in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best

my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.

King America,
my King,
King America,
whom i live under,
King America,
who freed me of tryanny,
replaced only with illusions of security,
King America,
you tell me I'm free,
but all that can be seen,
you and me,
suffering with no means,
King America,
to no avail,
King America,
you abolished slaves,
but with your dictionaries,
created a word,
King America,
this is the wage im suppose to make?
come on my back hurts and I'm feeling the pain,
King America,
I'll feed and support you,
sew the clothes on your back,
make the beds you sleep in,
and even scratch your ***,
but as soon as the sun sets,
your nowhere to be found,
King America,
your a royal pain in the behind,
King America,
I'll give you this,
your good with your lies,
you talk with your mouth,
making me believe your eyes,
your face might even think its telling the truth,
but all along i can see your hands,
slidding the pawns,
your think your sneaky,
King America,
you use your religions and fears,
mark the masses,
I hope they easily scare,
King America,
you think your god,
King America,
if anythings the truth,
we shouldn't question,
we wouldn't search,
we couldn't know the answer,
it's all buried beneath the earth,
King America,
I'm sick of your ****,
you **** me off,
and you know what *******,
King America,
your looking to fight,
pawns,
batallions,
war heroes and crimes,
black hawks night vision goggles,
might as well throw in a b2,
tanks,
mortars,
and soldiers,
a few million,
why not?
King America,
as you stand there behind your game,
King America,
im just one man,
holding tight my hands,
King America,
look down your sights,
King America,
he's just one man,
who cares about his views?
King America,
I won't tell you "not" to shoot,
thats up to you,
King America,
I'd be your friend but your a bit of a ******,
King America,
you say your so great,
but look at the people who have no food,
King America,
the thirty plus percent,
that have no shoes,
King America,
look at the poor and tell me,
your happy with your thrown,
playboys  and penthouses,
yachts and jets,
5 irons and 3 woods,
business deals and synergy,
banks and loans,
monopoly and mafia,
but besides that mrs. lincoln how was the show?
King America,
you make me laugh,
or at least the fact,
that so many would rather see black,
King America,
you've colored your flag,
white for purity and innocence,
red for the valor of war,
blue for the chief,
had to get fancier and had a star,
a symbol of the heavens,
the divine goal to which man,
hath aspired from time immemorial,
dont forget the stripe,
symbolic of the rays of light,
King America,
too bad thats a lie.

racing through the night
fast as light,
toward the great unknown,
the little acorn nut was
reminded of the old adage,
"hang on to your hat"
and so she did.


first stop was to the factory
where well crafted &
educated hands
stroked her smooth grain
& magnificent wood,
so long hidden,
standing so long un-admired.

at last the day came,
she was loaded upon the truck,
so very carefully,
gentle to not mar
nor bump,
as she was moved.

reaching the city,
all the brights lights,
the city trees dotted
the avenues
and huge grand park,
spurning the excited hi's
of this little country
bumpkin.

but she would not dally,
nor carry on, with
the highend bookcases,
chairs, tables and others,
living floor after floor
above the city.
those in the penthouses
holding the works and books,
those rubbing shoulders  
and bums,
with the highfalutin
literary few.
the poets & artists & writers
that deign to look down on
poor you.

every night,
under the light,
she laid there beaming,
her beauty so deep
for all to see,
gleaming.

no diva, nor screeching ingenue,
puffed up egotisical  baffoon,
or shrew,
could bring her down.
for she knew,
that without her,
there could be no show.
for without her,
in all her floor glory,
there simply
would be
no stage!

and the little acorn nut
was glad!

In my folly, of following fathers that have come before me;
I find myself lost, strewn about, and blown off course.
Teachers taught me time, in only the most linear of directions.
Yet the sins of those long past, seem to rest a weight,
Heavy upon my back.
Each of us an Atlas, on our knees before our masters.

It seems quite the contradiction, to have freedom inside a system.
Where rules are loose, in their applied use.
A game of pick and choose;
Played with loaded dice, that always seem to favor the few.
We the beast of burden, weakest first, penthouses the new-age church
Where the powers preach the verse.

Lost in our lack of direction, like southern-bound birds,
Plucked of their feathers.
Grounded in work boots, dumbfounded and resolute,
In poisoning our connective roots.
Fields of flowers and acres of pine, burning with the flame,
Stolen from us, somewhere along the line
A sinking ship, with only ***** rags to plug the holes.
Streets once paved with gold,
Forever cracked like our collective souls.

I am speaking with a homeless man.
He got 7 dollars in his pocket.
A smile on his face.
And his heart is warmer than most penthouses.
I listen to his old voice while I listen
To music by a star who is far more poor.

