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.

Back down in the South West
It's not the place that I know best
But that's me.
Always on danger watch
Me and a fifth of scotch.

I drink and I think I can fly
spit in the eye of authority
but they always capture me
And I am back in the cell
screaming blue ******
*******.

Do I never learn
Will my world never turn on its axis?
God knows
I've had enough practise
where is the test?
It's obviously not here or down in the South West.

When I move it's a pain but I'll move once again
settle down, wait for the rain
and the storm which will surely come.
What was once a bit of fun
blocked out my sun and hid my day
If I could find another way
I'm sure I could,
Cut out the drink and stop for good.
But I get lost in twists and turns and the churning of my guts.
If only buts were not so much a way of life
I could be such a model guy.

Until then I'll wonder why, and wonder why I cannot fly
I think I need another drink of danger watch.
The fifth is all I need
The fifth becomes my feed
and in the twisting of the deed that's done
the blocking of my sun will come
Again.

i think you should start to consider the memory bank, before endeavouring to write about essentials that are from idealism, given that the only ideal is that we exist, and is paradoxically judged by us as non-essential. (remember the pronoun vectors mingle easiest when contemplated with article usage... the double articulation of definiteness and the double articulation of indefiniteness... let alone the non-identifiable vectors grappling the interchangeable usage of articulation, e.g.? ‘the point of the conversation...’ ‘the point of a conversation...’ ‘a point of the conversation...’ ‘a point of a conversation...’ my... i’m in muddles!)*

i usually play candy crush saga
in the night,
when my neighbours’ windows still revel in light
and i move the bulky blocks about...
like i do with words...
those things that will never become images
and are subtitles of photographs never taken
that give more to aeons than to seconds
in terms allowable usage...
or like the contradictory verbose
language usage of philosophers
that testify their concern with nouns
when they’re doing very little...
why are they stuck in the runt that’s aristotelian
in terms of concerning yourself with nouns?
by the time you figure it out...
a noun takes about 5 extra dictionary meanings
and about 4 misnomers and about 9 synonyms...
i’m guessing the key relevance in all of this
is tinged with kantian inspection...
the contradictory a priori concept and the noumenon (
opposite of a phenomenon),
phenomena are easily accessed... imagine the hippy
revolution of the 1960s in western europe...
there no need to look back... we have access to it...
through the nostalgia spoken of by the people
now retired and grey-white talking about it
with the benefit of nostalgia...
but this whole a priori (from the earlier)
and noumenon (something that can never be known)
is the inherent problem philosophers grapple with...
the whole: i’ll never have casanova’s subjectivity...
whether through the experience of sensual philanthropy
or nostalgic sensuality of “the achieved.”
i know that the definition of a priori is given its orthodox
calibre of the dictionary in terms of proper usage...
but deviating... noumenon? well d’uh! obviously there’s
a spectre of physical jealousy when this one non-sense
exactness of functioning enters the realm of both the senses
and the lineage of curtains... it’s an oddity...
thought enters the realm of time in a present-past relevance
and is fed jealousy... even though the senses, if
placed in a present-actual relevance would feed something else
thought it fed jealousy, even thought direct contact with
events have something of a digital pornographic voyeurism
about it... like watching your parents ****...
odd... isn’t it? so how did i tackle the a priori concept?
if the definition of a priori is: a given event / proposition is knowable
if it can be known independent of any experience
other than the experience of learning the language of use...
well then... i’m all for prepositions and without any given event...
and i put my knowledge on a constancy of continually learning
a language... given my mother tongue is polish
and i started to learn english aged 8... it makes sense to
never give into a lexicon completion;
but then
there's cyco miko's coming back / dog eat dog's one day
to listen to in the dark... looking out for idiocy
in familiar faces taming my use of language...
as a bowl of noodles...
with them having ambitions to write
having only read their postcard addresses with
their postcodes missing: angling the phrase 'wish
you were here,'
yeah, i wish that too;
this is england under marxist inspection...
totally ****** in the industrious sequence
as in the sequence of youths' health...
england... ha ha... only worth problems in ireland
it calls above scotland... and degrading health
of the non-existent attachment of cool atheism of
missing god missing soul to
a sort of quasi-marxism... for ***** sake... stop *******
with our vocabulary to necessitate censorship that's
unnecessary; stop calling it the logistics
of having a soul you tamed to mean
lubricated prefix and suffix of psychology...
and the non-existence of a god that could
as well translate a person into personality...
i'm not worth the complexities of the sciences
from all the life's interest to decide
a centimetre in theory proved a millimetre in practice...
need patience and simplicity...
i don't need the aqueducts of credentials for
the waterfall inspected...
and i don't need to look the part of an argument never had,
i can't fathom the mirage without the actual want
to see what might salvage me from thirst...
but then the conveyor belt of slacked and missing thirst...
i sometimes wish for a fata morgana.

