We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We see the youngens, they little bait,
but once we hooked them,they'll be
piranha's in our tank, stripping the
dignity from out of your
                        voice in 20 seconds flat.  

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We strung up your boys, gasping for air.
But once we got our hooks on you
                               were gutting you easy.
But not before we get what we need from
                                                     your pleads.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Look little fish you in a tank of sharks,
we grin our grills gravestones of  what you
                   see last before your dispatched.  
But don't you worry there are plenty to keep
you company down there, you ain't the first
                             and you ain't going to be the last.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We got nicknamed the fisherman, we sail into
your town catching what ever we want.
        We don't scrap the sea floor hoping
for a catch. We fish for the real deal.
  Disillusioned of the fish bowl they swimming in.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Making it even easier to catch, to turn them from
                neighbourhood trash to one of our sharks.
showing other that once we got you hooked,
the only way you leaving is dead floating at the
bottom of the tank.

                We coming to your postcode.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

i swear, the biggest anti-ageist
comeback missing
from the script of we **** the old way
lies with the scriptwriter's
phobia of o.c.d.,
                 i'm guessing he experienced
it personally,
              i wish he experienced dementia
clearer of his granddad
   succumbing: o.c.d. in old age?
it's not big deal... it's no big deal...
             enough botox and soon all that glamour
and paying your respects soon fades,
fattens up and chokes on the artistic
rubric: you need rich artists to
satire rich people... stop nagging
at Katy... be, *******, thankful,
you little cat-whiskers for a ******
moustache kitty-fiddler...
           ever **** at a girl taking a selfie?
let's say it's a blank canvas, and
you're working on it...
        how can this girl can become a
crown or the abhorred fling with
missing Welsh fetishes of excess
           ****** dangle-bits?
                       i have few entry points
i like i consider...
                 before she shaves the *****,
but did you know my godmother
           is a doctor and she doesn't shave
her legs?
                     i joked at that,
i joked for the simplicity:
              why do i have to don mine
and the theory of Darwinism is never
complete? because of aesthetics,
there's a natural instinct, a natural bound
contraband that IS NEVER, EVER TINGED WITH
CHRISTIANITY... **** Radio Maria and
Priest Rydzyk too along with
                John Paul the Tarmac Kissing Saint...
popes like pop-stars: the world's a stage:
better look the prettiest...
             thank Katy... she got cool and rich
enough to covert any criticism of wealthy kids
of Las Vegas...
                          if she wasn't here i'd be dead:
i don't love her like a girl might love
the next best: never-left high school bestseller
for young girls...
                                     my black horse is
quirky and still working on working smug
rather than donning a thong at a cat-walk...
                 but my point?
the comeback the gangsters should have served up
those ****** lips?
                                rapper movie
fakes never taught you how to shoot...
                the gun goes linear: shoot, vertical...
not cool-sly horizontal...
                         you're shooting with a blind spot...
rich girls' songs for poor girls to
cat-fight over who's the better gimmick
of impersonator...
                      but the old Hackney farts still
don't have the quick-snap-comeback...
                  the colts keep referring to E2...
a postcode...
                       the old ladies should have said:
i better move there, seems like a hot-spot
for the postcode lottery!
                           the colts keep referring
to the E2 club....
                             the crew, the gang...
i'm still thinking about these pensioners
nailing them to chairs and drilling through their
bones to the marrow for the Moscow ladies
acting out the faint in the hands  
                       of chevaliers of her retirement plans...
E2? is that a postcode lottery for
                 the losers?
and the "sad" story is? in Poland we all came from
a Communist housing estate...
            only peasants in semi-detached housing...
i guess all these smart-*** young folks
are pretending to be gangsters when all they're
all aspiring to is own a pair of shoes with hay sticking
out of them: and i.t.v. come november...
               well, the casting was smart,
the accents 10 out of 10...
                   but the final point of the accents
in talk?              slow math...
                            is      E2 designated as
the case for a joke about postcode lottery?
                 one thing they're loudmouths...
another that they're also foul-mouths...
                             can't be one and the other...
                  if you're going to be a prop'ah
foul-mouth, better be a slow-mouth
               or a shush-mouth...
                                  and if you're going to
