Tonight I went to a house warming party,
Just to be nice,
When I really should have been at home,
With my hungover head on ice.

I didn't like most of the people there,
They bored me in fact,
Especially the cliche hippies with long dreaded hair,
Clothes, barely intact.

As the night went on,
The washed up ****** ****,
Came through the gate.
One by one by one.

I don't have time for people,
They drain me.
Trying to be nice by buying minors alcohol,
But no one repays me.

The welcome wasn't the warmest,
I was patronised because of my mode of transport,
By yet another ****** ****,
And his tattered up Jansport.

Eighteen years to realise,
That the public and I don't get a long.
Eighteen years later and I can guarantee,
That i'll be singing my own funeral song.

Modern cultural asimilation
is the mass genocide of a tribal nation
westernly patronised translation
of an intricate thousand year old civilisation
turn the station on natural creation
fire up the ovens for creamation

These cultures have survived
while we ignore our insticts and blindly thive
hunting and gathering searching for the illusive
nutrient rich honey comb hive

Our lives run amuck in big empty huts
dust gathers on fire place mantels
while tribes try to cope and handle
their lives charged on cards to buy cattle

Governments think they own them
like property shattled, savages is
what theyre labeled

A lovely Barry Hodges poem

People think that Calais is just a charming port on the flat French coast
Replete with exquisite restaurants patronised by English visitors
Who have crossed the Channel to get a decent meal for once,
And who want to take advantage of the wondrous *savoire vivre francais,
Even though they will get wittily insulted for their English accents.
There is more: the town has some of the finest late 40s architecture
To be found anywhere in the western world, spontaneously thrown up
After la ville ancienne was 95% flattened by the gallant but clumsy Brits
In what is still patriotically referred to as "La Libération".
But there is yet more to this gourmands' and cheap ***** buyers' mecca:
Believe me, I know, I have suffered a grievous and terrible loss there
When I blundered into a cheese shop on the Rue Royale one summer's day.

My companion that day was my dear fifth wife,  Winifred
(a four foot high but stoutly built ***** with a major speech impediment),
And, being attracted from five streets away to Maison Le Merde,
The world-famous fromagerie, by its unearthly overpowering pong,
My dear one, my lovely ****** spouse, dragged me through the door.
Choking back a desire to gag, she started stammering away to M. Le Merde,
Trying to order a couple of hundred grams of Carré de Mort Absolue,
When Mr L.M lost his rag totally and assumed wifey was trying to mock him
(How could one have known Monsieur was the French stuttering champion?)
And so he took out the cleaver he habitually kept behind the counter
To deter English tourists from stealing his cheesy comestibles,
And severed Winny's darling head in a single fell coup de grace
Which left her dramatically shorter than she previously was.

I managed to escape a similar dire fate by running like the clappers
And hiding in a nice toilette publique (femmes) while he stampeded by,
His mighty chopper in his cheese-impregnated Gallic paw.
And when I reported the matter to the gendarmerie, were they sympa?
They were no more helpful than seins sur un taureau fou
And insisted I should pay for the funeral there and then in advance,
Threatening me with a real good thumping dans mes **** should I decline.
Dear God, I shall have to use a different entry port to France next time
(although sur le grapevine I hear Boulogne is a bit of a dump),
But at least there aren't so many ******* would-be refugees.

Visual chaos runs havoc in a weeping world,
echoes of screaming pain in my bleeding words.
The ocean is made from nothing but tears,
a reflection of the fears we hold and self worth.
The stars are slowly fading away into darkness,
love is dying as everybody is becoming heartless.
It seems evil is free to roam in every path,
could we imagine exactly what the stars felt?
We live our lives on hope; an article now lost,
everything we ever once had is now gone.
Faith and belief are becoming nothing but myths,
and dead are now the dreams we had of bliss.
My pen is hurting at the tip leaking drops of blood ink,
silent screams I can hear synonymous to what i think.
Truth has become what we feared as nightmares,
and yet unaware we remain of what the shadow brings.
I'm lyrically paralysed when they physically analyse,
Individually agonised as my syllables detect paradise.
We sit back as we watch the world being visibly vandalised,
And how the seekers of truth are ridiculously patronised.
The winds whisper the secrets of life we never found,
The sins linger with the sight of hell and it's sound.
We have lost this war against the creeping shadows,
and are consumed by our thoughts and our doubts.

