If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.

And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.

And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.

I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.

And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.

And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.

And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.

And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.

And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.

being a spanner in most others works
is a place reserved for poets
a lonely furrow at times, but absolutely vital

If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

My defensive carer named Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo



You see my nice regular carer, Andrew Williams was sick and didn't want go to work
Which put spanner in the works in the office, and they were wondering who will replace him
So they decided to ask Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo a call, and were happy when he said yes
And they forgot to tell his first client, who can be very confusing in conversation
But they forgot to tell that client and Alfreido turned up at his door
And this was the day that Andrew was going to take him for a walk through the domain
Where the Christmas carols, and Alfreido was happy to take him
And they had a cool time, till the client told him about his old carer who was names Reimo
And Aldreido snapped at him, and his client thought that he doesn't understand happiness
And this made him happier, and he started laughing and trying to joke around with Alfreido
And Alfreido did joke with him, and really they started to hit off
And then, so his client mentioned his old carer Reimo and how much of a **** he was
And Alfreido got defensive, in fact he got so angry he nearly hit his client
And this made his client too shy to say anything else
On the risk that Alfriedo was going to do it again
And he even was afraid to speak his mind, in the risk he'll snap at him
And his client were unhappy about how this carer treated him
Especially when they were leaving the domain and there were some teenagers teasing him
And this made his client think that Alfreido was teasing him with the kids
I know he had issues for what he said, but, he though this was very wrongs the way
His carer was behaving, and every time he mentioned Reimo, in hoping that he would
Joke around with you, he will snap, as if you were trying to rob you or something
So at the end when Alfriedo left, he didn 't know what to do
So he rang up the carers organization and told them why Alfreido came instead of Andrew
And they told him they had no choice, it was either Alfreido or no one
And this client said, ok in the future, I will prefer no one, especially if you send him again
Because he is too defensive, when I mention the name of my old carer
And despite telling him why he snapped, he still felt very unsafe
And said, I want you to send no one, or send no one
Because I felt I am offending this carer with anything I say
And I don't know what I really said, and the organisation said, fine
And Alfreido never saw him again,
And the next time Andrew came, and he was very relieved
And told him that the bad carer has gone, and will never return
And Andrew said, yes, mate, I will make sure they don't ever send him again


Sent from my iPhone

feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.

If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again, 
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice

Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again

Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone

Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song

Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz

**

Oh how I'd love that
and from a San Francisco organization no less
a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less
the most liberal city in America no less
and last year's winner has his picture displayed
and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable
Like something I saw how long now has it been?  twenty five years ago...
how many times have I seen this picture
a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste
handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning
of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera
mimicking an ad for J. Crew
it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world
and the background, how many times before have I seen it
a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle
somewhere where preppy white guys never go
street art, street communication created by people
who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing
but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world
and he stands there, in front of it,
Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background
spans the entire country, or an entire universe
but the implication of the picture is: he is home here
this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men
as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone
all genders, all races, all religions
the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds
of gender, race, socio-economic status
but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone
they can understand and represent anyone
So I look at the picture
and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency
but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course
that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago
pinned to a film school wall
in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places
and it is the same guy.  the white screenwriter artist who will write about me
and others and it will be a lie
and we are excluded.  all the rest of the human race.
but what he writes will be exalted as truth
when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering
the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders
the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is
white guys, because he is no superhuman
he is like us.  He will write about white guys and there will be
more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us
but they don't, because they are only human,
and can only represent themselves.

Dropped a spanner on my toe

                Ouch...my toenail said

I need a joint to fix it

(5/7/5 syll count)
24th July 2012

Life’s a *****, you must surely agree,
There are so many reasons that show this to me,
For instance, I just get the hang of the words to a song,
Then I find out the words I’ve been singing are wrong.

And why when out to dinner to impress a young lady,
Does my sleeve end up doing the “crawl” in the gravy?
Or sat at the bar; comes the moment to kiss,
Do I lean forward coolly and utterly miss?
Toppling face first from that three legged stool,
As I grin up inanely from a best bitter pool.

I remember my sports car, fast and blue,
With the wind in my hair, she really flew,
Strong and good looking, and to my touch, compliant,
(Though I did once get “burnt off” by a Robin Reliant.)
But “No” I digress, the story to tell,
Is the first time I took out a young girl called Michelle,
She had a nice smile; I thought she was great,
I walked her from her door, and held open the gate,
We got in the car, and made ready to go,
For a meal for two in a candlelit glow,
I turned the ignition and clickety click,
Nice time to choose for the starter to stick,
Under the car with a spanner and torch,
Whilst Michelle spent the evening sat on her porch.