be a loud-mouth, i'd prescribe you Southampton's
away-support choir: oh when the saints...
oh when the saints come marching in...
                                no wonder gang culture
never picked up from loud-mouth birthrights of
the suggested History X...
                               borrowing from History ***:
flash news! there are more things on
my head than just hair to play toothpicks with concerning
self-doubts and the easiest solution:
            a man was crucified...
                               some say we never perfected
democracy as the civilised peoples of the world
as the Jews never perfected plebiscites as the
              "backward" peoples of the desert...
           if race coordination can't be joked about
but getting offended at:
           i'd love the Irish potato diet and the
dates served for breakfast lunch and dinner in Israel...
or in better representation?
the Pig of God... Jesus stinking like a pig
                 before the perfumes of Pilate...
skew: north-by-northwest: a good Hitch reminder:
sheep up toward Scotland...
                           but pigs that north and east...
well: pigs...
                         or how to make words
holy and meaningless when talking about the price
of butter...
                     but that's beside the case for
a quick comeback about the postcode lottery...
           or the grit of Bronson - the film,
esp. the nurse scene...
                       no spoilers... you never know when
it's happening...
                                 the greater the film,
the more monologue orientated...
                                    claustrophilic -
                                                   so you wonder
shoving that **** into the craniums of little boys:
why are they making them do it...
                        and at what point is it legal in
the social realm of guessing at all the rainbow possibilities?
   my theory? most paedophiles had failed
relationships in their teens...
                                  and they never wanted to
experience the complexities of a woman who finally
realised: ****! daddy died! i'm not a princess!
                   it's not a fear of being inadequate,
it's the fear of an inadequate woman...
                  the most adequate woman is a woman
who still resolves to the idealistic world,
rather than the realistic world -
                                   i never understood the
criminal hierarchy...
                                       in the criminal ring it would
appear no moral superiority is akin
   to bullying in school...
                                              choose the easiest
loss of moral judgement and bash it into the head...
    or what Marquis de Sade taught me...
               for most men it's the pink elephant in
the room...
                              or a light-bulb...
****** and theft is still all Robin Hood, the instilled
   heroism: moral ambiguity...
               i don't see how the other crime isn't also
an ambiguity...
                              the *** of man is already displaced
from the *** of woman...
                      why wouldn't age by that ****** ambiguity
not be squared? and doubly unfathomable?
   what made me write this?
               standing at a bus stop...
a girl coming back from school...
                                                 what?
this is a cognitive ping-pong...
                                     what?
                                                   what?!
               i'd dare David the Naturalist come out
from his comfort environment of
                 two monkeys *******, gorillas
with harems and all that easy gesture...
                   man and woman? eyes.
     all the limbs and bones captured by the eyes...
it's not that i don't spend enough time among people
to start imagining these quirks...
                 it's that i spend enough time
                 among people to not start imagining
quirks.

Forget the post code lottery
and go for some sort of
Middle England coterie
beware of the railway towns
and all they used to promise
avoid the light industrial towns
the ones that make biscuits
and plastic windows and trap your
children in call centres
the comfort of non-jobs
selling nothing to people who
are nonetheless convinced
they need it
and avoid cities with cathedrals
and universities
they are artifice personified they
have only one aim to debilitate you
with pretense and false hope
and sophistry deep in Middle England and
Do Not Go To Cities With Ports
they are as thieves in the night
forever looking for opportunity
eternally gazing outward beyond
the boundary of shores unwaveringly
scathing of convention and respectable
behaviour
And ignore dormitory towns exurbia and similar
designed only to eat and sleep in
and cut the grass although
the swinging scene
may have its diversions
and then those army towns cowering
below the shambling spectre of
beaten squaddie pubs concrete and
brick boxes with overflowing bottle banks
and what of flower filled market towns
with neat shops and bi-weekly markets
and Friday night louts and teeming
takeaways and broken windows but
you can escape
to a suburban bungalow
lock the gate feed the carp
watch wildlife progammes and
laugh
then running running running
you find
a suitable small mountain village
where you unwittingly
unexpectedly after stroking a
black and white cat
get run over by a drunken postman
in a neat
little red van.

why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.

