You might be driving a McLaren,
But if you're fully bearded
And your name is Mohammed,
Darling it ain't gon' happen

Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.

Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.

Cute little thing,
Two rows down.
With her dark locks
Encompassing her caramelised skin.
Those pretty eyes above her pretty lips,
May sell pretty dreams and witty lies.
But beauty,
A man’s Achilles heel,
Has my heart racing like a McLaren wheel.
If only the erratic beats within my chest she could feel.

Her skin without blemish,
At least unto mine eyes.
Her legs without ending,
Forever locked in a dance
That only I can see,
The way she walks she speaks my language,
The way she writes she speaks my language,
When she smiles she speaks my language,
When she sighs she speaks my language.

When her guards fall,
She falls,
Into my love filled arms
A whittled down version of my masculinity puts up arms
And emasculation rears its head.
We lie within this room of red.
Satin silk sheets,
Icing on the bed.

Ultimate fantasy --
Visions of falsified ecstasy
Holding her lying next to me,
Sitting two rows down.

if this line is last line
know it was a victory lap
rari, 'cedes AMG (ya brazy)
commercial life dream rabies
make fun of commercial rap

still want that mclaren,
yea you starin' baby
uhhh please, you broke
talkin' bout the red cross town limo (OCTran)
'po lika baby momma didn't even know
save me yuh (87 baseline yuh)

808 boom bap clap snap (sound here)
never joke bout straps (round here)
ace in my cap (down here)
never pretend to trap, white as **** (blind seer)

pass the puck without the ruckus
down the range with the shiv stuck us
gotta strong poker face tryna bluff yuss
knock wig back gut stuffin if you rushin us
boy i dust the rust off my metal alloy pen

Here I am again
I said I won’t call you again..
But here I am

Okay it’s obvious,
The hills that I hop
The pills in this pocket
The bottles I bought
The urge is locked in
And I Shouldn’t even drive but **** it
And I Shouldn’t even cry but  **** it
Shouldn’t even want it but I want it
So I’m ...
Thumbin threw these bands
I bet I’ll make your phone stop ringing
I swear I won’t call you again
But here I am again

When pop was a boy
Iz pride and joy
Was just to have wheels wiv a mota

Tricked up didn’t play, not in their hood
Even though you could
End result wouldn’t lift the skin - off a rice pud

Real quick in that day
Only came by the way
Of serious a serious wedge of pay

Aston, Ferrari, you could take to the bank
Hemi, Stang and Vette for the yanks
For most just wall posters and wanks

These days it different, back from the dead
Universal balance has got out of bed
And delivered justice for the poor petrolhead

You can strut your stuff, in your supa caa
But the kid in a Rex or an EVO jam jar
Gonna embarrass you, you fucken rockstar

We quikka N you - its no pop quiz
These days turbos and nitrous is the biz
Nuffink about the money just how big your ***** is

Want to put up your half million Mclaren
Thats just a few tenths quicka, than a subbie wagon
Equipped wiv a teenage ****** called Darren?

We quikka N you - even with your cash
One real aspect in life, where design and dash
Triumphed over money and flash

We quikka N you

And don’t you forget it

Now get out of my way

To be in McLaren MTC,
That really would be cool,
I hope this competition's real,
Not an early April fool.

A dedicated petrol head,
Who's driven an F1 car,
A Benetton in Spain last year,
Not a Prost, or Jaguar,

Would love to see the inside track,
See inside a first class team,
To sit and sip the atmosphere,
Would fulfil a long held dream

To be sat there in race control,
Just as the race is run,
Aside from being a privilege,
Would really be such fun.

So in picking out a winner,
It's very clear to see,
You need to look no further,
The one to pick is me !

Poor little Johnny boy loves monkeys and Shakespeare.
He sits and taps the tattered typewriter glued to his chair;
When he is not hiding under the polka-dot blanket in fear
Of the bogeyman that his ex-wife left for him to deal with.
It’s tea-time now, and through a broken kitchen shutter
Johnny sees a young couple in the park beside McLaren’s bar,
Kissing passionately upon the glossy green grass underneath.
He sips his coffee more sensually than the lover smooches his date
And duly returns back to typing, oblivious that the cake he just ate
Was licked by good ol’ Marley, his Capuchin pet;
And so Johnny types on in search of his Shakespearean sonnet.

The lost seas of writhing souls
Deep and the darkness, bucolic peasantry carrying a basin of mud
Protesting for better wages, in the bruised bulls of Wall Street
Seeking pursuit of happiness, and finding the answer
With each proceeding need and the greed just stops being a word
Mirrors and global skyscrapers, objects, all forecasted
We know what we will build for the future
A future of objectivism, and plants with books overlooking New York streets
Dreaming of better living in extravagant Manhattan
Teaching others about the poetic license, how you can lie
Blues and *****, and the breaths of the cold morsels
Murky hills, carrying pitchforks in boreal forests
Barking and biting, these are now chilly pine peaks
The heart seeks what it seeks, and omniscience and ubiquitous Gods
Like modern infrastructure, and precarious progress for the army recruit
There are plenary structures and assemblies of kitsch Kilimanjaro, replicas of mountains and wax models
Romancing each stone, and feelings of someone you once loved
You thank heaven, that she walked into the right bar
Sometimes, you hope she walks into the wrong seat and meets you
Greets you at times, as an alarm for the correct time
Tresses of eve-teasers lay ******* on great cars, some of them even make haste with purloined convertibles
Purring cats walk through Plainfield and Mclaren streets, foraging for serendipity
You'll be glad that heaven brought you to the right bar, to tell you are the right desire
In this sea of lost souls, thinking they are struggling
But, actually, they are tied to the confabulating and changing climate
Blaring horns of the bungholes and dungeons of bald men spot the madness from afar from the humble abode
All of them dying peptic ulcers, cirrhosis and drinking themselves to illness
Indemnified by their art, art is the way to explain these insecurities and voids of despair, we are a civilized bunch, right?

How many worms have
Made a home
Out of the
Bits of rubber tire
And tree bark in the playground
At the Sunday School
Where I first learned Hebrew

Can I fix this rip in my jeans that
Keeps getting a little bigger
Every time I slide my leg in
And my toe gets caught in the
Negative space

I started a collage
Of ripped out pages from
Fahrenheit 451
And a Highly Classified
Army/Navy Manuel
Specifying the different threat levels
And codes
And Troop Commands
During a Nuclear or Chemical Attack
On American Soil
I stole it when I was removing debris
From homes destroyed by a hurricane
On the Barrier Islands with my brother
A few strangers
And a lizard I called Little Eyes

Is the big picture starting to come together
I’ve been listening to a lot of
Swedish
Trash Punk recently
Maybe I’ll give myself a tattoo
That says
Anarchy Dies With Me
Right across my neck
And a Safety Pin earring

The consulate was acting strange
After I drove through the glass doors of the
Embassy in my McLaren
I said
I’d like to immigrate to
A Clockwork Orange
Drink Milk and be
Ultra Violent

Next time you come home
Make sure you bring zip-ties
A tire
Your old hair
An apology note
Three bags of flour
A harmonica
And some bribe money
For our favorite elected official
I have an idea