Lately I’ve been sinking into an infinite abyss of perspective reflection
I’m afraid I will never be able to trust myself
I’m afraid I will never become enlightened and that my conscious will sink deeper into my subconscious
I’m scared witless that I will-become a chain smoker , one day
I’m afraid that one day I’ll die lonely
I’m terrified of being patronised
I’m fearful of chronic nightmares
I’m panicky of being criticised
I’m afraid I’ll die a pessimist
And I’m scared of anxiety
Its all beginning to make sense now ,
I’m afraid of getting warped into societies superficiality
I’m afraid of growing into an apathetic and sadist human being
I’m horrified of getting ****** into humanities conformity and contentness
I’m horror-struck by the fact that this youth is not eternal
The public can never know I wrote this.
- Wanda

My friends embarrassing moment.
Some people's minds whirl around all the time to make things fine
It's getting stranger all the time
It's getting stranger all the time
I sat in a suit drinking some soup with a partner of mine
As if I would be commiting a sort of crime
If I wore jeans and a T'shirt with I am trying to be different written on it ;I hope you do not mind ;
I heard the manager call the police and they said" tell him he is walking a very thin line"
Now just leave and we will be sending you in the post the attire you should be wearing if you travel and want to sit and dine"
Patronised enough I looked in the mirror of the restaurant and realised I was naked all the time and the other people did'nt like to say but your ***** is in my eye line
I was a victim of a criminal that had stripped me of my identity I find
I did a few selfies with a bottle of plonk two waiters and some spaghetti some banana custard and a piece of ham then my friend came back from the toilet and we swiftly left as he whilst peeing spilled some over the bowl and was too embarrassed so felt nothing left but to incline to leave.

I'm so sick of being patronised
I'm so sick of the way I'm treated
I'm so sick of my current state

They say " get on with it " but honestly how can I ? My brain aches , my heart was broken months ago .

All I have left now is the comfort of silence .

For the sake of congruence and honesty…
I can’t see past the fetid belch
of regurgitated thoughts.
Sickened by text book humility,
patronised by plastic empathy.
An original concept might not **** you
you’re an affront to Human dignity.
Person centred; the caring profession,
at odds with my apparent aggression,
I’m not an idiot, stupid, weak willed,
I’m the same as you … just mentally ill.

The grooves of the door handle
clasp too perfectly about your
fingerprints. Push, don’t pull

and enter into my splendor.
The expanse of the corridor
is slightly familiar to you. The
gait, the wait, the bate
of your breath and the silence
that follows and the violence
that crashes through the expanse
of my corridor are
slightly familiar to me.

The master bedroom is
straight down the street and
a left turn after two blocks,
past the cafe you irregularly
patronised for all those years
where I could get but a glimpse
of the sunrise through the window.
It has a his and his, a walk-in
wardrobe and easily removable
wallpaper. If you would like to tear
it down because the deja vu
is too strong then I have about three
hundred other instances of solo
interactions between you and me, and a
colour palette no other interior
redesigner could ever possibly imag-

You peek past the slightly neglected
washroom, clinical scents wafting out
like blood washing off wounds that are
never meant to stop bleeding but
rather are orifices we pretend to
not understand. The leaky faucet hums
a tune you played on the harmonica
three years ago. You recognise off-white
tiles from the freckles of your face. I am
in the medicine cabinet, just waiting
for you to reach in and patch me up
along with the ever-bleeding orifices but even now
as I ****** the faucet with a hundred
unfinished melodies the bathroom is still
flooding.

The living room is a graveyard. But you
can’t smell the bodies because I set a
reminder for myself to put on deodorant
every alternate week when I stumbled
past you to get to the same side of the street as you
but each time a different car
would kiss my knees and colour my bruises in and
each time you would
already be
gone.

This next room is under construction.

This next room is under construction.

This next room is utter destruction.

-

I reach into the medicine cabinet and grab at nothing
and suddenly the wallpaper is just the pattern
of my shirt sleeve because I have long forgotten
the name of the cafe I saw you in once.

I watch the expansive corridor become
fragments of impossible sidewalks and
mono-coloured zebra crossings. I can
no longer see the sunrise through
the window. I have never seen the sunrise.

Do you know my name?

-

The grooves of the door handle
clasp too awkwardly about your
fingerprints. Don’t pull, don’t push.

Enter into my splendor.