.Roger Moore!
  what? Roger Moore!
the definite Mishter Bond...
yeah yeah...
Sean Connery -
the, "original"....
  but Roger Moore had
Duran Duran to back him up!

First Name: Matthew
Surname: Elert
Address 1: 294 Havering Road
Address 2 (Rise Park) /  left blank
Town / City: Romford
Postcode: RM1 4TH
Tel: (+44) 01708 766 994
Email: m.k.elert@gmail.com
Date of Birth: 15      05       1985
Gender: Male.

Is this the first time you have bought Henry Westons Vintage cider?
No.

Where did you buy this bottle of Henry Westons Vintage cider?
Other.

Where do you do your main shop?
CO-OP on days when Russian Standard is on offer, given that CO-OP has your cider on a constant 3 for £5 all the time, otherwise Tesco, 15 minute walk, but still CO-OP for your cider.

In a few words, what made you buy Henry Westons Vintage?
I feigned a desire to drink more Magners, or for what matter the Swedish ciders (Kopparberg, Rekorderlig, etc.) - it's actually genius how your cider, standing at a whopping 8.2% alcohol volume... can't be branded an alcoholic's wet-dream like Carlsberg's Export most assuredly could. What a pristine balance of combating the sugars, that, other ciders, don't allow... I mean, at surfacing just shy of 5% in the Swedish examples? Near suffocating over-sweetness, taking a dog for a walk that was adamant on pulling the leash and hanging itself in the horizontal canvas would be more enjoyable than, walking with a bottle of those ciders... not enough alcohol to equilobrate the sweetness of a cider, per se... simply perfecto! I've already made the same point  on https://tinyurl.com/y7eaweeg... so, suma summarum: nothing, exactly made me buy the cider, originally, perhaps the logo, or some plain boredom from the Magners' and Swedish standards... but on 2nd purchase? The ****** quality, that simply transcends this question, in terms of advertisement "concerns"; p.s. you don't need to expand into pear cider. Any chance of hearing some Sonny Clark or Herbie Hancock at the festival? What about Joshua Redman?

you never know...
i might have a chance of visiting America...
if i win the Westons' Cider lucky draw...
and head over to the New Orleans' Jazz festival...
i like jazz...
   more than classical music...
well... within the reasonable constraints
of ******* on Handel's conductor's wand...

    smoochy smoochy...
   a helium balloon...
   dipped in either honey
or vanilla extract...
        chasing it...
     while a baby in a tram,
by accident,
                       releases it.

The city plays cat and mouse
and pefects the fear.
Jaggered lights dazzle
the victim
and nautical terms are resurrected as shanking.
Hospitals in an ode to Johannesburg's ingenuity
repair the injurious knife wounds
caused not by weekend lighter fuel
but a postcode lottery
undone only by the postman.

i only noticed it today - from the wide opening spaces,
the scarce forests and horses grazing -
where everyone around here looks very much feral -
and even behaves feral - it's sometimes eye-opening
seeing the big city - the rat channels - the avoidance
of staring each other in the eyes -
the number of mobile phones in almost constant use -
a grant antopia that London and other cities have
become - behemoths in their own right -
but what's most eye-opening is the perfect skin
of the populace - i can almost claim a Joseph Merrick
appearance - relativity has nothing to do with it -
the 21st century and the Victorian era are completely
two different swarms of fish - Londoners' perfect skin,
with mine like fields of Ypres during world war two -
or quiet simply: mine the moon-face - littered with
tiny bullet incisions - even if i wanted, on this
basis i wouldn't land an executive job - an office job -
these people look for pampered - so docile even -
busy docile, but so docile - and once in a while you
see a glimmer of what it's all about - a public show
of affection - a couple lost in a moment between one
underground train and the next on the tube platform -
it's mesmerising seeing such moments, such is
their rarity - for you know judging by the overall
consensus - that so too is rare an old couple - as also
a family outing - the consensus speaks a different urbanity -
not such Edenic delights in the firestorm of concrete
and sweat and fast-food outlets, overpriced beer and overpriced
coffee - priced according to the postcode and the view.