And when I got married,
Thought thank God that’s all over,
Now for a life of roses and clover,
Ha, Ha - not on your life, not on your nelly,
Not like it is when they do it on telly,

I mean, when they’re in bed and they fancy a nibble,
You don’t see them smile and then start to dribble,
So your lover has hysterics, fit to bust,
Which doesn’t do much for the ***** of lust!
And in romantic movies - where are the tissues?
You see, for me, these just aren’t small issues.

So one thing I’ve learned and drawn a conclusion,
Is that life being perfect is just an illusion,
And it’s best not to worry about small imperfection,
For deep down philosophy’s just pure conjection,
So a far better line to put an end to this fable,
Is “Just laugh and just love as much as you’re able”.

"But let me tune you the live about life's simulation,
that assimilates one's worth. Poetry's code isn't of ones
and zeroes, but of all lines and words"
Says the wit of a coloured oan wanting to chuff the girls

It's all about the honeys, and maybe some sweet
success of hustling for a little extra money

Taking a stand on every stanza, I grew up to different standards
Unlike the hood rapper clutching the 48 hammer,
I was taught in my hood how to hold a 48 spanner
I have my odds in odes; every heavy breath in each
coma—not so common
Given the stereotype of dealing and robbing
To steal your stereo if the right type,
and best to drive with caution

A dark skinned coloured
fitting in with the blacks by appearance
Accents do tend to change ears intently hearing
Whites think I'm that way out of a private school fashion
But I did at times hang out with the wrong crowd,
at times on weekends smoking **** and relaxing

And yes I'm actually coloured; to those of you asking
Hit you with a "hey what's up, what's happening"
Don't mind me asking questions with this sort of coloured accent
"Yoo what's the story," we start our conversations
in the morning. A different kind of breed Godsent

I don't force how I speak
But if it disturbs the peace
I'll change my tone of speech
And find solace in writing another poetry piece

                                            @the Coloured poet

If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.

And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.

And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.

I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.

And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.

And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.

And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.

And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.

And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.

On the deck of the HMS Randalls
Were sorry array of antiques
They would amble about in their sandals
To a chorus of ominous creaks
The crackle of bone upon gristle
With a litany grumbled above
Just give them the slip
If you feel a grip
Like a handful of dice in a glove

In the galley of HMS Randalls
Where the tables were ******* to the floor
There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was
He was bombed in the Argentine war
If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’
He just winks and he taps on his nose
But the dwarf will admit
That they make a good fit
And a noteworthy total of toes

At the engines of HMS Randalls
With her overalls smeared with blood
Stood cannibal kind of mechanic
By the name of Veronica Spud
Her hunger has never been sated
Or her eye been the source of a tear
Her teeth have been chipped
Into screwdriver tips
And a spanner protrudes from her ear

On the bridge of the HMS Randalls
Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent
His unblinking and pallid expression
Say he left but he never quite went
But he puts on his hat and his jacket
He fastidiously logs his report
With a secondary list
Of the passengers kissed
As he figures that life’s too short

**

I...
I'm .. I.. I'm sorry
please forgive me.
I don't know what I've done
but I think I broke you.
and I understand your life is a roller coster
and that Sometimes existing is too much of a weight to bear
And I get the fact your walk in closet Is  stuffed to the brim with
the skeletons of your past
And I understand. that those useless bags of flesh and bones keep trying to come back to life
and crawl out of the back door and into your mind
but I cant help feel that im to blame,
And I know im not..
but I think I broke you
and I know my well timed excuses threw a spanner in the  tracks of your roller coster
but I thought i was going o.k.
And I know the grip i have on you isn't deadly...
but ive realised that you are nowhere near mine..
you can walk away at any moment and im still the one at fault.
but I love  you
you cought me in both arms when The only other option was to land on my  face
so please dont let me fall now
all This time i thought you where a porcelain doll..
who knew i was made of craft paper

Kevin is the bloke
who may well put
a necessary spanner
in Julia's wheel spoke

the polls say she isn't
traveling particularly well
and of her governance
the voters want a long spell

a new face in the leadership role
before the next election
will see the Labor Party
undergoing a resurrection

members on the back benches
are extremely ill at ease
they've had a sniff
of the electorates breeze

Julia is proving to be
a rather heavy liability
on the other hand
Kevin might redeem the Labor Party

the winning of an election
only takes one seat
with Julia at the helm
there is a greater prospect of defeat

time is not on
the Labor Party's side
and a change of leader
will stem the outgoing tide

All the best again, dear Sis
You, I am gonna miss
All the time you were here
Never did I miss a gear
While driving the car of my life
Even were it never free of strife

Whether it be the tea you made
Or the pastas and noodles you cooked
Never will the memories fade
No matter how hard Satan tried
To put a spanner in our works
Very endearing, are your quirks

Your presence, did I almost take for granted
Because, no matter what
There was nothing you missed
Including meeting our neighbours and their cats!

