pill in sight as she didnt touch the stuff
Me overdosing on the A's and the B's then feeling kinda rough
Stroking her persian in her minimilist one bedroom flat
I fill mine with hoardings not room to swing her cat
But she laughs at what a state I can sometimes be in
For she is a keeper, a forgiver, overlooking my daily daft sins

Beautiful Differences

JJB

Which way do you turn
When the world is upside down.
Spinning in circles doesn’t help
And it makes you very dizzy.
Running out and grabbling stuff
Only makes you greedy.
Selling at outrageous price
Turns you to a craven gauger
Who should have to eat what’s left.

Blaming is a losing game
No one is the winner.
Choosing sides and throwing rocks
Does nothing but break windows.
Hate won’t cure incompetence.
And can not drain a too-full self.
Arming up and locking down
Will only help you die alone,
Surrounded by your hoardings.
ljm