but enough of that... the ballet! the first time i went
to a ballet it was to see *swan lake -
i was put off - a sour taste on my tongue, i thought
i'd give all future ballets a pass -
then Bolshoi came along out of the blue -
i had someone else's ticket, so i went for free -
i could be all hot-air ponce puffing that it's Bolshoi -
and as if by miracle... i fell in love -
the main reason? when i went to see the swan lake
it was like watching an enlarged centipede
stomping on the stage - it was staged in the Royal
Albert Hall... they also play tennis in the Royal Albert...
the ground is too hard... when the swan lake
ballerinas pranced en pointe the centipede was out...
it even managed to overpower the orchestra -
the great en pointe centipede of royal albert hall -
the difference! the difference! when ballet becomes
silent - effortless - as it was today at the royal opera
house with a softer stage - given the play, i was
expecting the ballet dancers to imitate a bull's hoof
hitting the ground before charging - that came,
since we had matadors on stage - Don Quixote was
there too (obviously), but more in a comic role
as sheer presence - if the character danced, the whole
adaptation would have been a complete failure -
ballet and romance - who would Don Quixote dance
with, a ******* windmill? he's cameo compared
to the dancers - and all the more effective, since the
opening scene is wholly dedicated to him,
when he decides to go on his quest - Sancho runs into
his house with stolen meat, three women are after him,
so Sancho decides to hide under Don Quixoté's table  
(yes, they pronounced it with an acute e, otherwise
tongue-waggling business-as-usual); but to be honest
act i through to half of act ii doesn't feel like ballet at
all - not like swan lake felt like by comparison,
there are accents of ballet - accents as in that soloists
performing with what would otherwise be a bubonic
plague of other ballerinas missing - not to mention
that some of the soloist feats are done with the legs
being kept a secret / i.e. hidden - we get flamenco
dancers, not ballerinas - i came here to see Bolshoi
flamenco? well that's the good part - then all the
Spanish allure vanishes - phoom! puff! it's gone -
Don Quixote is taken ill and collapses in a forest -
loses consciousness and wakes into a dream -
boom! 30 odd ballerinas on stage dressed in tutus
of light azure - out of nowhere in the middle of act ii
and all the way through to the end of act iii we have
pure ballet - all the techniques, from
a (pirouette) à la second - a brisé - a fouetté -
a male grand jeté - everything you can imagine basically.
thank god Don Quixote doesn't dance but is the cameo
vehicle moving things along - fighting with windmills
or dancing ballet with windmills? i'm not too sure now,
it's more fun i suppose having actually read the book -
in the ballet the windmills' debacle comes much later
than in the book - it's like this two part story -
just before Don Quixote collapses in the forest and
the ballet begins - we have three giants swirling on stage.
on a less gratifying note though - so many Russians
in the house - i guess paying to see Bolshoi in Moscow
must be expensive, cheaper to fly to London and
see it here - but then again... why am i surprised or remotely
bothered? i could have been as level headed in my
analysis as Kierkegaard at the theatre - but i can't -
the music is too intoxicating, the body language too
architecturally sound and impenetrable -
all i can say with an honest heart:
DON'T GO TO SEE BALLET AT THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL
(you'll be watching a centipede dance),
SEE IT AT THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE -
can't get a better summary than that.