You turned Despair Into Hope
Even if the devil in me
Tried its best to make me mope
You turned Hatred into Love
And never was there a problem
Which you could not solve
And finally, you turned Stress into Peace
With a remarkable ease

Always, was there a smile
On your beautiful face
Because you went the extra mile
To help us achieve inner peace

You, I am gonna miss badly
But all that matters
Is that you should be happy
And unless were I mad as a hatter
Always, will I love you
And always, shall our bond be thicker than glue
So, wish you all the very best
Sure am I, that you will face a stern test
However, equally am I sure
That, everything shall you endure
As ever, with a smile on your beautiful face
Irrespective of the place

This is a little everyday tale,
A warning for women, without fail,
Yes, it's Easter time again,
Your old man's got camping on his brain,
So, you load up the caravan and car,
This camping site is miles too far,
You set off in a golden glow,
Seven hours of traffic jams on the road,
You are having fun! you grin,
You are listening to your family whinge,
Your old man has a bad back,
You unload the stuff, the kids do clap,
But, the primus stove does not work,
Then the fridge throws a spanner in the works,
Now the milk is off,
Your old man tells you to "*******!"
You are having fun!
Shame you haven't got a gun!
You all collapse into bed,
By 5 am, it's raining, enough said,
The dog has left you a doggy surprise,
And for breakfast, only frozen pies,
You are having fun!
His moans have just begun.
You wish you'd brought a gun!
Yes, girls, camping is a defence,
God gave you a home, not tents!
Happy Holidays!!!!!!!!**######

The elderly
(not me)
need
crocodile tears
like
a ***** needs
a spanner.

One day you may
join them
(the elderly)
(not me)
even be
an octogenarian
and
what good would
a ***** or
a spanner
be
then?

I hate order, order it gets in the way like a bad odour its conscientious all in one.
One for the master one for the dame and one for the little boy who was ordered down the lane.

Order! Order! I can do without sense and discover that's what's all about. Compared pomp parade twisted display in ceremony in their little cars of today.
Like a spanner in the works I replay

Order! Order! I can smell it I can sense it like at primary headmaster face mask he wears it! So anguish to a play learn to love and written for every day. I can't say sway like the order of the day.

Order! Order! He cries gentlemen in every Bethlehem same sugar coated wheat display. So men with everyone if I can't finish what I've begun then as order comes along like a single shot to obey.

Order! Order! Your lyrical power gives off a speechless tremor from a pointed out finger so delay me your order rescue me a wonder like a freedom ride and stop been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

O'Reily 03062014

The narrow minded
Don't seem to understand
Qualities of difference
Having your toes in the sand

If you do not
As majority does
Then you are backwards
A spanner in the works
A fuzz

Being different
Is exciting
The feelings of adventure
Forever inviting

Embrace the fact
That the way you act
Maybe out of the blue
But that's the uniqueness
Of being you

Tyres and trash climbing to four long stories high
burning the dynamo of governments made
from variegated beliefs in sharing seats
unspent people divided by calculated fear
and farm implements from backyard fences
to break the back of steel helmets and
rubber truncheon policies.

Piled high on the side-walks of history
they gather in tight knots yet untangled
before water canons and formations
of advancing barricades of brutal regimes
seated around, round glossy tables
of disagreement.

Nothing works right if a lone spanner
finds its way into the giant machinery
that rolls over people down a roadway
of dissent. Freedom is not plugged
into any powered source if unaccepted
in the lone man's spark of will.

Soon the doorways of flight
will open and haste will chase
the suited gentry of harsh cross-hair policies
into pockets of safety within
other brutal regimes.

Fly now while you can
the plugs will be pulled shortly
and the day will descend into darkness
Hellfire will close in around you
if you wait to cling to power
that is not yours. Run now. Run.
Fly. Disappear. Kaput. Finito.

