tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl
birthmark.

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.

BARRY ALLAN HOSTS A GREAT GAME SHOW


and our first contestant is micheal maccarthy who was awn old channel 9 newsreader

and i will play press your luck with this dude, ok first of all how many chickens are in the box

and micheal looked in and said, 1   2   3   44 , and barry allan said, you are 2 off the target

and micheal said, no i am too off the year i wanted to join you up here, and barry said

ok dude, how many red coloured *******’s are in this box, and micheal said, 1   2   3    4   56

barry said you are right, congratulations and jubilations, and tell everybody that you are in love with

marilyn monroe, congratulations and celebrations, come on dude, let’s party oh yeseree

barry allan then asked micheal how many poor people has tony abbott ****** up

and miicheal said a lot, barry said no, give me a number,, then micheal said, there is no number

it is a word called infinity, and barry allan then asked how many people are mourning your death

and micheal said wow, i hope everyone that knows me, on screen and off screen

then barry all

barry allan said ha ha ha you and me, we will show the planets how to party





ha ha ha you and me, barry allan’s style of partying is so stu

ha ha ha you and me, i party well in this city

it’s a shame  that you diedon earth mccarthy,

but you’ll come back in another life, baby

oh baby, pick a bail of cotton

and then barry allan said, ok here is the news

and tonight maccarthy died, who was the best tv show host and news reader in the business

and dude, i am a partying, all over the town saying,

HEY YOU OLD MISERY GUTS, GET RID OF THAT AWFUL FROWN

it makes you look like an old fucken hag, and then dad said ok dude

let’s party right till the end, party and drive people around the bend

you see buddha pick a bail of cotton, oh yeah buddha pick a bail a day

WELCOME MICHEAL MCCATHY TO THE AFTER LIFE

The English Charnel
of course,
he meant Channel
but he could have said
funnel or whirlpool
and we'd have known.
because
it's becoming the graveyard
of those poor souls
who fought hard
to get here
and
never made it.

I am living as your echo.
Lung cancer victim,
Vague pilgrim of kindness,
Tainted by the everyday;
By our suicidal blindness.

Keep the noise low,
As you walk on past the room,
You might hear our quiet love;
Collecting forget-me-nots,
Memorising the feel
Of the hand beneath the glove.

I am living in displacement,
Neither north, nor south,
And soon landlocked in yesterday;
Too many miles from the coastline,
And with too many debts left to pay.

Keep your lips strange
And foreign, as if we’re falling
In love again. Don’t forget this youth
When we leave it,
But let this heartache turn to gains.

There are no decimals to love.
Binary code, you’re either in or you’re out;
You’re either kissing the toad,
Or questing for an actor
To tolerate you;
Without any essence of doubt.

I don’t know where I am, father.
I can’t see the floodlights
That used to beam over the allotments;
Polluting the stars. My bike is chained
In the garage, my legs are tired,
And Cawston Woods only brings me to despair.
I want to claim back my royalties,
I want my piece of the share.

We have all paid our dues now,
We have worked ourselves sore,
For this malnourished freedom;
Of which still lays a cure.

We must see politic as silence,
In its content and fact,
To see the newsreader’s babble,
As one orchestrated act.

We must love for the earthworm,
And for the life-giving bee;
For the nuclei of dead sunlight,
For our brief eternity.

Even the Greenwich Meantime pips sound mournful on a Tuesday, the newsreader however seems full of beans, seems the BBC canteen serves up a good breakfast.

I ate my last doughnut which I
put away for a day such as this.

A medieval Noah looking out to sea
from a mouldering canvas
wondering if he should have
included mermaids

A rusting astrolabe pointing
at some forgotten constellation
through fingerprint-smeared
and cracked museum glass

A spinster at the wheel
outside her humble thatched cottage
watching whooping cavaliers pass
hunting a dying stag

A plum pudding boiling
in a great copper cauldron
whilst a sweating cook and a
collared tabby cat look on

An inwardly troubled comedian
laughing mirthlessly
over smudged radio scripts
in a cold, empty studio

An ageing mother in an
incongruous yellow t-shirt
staring over half-rimmed spectacles
at three errant sons

An emotionless TV newsreader
reciting the latest disaster
and wondering all the while
if she’ll be there when he gets home

Well I woke up this morning and heard all the news;
There was none of it good, seems to me.
So I turned off the radio and went back to sleep,
And I dreamed how the future might be.

From an orbiting space station somewhere above,
the newsreader’s emotions were mixed;
She smiled through her tears, “Hallelujah, my friends,
The big hole in the ozone’s been fixed!”

“Oh, and hey, by the way” she continued to say,
“Pollution’s a thing of the past;
Contaminants no longer poison our seas,
Heavy metal’s no more than a blast!”

“There’s enough food for everyone everywhere,
And a pleasant mild climate for all;
There’s no more povertee, because everything’s free,
Have a drink on the house, have a ball!”

“Religion and warfare have all disappeared,
You can do what you like, no one cares;
Just keep the place tidy and put out the cat,
And make sure you have clean underwear.”

Then my sad old alarm clock, it brought me right back
As the snooze button started again;
If I didn’t move soon I’d be late for my work
Spreading hatred and terror and pain.

We’ve all bought a ticket
whether we want to or not
No unclaimed tickets
to add to the ***
Another 700 unlucky
winners today
A newsreader reports
in a blasé way
So, I sit in isolation
I’ve done all I can do
Then dream of tomorrow's draw
will it be me, or you

All of my life I have had a problem with keeping eye contact.

They say eyes are the mirror of the soul.

The only times I don't have a problem is when I am enraged with someone.

It was so bad when I was a child that I could not even watch the news on TV, as I thought the newsreader was looking at me.

Deep shame was the cause.

Thanks Dad.