you know what the biggest difference
between continental europe,
and the english isles?
                                      mosquitos...
on continental europe, you can be
swarmed by them in the summer...
                             on the english isles?
something akin to spotting nessie
                            (loch ness monster)...
they're like the oasis mirage in a desert...
i.e. hardly any!
                    you'll sooner get a spider
bite after a night's repose...
      oh **** me, my house is infested
with spiders...
             but as the proverb states:
                  a house filled with spiders,
is a happy home...
                        proverbs are always cryptic
and never make any direct sense
  akin to an ikea manual for putting up
a table...
    1 more proverbs:
       better a sparrow in your hand,
                         than a dove upon your roof
(that might be persian in origin,
     but i'm not too sure)...
                      i think that might mean:
better to act with peace, than to live in peace...
         well... live...
                         no one can attain
                a plateau of emotional tranquility
to be the kind of consistency
               that grants you an apathetic shield
   of defence against life changes.
still... mosquitos are ****** rare where
   i live...               like i said:
                       you're morely likely to be bitten
by a spider when sleeping...
                            and i have seen house-hold
spiders, a third of a tarantula's size, scuttling
around the place... well, it happened only twice...
but you get the idea.
             in terms of phobias?
         how is "islamophobia" an irrational fear
by the definition of phobia?
                       which part is the irrational part
of this so called "phobia"?
                              perhaps from islam per se,
being apprehensive of its own internal irrational
belief system?

City
almost  done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.

Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.

Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.

Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.  

It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.

I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.

I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.

The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.

Like depression or exposure to ****,
mid life crisis has permeated every age range,
unless I'm simply deranged
for it's that time of the night
and it's pouring down outside
giant rain drops hitting the glass window
and the roof
ruining the solitude
that I've started to embrace more and more
mainly because it's impossible to ignore
from the moment I wake up
and get back into bed
in between job hunting
comfort eating
procrastinating
facebook stalking
showering
whining
solitude is the one thing that has stayed all the way.
Whilst regretting life choices
doubting every decision
obsessing over Ex's
solitude is relentless
having made friends with unemployment
it has bottled the scent of the soon to expire visa
and rubbed it all over the clothes
in the suitcase
on the floor of the little box room
making everything smell of homelessness
bringing to life a far too familiar nightmare
a déjà vu
of all sixteen times addresses have been changed
in the last four years
but the worst is yet to come
as the next change could well be
to a postcode over 5000 miles away
where peers are getting married
having children
getting promoted
falling in love
whilst my social life
has conveniently been brought to a standstill
and having lost count
of all the Sunday masses missed
it is fair to presume
that all prayers would be dismissed
so what now
I'm only twenty four
with roughly three quarters of life left to go
and the only affirmation that can be made
is the years of solitude ahead

that Robin knows the turf-
it is theirs-
along with all the worms.

it was in the wrong shed

it may be the right postcode

but up the wrong track, the

one i talked about yesterday

Undeniably spontaneous in the splashes she makes in this word. Skipping herself across life feels easy when home doesn't have a postcode and everyone she meets is a friend.

*djm

‘ola ‘ippies!
howsh the shlombo ‘aggis?
neve’ tried it? ah... tut tut;
i'm telling you,
they're from birmingham!
no river, no flow!
please direct your concerns
to the L postcode and leave
your address;
we'll be with you shortly -
please do not panic if one of
our employees is wearing a balaclava:
it might be police officer.

You said I was the only step,
       but you always took one


back..

Never walking us forward,
   excuses, like I had to tie my laces,
         or my feet ache you walk on.

But I never looked back,
and you never moved forward.

We were a distance apart but I'd only
                  took one more step than
you.

But one can equal more when its
not synchronized with your heart.

The next day, you had walked off,
  we weren't even walking in the same
                                              postcode...

I took of the shoes I wore when we walked,
                and now I'm bare foot.


But you know what I'm walking further without


you.

My perception isn't clouded by your backward
        footing.

I'm free to walk without the pleasure
           of having to look backwards..

Just walking onward  without pausing to see
                           who cares how far my footsteps

have wondered,.

I'm strolling at my own pace
                                  passing with no goodbyes.