Author Notes
We go West now. Just coming from deep South.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Tomorrow I'll rejoin the fray,
Seeking to keep us all a little safer; Restraining, revoking,
Cajolling, provoking,
Addressing those who fail to see
A more enlightened way
Of treating the wider community.
Workers seek to save
And secure a future for their families
While navigating over-selling audacity,
Under-disclosure with a lack of clarity,
And obscure charging opacity
Or plain old mis-selling strategies.
So thanks, but I'll pass on that job hint
And continue rummaging through the regulatory tool kit,
And find the spanner that'll fit
The next nut that I'll inevitably be faced with.
It's great to hear your stories,
But for now I'll continue where I best fit
Pursuing retail investigations
With my best forensic slick.

Mum said be a doctor, but no
I didn't like school, glad to go
I became a mechanic instead
It caught my heart in 10th grade
I could do better in life, compared
To my grades, my life is made

I prefer a simple life
Where my biggest problems are finding the bolt that just fell down into a void
Where my daily irritations are losing a spanner or socket
My worst encounters would be a client that insists on knowing the problem
My best moments would be spending time with friends and family
My best days would be vacations

I don't want to be a doctor
And worry about a cancer patient
Or huge accident coming in
I don't want to be irritated by nurses or patients that don't listen
I don't want my worst encounter to be losing someone's life
I don't want my best moments to be having expensive things to show off
I definitely don't want my best days to be going home and sleeping early

Disparate and disturbed,
Spectre ******* remains perturbed,
Suiting shadows for whom it serves,
Mannerisms and gestures well-rehearsed,
Reading off of scripted words,
Scratch at it to only make it worse

Drinking dreams so undeserved,
Thirst for you became submerged,
Breathing deeply breathes you cursed,
Now you are all my worldly worth,
I do no justice and I’m not the first,
Your King of nothing continually usurped

Wildly weeping on howling stairs,
Beasts snipe and snap with scowling stares,
Paws and claws clasp until you’re theirs,
Spurned by burning glares,
Wounded walk back into nowhere,
Stuck nowhere and I will meet you there

Falling fast past faces purged,
Passions passing with every urge,
Diverge from deviance coerced,
Facing forward in reverse,
Extrovert implodes many deaths traversed,
***** voices miming truths well-versed

Just a regular spanner in the works,
Those that have never really ever worked,
Who I was, if only who I still were,
Scrawling all these rambling words,
A many a sorry but just one please in manner,
How I loved her and then lost her does not matter,
Nor the madness that steadily got madder,
Not the sadness that plunged to depths only getting sadder,
Whereon one constructed such a depressing manor,
Thereon lived with my now imaginary lover,,
Hereon to break apart and slowly gather,
Myself together to make my white flag banner,
My long lost apology to Anna

The genesis of her life
Out of joy of death bring
joy
To  people circling her
I was not one of them but here
But here she is in my salad
days
My only trusted spanner she
Is


She has a cute smile like everything about her
She is my inspiration
An engineer of my Happy life
Original and strong she is
She is far away from me
No communication exist
But she is always in my heart
For more information get a
notion from the look
Of my eyes
I hope you can see it

I will never leave her alone
Until I see her excelling as a eagle
And bring joy to people
Circling her
I will be One of them

to hammers
we are all nails
doesnt matter
what type of hammer
theyre all a ball pain
isnt it time we threw a spanner
in their taut chains
taught the masters
that were craftier
than they thought when
they thought theyd bought
our worth for coppers

Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.

So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.

All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.

Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.

And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).

Paul Butters

© PB 13\7\2023.

Never could I have guessed the day I'd come to face your smile.
Never could I have guessed you'd run my heart so wild.

I never saw you coming,
Yet I'm so glad you came my way.
Oh what I'd have missed had I missed that day.

Life finds a way to throw a spanner in the works,
Sometimes it breaks your world,
And other times it breaks your view of the world.
I could never have expected the day my days became so much brighter.

I am shades of midnight, shards of the same galaxy collapsed and contrasted to tiny little ***** that grow like eggs not subsumed by Mars quakes.
I am faulty genes, x-rays, heart scans, and red cells insufficient.
I am sexuality in a world yet to be explored by I and me.
I am a jar of dry camomile leaves turning to shades of sunlight spreading over the river leaving spaces for evening lights.
I am petals of the stars waned to the fragrance of flowers travelling with wanderlust from world to world.
I am insights from colours of black, white, golden, everything. I am a sanctuary of solitude, edging on certainty.