I’m outside and the air is so crisp it’s turned brittle
When I move, my hair cracks with electricity
As if with each step I take, I displace
And crinkle the wafer oxygen.
My hair, it is poised like a snapping electric halo,
And I think how many angels have also had feet
Which knew this frozen, frosty soil like mine do.
What a shame we could not have met and compared notes.
Above is a ceiling, nearer than people credit to be.
There is no navy shroud tonight,
Seasoned with the universe.
It is not even a black curtain,
But instead a piece of smoke fogged glass, graying.
Above the briery penthouses of the evergreen boundaries,
Against which the glass rests,
Is a blush of light, to the North, tattle of a city.
They call it light pollution, a lightening of the sky
Due to artificial, phosphorescent, perpetual pantomimes of noon: streetlights
And I see two electric halos,
One belonging to me
One the heavens,
And I think how funny that
Without the dry, horrid winter air,
or the residue of a wasteful city of men,
No halos would exist.

the beast from the land
the beast from the sea
a false prophet
an antichrist
do they walk among us?
I'm no longer scared by ghouls, ghosts, or goblins
no longer do I fear the axe ****** or serial killer or ******
it's the supposedly good, god fearing, men of family that I fear
I fear the man who would see us enslaved for his profit margin to become slightly more pleasing
I fear the man who stands idly by supporting the massacre of the poor and innocent
so he can walk atop their corpses to pluck the apple from the tree of good and evil
these monsters aren't under the bed
they're not in the closet
they sit in breezy air conditioned office penthouses in the places were trouble doesn't mean the same thing as it does to us
keep your lanterns close children
and not just for tonight
don't talk to strangers
but certainly don't talk to men and women in nice suits who say they have your best interests at heart
these pigs have no hearts
all they have is hunger

We love urban, ice wrapper choc full, dense with matter, cream the power runs through, finding space, each cell. Unit, one by one, stacked upon deck, pile, floating concrete and multi access path. Crank each floor, glass patent steel, glint the Thames, Humber and Clyde, a boat in the reflection, slum cleared gentle penthouses on the other side. Dogged, ***** not allowed, Barking, Hackney, Toxteth, Little Ireland aka Cardiff gone. Dodo, hatchet, escalate poverty, high rise cool, the high rise flat.  Crowning glory, a sea of chiming memories, stirs the tenement cat. Swept beneath the paradigm, catapult off the parapet, somersault into a different time, moonlit skyscrapers, street sweepers become the concrete and the fifty foot glass dancers, cross between the cargo arches, gargoyles and shields bring them to the ground. The twisted metal of prams and brand new cars grind, traffic in drones, and the city drowns. Strip turn central, gorgeous girl, Hoxton lad, a touch too Dad, deposit on a Liverpool street pad, generation retro spinning fractal, money linear pavement uber yellow, scuttling insects and street martins, skylarks flying Saint Pauls cross and ball bearings, shopping centres unending. Biting into Cheapside, the hidden livers, gold delivers, pure to stay the shivers, the office block rises. Sharp bends, the bridge divides, shark rides the sky, dumps the bank and pierces its side, docks in every city worldwide, rivers pink with the ticklish blood of regicide. Pumpish, Victorian, sweet and blue, the older the City the quicker the glue. Mortar rectified a moment to ***** and overawe you. Shock, new wave architecture, backhanded awe. Brum pill wave beast eat your heart out, find another Chinese storm, currency blizzard, scales hardly balance, aha you had it, now you simply own. Own the moment, the pebbledash, corrugated roof, outside toilet and underground transit. We love urban, your moment we cherish and drain, there is nothing we can’t refuse to understand, too complex to refrain. Bounce as we ride the terrace and its suburban long train. Take your sweetheart on the nightbus, ****** him her, the hier of your plane, that’s where they will love you in the memories of the life near the top floor, and the final flight you were too drunk to gain. Seventy Two, you’re only thirty and you’re on forty one. You’ll fall back or you’ll begin ascendency. Shrink with wisdom, pick up the building, a tool, dreaming of scaling London, young a journeyman, jousters young son, learned, resisted the gun. I’ll fight with two hands, pile bricks or guide with a pen. Draw your city, write my memory, bind moment with every fragment, underpath, cycle through. Lights fading, jumping colours in the district where the girls who live the density beyond you and me, each element boiling their hearts and steaming potent New York’s paths. You had poetry in the apron of your mother’s lap, golden syrup and milky sap. You love urban, fifties bubble contrast in your seventies shunted through urban oasis and with that unknown factor, uber bijou, ‘Finding Nemo’ flat. We are urban, you are fashion, you are the generation that copied that, found the culture in the swinging city, post uni shack. Seven Eleven, Atlantic side heaven, promised more than double checking your watch before bedtime. Look at your daughter, she’s got ‘more than’ you hoped for, already in the palm of her sleeping hands, waking up to a metropolis only she will understand.