Tea consumption is reaching critical levels,

I am an Englishman after all.

And I won't go out in the mid day sun
for I will wilt
in the summer heat
where my dogs panting
in front of his metallic bowl.

And in fashionable postcodes, across the capital,
Japanese girls in tartan skirts carry ice cream cones
that drip onto their smooth
foreign
skin.

The ice cream slithers down arms,
leaving trails like the
tributaries of the 5th greatest river,

their postcards home
smell of vanilla.

Satchel strap, knotted, both ends -
bag slip, not good.
Wrecking my shoulder blades,
too heavy, 'nough said.
Weights made-up, by drivers, usually.
Chasing the clock too.
Daily, endlessly.  

Man on bike, best combo, feels right:
By car is faster of course,
walks timed using them -
quads like an Olympian
and you've no chance, of matching 'em.

Heavily-sprung, hinged - left, right or top!?
Vertical ones, ridiculous, seriously?
Letterboxes, they bite,
literally, metaphorically.

The rain IS a pain, horrendous.
Letters become scrambled mess.
Smeared addresses.
Renders postcodes illegible,
M14 2WZ.

Snow is worse, laughs at wheeled transport,
making every step treacherous.
Don't trust the slush and the frozen mush;
Others sent home, but my mail must get through, apparently.

Part-timer equals second-rate citizen.
Lifers get the best walks, which aren't equalised,
no matter what they say.
Bosses, incompetent morons,
promoted through ranks like in WW1, clueless.
****-up, brewery, nuff said,
they tolerate too much tom-foolery.

No dignity at work, none, zero.
Sexist, racist, homophobic heroes.
Mindless chants about *** and ****, penises and ****.
**** this ****, juvenile morons.

Overtime's a crime, claim it before it's earned,
then argue the toss over 2.5 hours for the next three weeks.
Costing them a fortune, like this ****** welfare state is;
money for nothing and your hits for free.

But I'm fitter and slimmer, more toned and tanned.
Take in my pants at leg, waist and the seat, one size down.
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is mostly appropriate.  

Blind, ****-offs, flats, notice-lefts,
Recordeds, specials or regis, if you're old school
Gone away, RTS, addresee not known,
"He died, he died, he died!" Funny, but sad.

Households, door-to-doors, hated by one and all; deliverer and receiver.
"The customer wants them” -
that's why they bin them as we turn our backs to deliver more unsolicited DM.
Sell outs. sold out. The customer, quite simply, don't count.
Royal Mail, epic fail.
I die with each one I deliver.
Do my best to avoid them,
sign up customers left & right to refuse 'em.
Unite, posties, unite.
Untie people, yourself from these mindless bundles,
dropping through your doors.
Say no, no more, please.  
No.

I saw her, for the first time
On the other side of the glass
Patiently, I sat crossed legged
To feel the first embrace

The touch of her skin
The feel of the kiss on her face
I waited there
Fireworks within

I held her close and tight
Her scent of strawberry and sweets
As she wrapped her arms around me
I felt as I was home and safe

Hometown pains and wonders
Photos of postcodes
The proudest chauffeur
Holding hands at 110

Admitting our faults
Our horrible histories
Our defects and additions
To our now naked bodies

Endless banter, factual and humour
Bouncing off of walls and eachother
Beers and ***** and pizza
We talked as if weve known eachother forever
Falling asleep naked
In the middle of the day
Eggs Benedict and pear cider
Come in, we're awesome

Hot tubs and expensive reds
Fruchocs, dark chocolate with mint
Dressed to the nines
Is where I made her mine

No TV, just music and squeezes
Sensual ******* passions
Climbed trees in the rain
Tested beds in showrooms
Spilled drinks and kicked over *** plants
Sang songs of our playlist
And her kiss
Was that of an angel I once knew

I will not defer
It is all for her
I will cherish this twin flame
Under the same star
No matter how far away we are.

I have never had a memory so pure
So I am sure
That she is mine
And I am hers

X