There is no place for the two sided face of racism,
Were one kind, human kind, and I don't mind, I take as I find,
Don't go on postcode, or selfie pic upload, or the vehicle you rode,
It's personality, your charity, what my mind sees as clarity,
That you have a heart, and you want to be a part, of this world, it's a start,
And we got to start somewhere, why not here, let it be clear, there's nothing to fear,
We can be one, were not alone, don't feel outdone, by a someone,
Were unique, we all stand on our own peak, we are not weak,
Take my hand, my fellow man, together we can,
Be free, at liberty, have one family tree, but most of all be happy,
We can rejoice in our choice,
We can be glad we had, coz were not all bad.

She never played by the rules,
          she asked me to hide.

I wasn't going to be the victim,
  shorty had a blade but I wasn't
  into
    being  her fatality.

deviating
                    postcode, different rules.

night of nothing
but tea
soothing the beast

burn fades
beach company
occupied towel

fish & chips
wealthy postcode
the sky turned black

blanket of hail
cracked from thunder
staccato notes

empty roads
despite saturday
a key in the door

early awakening
clouds outside
winged chorus

sun dim
rain again gathers
hugging the blankets

deciphering tweets
where do birds
shelter from storms

word on word
blood feud

lips smile while
lies sing

i was going to write about how
i made kolhapuri masala for a curry i made...
and how i forgot one ingredient
when writing about it
and how i solved a sudoku puzzle to remind
me of it...
and something about...
   the men-yoroi...
               and details of a dream...
             but why detail all of that?
     after all... i reserve the content of dreams
for myself...
i dream so rarely: i rarely have a chance
to ponder them...
i hear about elaborate labyrinths of
dream-walkers... and those people who
have recurrent dreams...
  part envy part: ******* idiots...
reflex not working... hell with a knee ****...
the entire knee is missing!
dream-walkers: ghost-limb extensions
that some make a summary of: brain's ditto:
ergo tweet!
otherwise the real deal...
      the idea came with... a book...
not just any book...
the romford public library can blush...
picked it up in edinburgh...
sold at £28-        the cheapest online? £60!
well... itch... itch... behave... behave...
it's not a shoe... or a pair! ha ha!

it's just a first edition... 1985...
   the anatomy of madness: volume 1 -
people and ideas ed. by w. f. bynum, roy porter etc.
    tavistock publications
         for more information...
please write to: 11 new fetter lane
                            EC4P 4EE...
    east(ern)-central... believe me... no city in england
is given a NW... or a SW... the greenwich
treatment of... far far away in
the "honk honk hanging with kong"
or... whatever that sort of postcode is...
i would say anything with E17 is probably
Warsaw or Berlin... and hardly walthamstow...

if you're looking for the centre of the earth...
otherwise please write to:
      29 west 35th street
                           NY 10001...

sometimes it's just necessary to hit a plank
of wood with a spandex whip...
or... bop around seemingly on the verge of
drowning and misguide a bottled message...
or... droll! what's a droll?
curious or unusual in a way
      that provokes dry amusement;
yes... hardly a doll.

might as well start calling it...
Dickensian out-of-vogue: vogue etymological
revival of... the victorian lexicon...
being heavily influenced by...
the attire of the empire being...
that of saving the myth of rome...
with... good manners... b.d.s.m. ******
parameters and... brandy drank...
with some water...
like... a frenchman would clean his palette
when drinking an espresso...

the essay in mind?
        w. f. bynum & michael never:
   hamlet on the couch...

well so much for english jurisprudence:
due process, innocent until proven guilty...
and all that "jazz"...
not under the flimsy / quasi-hippocratic
"oath"... machado de assis: the alienist...
you are always to be presumed mad:
you have to be presumed sick...
before you can be well...
it's not like you are ever to be well...
otherwise: how does a psychiatric logic
work? yes... all those "metaphysical"
conundrums...