Low-lit along the coast
young boys play bones upon the stone, and the elders,
waiting for the sea, conceal their interest.
The waves are far enough to ignore
but the salt mist has lingered:
blurs the tracks about the strand made by creatures whose names you once knew;
lost now amongst the streaming lists and orchestral sounds that drown the young before bedtime.

for some time prophesy or tradition,
the journeys tracing symbols down to
the sepulchral cities that rust under water –

Sometimes bring droughts,
reveal spires and penthouses, weathervanes and aerials.
lose a notebook and die elderly gardening temples.

fear life in sustenance.

fear primordial words
that chime like glass honey traps
dull and shallow.

fear
the panoramic shots of cattle
, a great still herd shivering breakers of light,
the temporary herder, you weren’t permitted to see, chasing away baboons with long-ish strides behind you.
poetry is always chasing
and each step will always chase better,
transcribing the soughs of the meadow (or other inhuman acts)
to speak with running subtitles:
in the translation of a voice
to be some natural thing singing
like the humpback corrupting the grace of the older song
whilst tootling along the coast

We've let fear become the novacaine
Like whiskey for the wounds
Swallowing denial pills
For truths that lie ahead
Injecting hopelessness
With needles of realities too real
For optimism's foreign policy
Behind our walls
We alienate the cure
To division's disease

A contagion known by many names
Ignorance is uttered most
A sickness in the veins
Of cancerous medical costs
A pestilence set upon
The amber fields of grain
A plague quarantining classes
In prison-bars and penthouses
A famine on the families
In this minimum cage

Where once we flew with eagles
Now we wallow in the dirt
Born into a dying world
Grown from selfish roots
Watered on pessimism
Bending to the will of hate's
Axe of opportunity
Cutting down the other trees
That dared to share the light of our
American dreams

The gleam of the skyscraper is like sunlight on
a pond glimpsed through trees or a free
and joyous river

I am thirsty, yet I have no desire to drink. The well
is poisoned.

The towering architecture opens to the marvels of modernity; their shining windows reveal
the revered throne rooms of CEOs, and workers tapping away
an army of ants to ensure order, according to their rules
and handbooks but above all
by uncertain individuals watching those around them.

And the violence of their tapping keyboards and polite emails
and the penthouses to which they aspire
the life of a bank throbbing
through the steel skeleton of a building that is larger than life,
larger than
those left to die
      trying to get some sleep in the streets
      kicked in the ribs by police
      a different kind of life haunts their heartbeats.

The city has swallowed its own streets and sidewalks
and spits out skeletons
bones dry from its desperate extraction
****** to dust to coat that shining cityskape, the sweat and blood drained from pores to make the steel and the glass
drips away slowly, revealing only dust.

The well is poisoned -
I am dying of thirst -
I wonder which death
will be less painful

Rough spoken men with hands like shovels
Overbearing women full of laughter and cuddles
***** brick mills and deserted old pits
United and City and kids with zits
Redundant old docks where boats used to sail
Now luxury penthouses for the rich to prevail
Finney, Kingsley and the great Robert Powell
The Hollies, the Beatles and the Gallaghers scowl
Tony Wilson, Factory Records and his rebellious acts
Hadrians Walls reveals many artefacts
Strangeways, gangsters and criminal ways
But our streets are safe as the government says
Tramstops, trainlines and buses fly along
Taking the North West’s finest to the places they belong
Canal Street, China town and the Northern Quarter
Scarily high death rates in the cold bitter water
Pride, Eid and diversity through the streets
Down the motorway lies the Cavern where the Liverpudlians still meet
Tragedy and solidarity and the beautiful bee crest
This is my place of birth this is the North West

In 2016, her luck took flight, 
Ninety-eight million gleaming bright. 
A young lady with dreams so tall, 
Little did she know she'd soon lose it all.

She danced in wealth, she bought, she spent, 
Invested in ventures wherever she went. 
A year of glory, her future seemed grand, 
The world was hers, riches in hand.

But money’s a beast with a playful grin, 
What looks like winning can lead to sin. 
She bought businesses, one after another, 
Until each venture began to smother.

One day her dreams took a sharp turn, 
The businesses crashed, her fortune burned. 
Stocks fell fast, investments sank, 
Suddenly her millions dwindled to blank.

The jokes began, her fortune now gone, 
"I used to be rich! Now where's my dawn?" 
She laughed at the loss, to hide her despair, 
A comedic mask for a life unfair.

From penthouses high to a humble street, 
She learned how quickly wealth can retreat. 
Now she's back where she once began, 
Riches may come, but they sure don’t plan.

So, she reflects as the world rolls by, 
Money may shine, but don’t ask why. 
For fortune's fickle, it comes and it goes, 
In everyday life, who really knows?