     point being: my new discovery
of my rekindled ability to dream... is my new ****...
my new privacy...
how does hamlet on a couch matter?
how about... dickens in an armchair?
this is my alternative "doodle"...
if a shakespearean character is lying
on the couch...
what am i to do? in passing "listen"...
but doing nothing of the sort...
instead... reading some dickens...
and... having to finally...
succumb the victorian common colloquial...
i.e. of words: directly derived: etymologically
from latin - and loaned into english...
oh no... no romance concerning
Charlemagne, the vikings, the saxons...
the swabians or the dutch or the french...
what victorian england spoke:
having this phonetic encoding...
less and less imperium romanus and more
and more giuseppe belli sonnet slang...

cappuccino!
        e jjeerzera me diede un'antra stretta
    (last night she made me have another fit).
credi che ffussi uno scorpione? eh ggiusto!
era un pizzo d'un osso-de-bbaleno,
che jj'ussciva cqui ggiu ffora der busto.
    (you really think it was a scorpion?
yeah right, and not the piece of whale bone
which stuck our of the corset that she wore)...

so much for ancient rome...
so much so for victorian england...
what would you call it these-days...
if you started calling "it" a... 'lard-buff'?
    
as far as i am concerned: psychiatry is a branch
of "medicine"... or rather...
medicine has a tenctacle that reaches into
the parts of hades that only wriggling worms
get to chew on...
and at that: you're not presumed innocent...
you can't me... adverse logic:
you have to be sick... therefore guilty...
and how did ever... this loophole escape
the grand justices of the crown?
people pleaded insane: therefore guilty...
but thereby somehow exempt...
it's a satanic laugh i tell you...
                      no other... no less...
                  
                      you can't plead a case of law
when facing an antithesis copernican plea
of now standing up-side down in
australia: or the black swan...
or if caging a wallaby will ever bring you aid...

under english law: you are innocent...
until proven guilty...
under an extension of the hippocratic
oath within the realm of:
practice of psychiatry in england:
you are sick... until cured...
                 never can you be semi-well...
and therefore treated...
and by being treated... chances of you
making a recovery? ha ha...
chances of you becoming a spider
in a web designed by learned men...
lost in prefixes and suffixes and other sort
of ******* of rubric terminology?
oh hell!         cudos! applause applause
to you sir!

                the hamlet on the couch is
but a fraction of shakespeare...
for which i prescribe only one course of action...
some Dickens in an armchair...
no other cure for it, sir... and dearest madam...

and oh! oh i almost "forgot"...
why is it sourced as:
woda (water) and wódka (*****)...
such a close alliance...
but no... it's not a drinking water...
so much for water...
what is mirror? lustro...
       well...perhaps it shouldn't be called
for what it's called wódka:
the ill-water...
            perhaps it should be called:
pite-lustro...             drank-mirror...
well... it can't be called a verb and a past-particle
of that verb: pić-lustro: in the present-particle
of: to drink a mirror...

eh... nouns... loan words...
no man's land... brothels and judases...
easy targets... the bulk of the army hides waiting
in grammar...
unless... there's an army...
of "gender neutral pronouns"...
who wouldn't jump first and thirst for the idea...
mannequins eerie: err west!
the middle kingdom mantra began...
no nukes... nukes are not economically viable...
send em a bio-x-factor that the Y in XY will
sooner or later want to forget:
rather than forge...
we **** poor but our women give
the ****** of accelerated reproduction...

      Xin said to Wae Wae:
and that's how the Yang was brooded...
   and Chan said to Ezra: mind the Tao...
please!
  and all other politico: tic-toc
        tic-toc
                            some say it's *****...
some say it's: lustrzyca...
a mirroring-counter-effect...
  blind narcissus...
                my psychiatric ills:
too many words Wilhelm! too many words!
i need the pleb-lingo herr doktor helmut himmler!
to: "fitz inz"!
      
oh y'as sizzor: scissor sir: wery ilz sez he'z...
past the fever's crux 'n' zeniv sirs...

and of course... bad latin grammar...
working from vide cor meum:
     and ad hoc...
                             and a hiccup...
and carpe diem...
      hic: this...
   diem: day
   est: is
           mea: mine...
this day: is mine... or is it...
           hic diem: mea est!
   let's go with that...
  (because it just couldn't be
ancestral language with modern
english... this day: sure...
        is mine? n'ah n'ah'ah'ah)...

             bad english into french can't be
as bad as... good german into good
english and a zeppelin shower...
i.e. good english into bad french...
because it's most probably going
to be... good english into circa-good german...
which is... always the rage of a pwoblem...
you can write bad english into bad
german... and good english into good german...
but however you write good english into
french: it will most probably become:
bad french or... gascon...

    hell: call it a burgundian appealing?
it's a hush... elsewhere... a welshman...
a kashubian... a ruthenian... hell... even a prussian!

sam weller would state, so: wis as whittle
as: theta on the tip of the prefix with
the whiff of: THis!

Friends, we may not live
in the same street,  
the same postcode or estate,
time may eventually pass us by.

But I know that even though we
don't see much of each other.
I still see you as the friend,
that I saw all those yesterday's.


Ye you may be older, you hiding grey?
You may have tails to tell,
but in the end you've friend

and that'll never end.


Ps you still owe me a fiver from 1998

Uptown, downtown
a postcode to die for;
Where does your cemetery fall?

My ears were ringing
and my head felt like it would explode
“We’ve got news about your ticket”
Could be the big one… The Mother Lode!

What extreme luck… I thought, because I’d phoned
the lottery complaints line yesterday… No honest, I did.
To say I seemed to be locked out of my Lotto account
and I’d just topped it up with 25 quid
(That’s a loss not a win!)

Anyway, if nothing else, and I can’t play any more
I’d like my money back… so what’s the score?
A real bloke asked my postcode… first line of my address
Don’t panic he said… no need to get angry or stress.

Well, after a lot of confusing stuff,
inside leg measurement colour of eyes… “Enough!”
he said, “I’ve got the griff. I have the info…
You’re good to go - check it out - go on’n have a go”…

When you’re on the line and being asked to type,
push buttons, you know you fumble, stumble - right?…
well, it’s 115Million Quid tonight
So I was all thumbs… but I hoped to get it right…

So, my helpline buddy was still on the line,
I clicked… Euro Millions • 2 Lucky Dip lines • 
Friday • One week - yep I’m in!
“Thanks mate, you’ve been great.  Okay?”
“All the best, good luck for tonight”… I heard him say.

Dreaming about what an omen that had been
I just felt I was due for a win…
And, yeh…Next morning I had a bit of a fright
I'm checking my e-mails to see what might
have happened overnight
and, amongst all the usual dross and *****, was one…
News about your ticket tadaaaa!

Nervously…’cos I WAS… nervous, I clicked to my account
I felt my heart skip a beat…so many futures on hold…
only to move to the next page and then be told,
Congratulations! You got 3 numbers right… Oh dear, well I thought... nifty
and you’ve won the princely sum of 7 pounds fifty!!!

That’s another fiver down the *******!

High in the sky.
London chimes.
Postcode lottery
Knife crime assures.
Still the Eagle soars,
over Streets with no names
Combustible cladding awaiting.

Hose pipe bans beckons.
A capricious late summer.
Rosemary twigs for sale.
See the gypsies staid,
against the Victoria tube exit.

it was in the wrong shed


it may be the right postcode

but up the wrong track, the

one i talked about yesterday


only i was walking down

i do sometimes if going

for a walk

or avoiding the others


it was dark and even with

the emergency light could

not see

so texted the farmer and he

brought it up for me



he may make a sign noting

that his is the wrong shed

I watched the sun’s gaze

                   gain, on Gaza, but not for long.

A mere postage stamp,

          poorly licked on a parched envelope.

Nor postcode, nor yet

                                addressed, nor sealed.

Short note airmailed -

                                            par, Par Avion?

Non, par ex-plos-ion.

                                              Blue Bic bleeds.