I am the oscillation between feeling brilliant at birthing my art and really quite derided at churning consistent literature.
I am the east London girl left with derelicts of poetry originating from Alfred Hitchcock films.

I am the walk by the sea that gives the feeling of the wind coming off the waves. I am the travel between seasons on railways to off-the-beaten-paths destinations through countrysides and beyond to flea markets collecting memories, soul and travel tchotchkes.


I am Sunday breakfast and tea in bed, buried inside heaps of sheets, using body warmth for shield.
I am pure joy, one whose heart howls with laughter and a face whose grin is as silly as the scowl of a Cheshire Cat with a hissy fit. I am a numismatist and I am the girl who collects stamps and inherits vinyls owned by my father from the 1960s.
I am coffee without cream. I let the days and the weekends amaze me like my time in Hamburg.
I am the random stroll to the local Signorelli bakery to have an almond croissant and fresh Italian latte and a nice chat with the ******* lady.
I am a creation inspired by the likes of Thomas Hardy, Francoise Sagan, Zadie Smith, the humour of Lucy Mangan, and the wit of David Sedaris.

I am her, ambivalent between jaunting between rural and suburban villages, bustling cities and seaside towns. I am soul inspired songs by the Upsetters and likes of Otis Redding’s ‘cigarettes and coffees’. I am stuck between layers of diversity notwithstanding an identity of complexities.
I am the cheateu in the north of Bordeaux where we did that thing and the grandfather clock chimed and we laughed so hard, we choked.
I am excitement yet forgettable like the confetti that drops to the floor after weddings.
I am midnight in Paris and late night strolls on 57th and 6th in New York.

I am a result of the birth of a post term delivery caught unduly unprotected by the amniotic fluids of mother.
I am layers of skin shedding in green and yellow slime because mum had me at the 11th month with a fontanelle that retained ground rice which she ate when she went into labour. A fontanelle that never left and each time I braid my hair by someone new, they tell me of the dent as if it was something new I only just discovered.
I am June created on the first day of summer like Marilyn but could have been April beautifully bore in Spring like April in the TV show, ‘Mistresses’.

I am the heart heaved at a belief swooned towards a soul immortal. I am one who never wants to stop making memories with you, my ‘buh’.
I am ménage a’ moi and I am the Pas de deux as long as I am joie de vivre, then la vie est belle.
I am altered by indie and foreign films that tell elegantly of French girls admirably in love like that of ‘Jeune and Jolie’ and ‘Blue is the warmest colour’.

I am the smell of my ‘babuska’s’ saliva plastered all over my palms as she wipes them clean with her wrapper cloth sealing them in prayers for good destiny and good health.
I am the crux of the patron of St Andrews representing Bajan maidens, Danish singers, Scottish spinsters, Argentine migrants, shell shocked survivors, women wanting to be mothers, gouts, jaws and sore throats.

I am a spanner in the works aggrieved by familiarity and **** taking. I am all there is, transported in my ******, prayer and thoroughness, clear and bright like a snowy Christmas sunny morning.


I am June

Hey you, yes you the ***** in the red Jetta
Rather get a cab walk run it will be betta
What are you doing are you totally insane
Driving behind you is an endless pain

I cant over take you cause you cant decide
Can't go around you and no where to hide
Should you pull left or stay to the right
Holding my anger is becoming a fight

Just stay calm while my searing I bite
Like other ding bats he has the right
To buy a licence to drive a car
Like so many drivers he makes me naar

Now here comes a robot and look it is red
I watch in horror are you gonna stop dead
What are you doing look infront I yell
You nut case you idiot myself I do tell

Not throwing a fit is taking all my resistance
It takes my fast thinking to keep my distance
He breaks and he swerve and sways to the right
I say a quick pray as I gasp with fright

Head on into traffic thats coming his way
This way and that he swerves and sways
Oh wait a minute he dodge the Van
And the kids on the pavement left and right ran

Just missed the buss and a bush and a tree
Whippy I'm luck his back infront of me
Screeching and screaming and coming to a halt
He looks and he smiles like nothing's his fault

Others around him look on in dismay
As I think you idiot, you made it hooray
And away we go were on our way
I think should I drive or should I stay

Not even a second a metre a head
He comes to a halt and stops dead
Looking around like his lost or confused
Now I am irritated I'm not amused

What is he looking for what indeed
I scream to my self, with my self I plead
Oh it's a phone call its become so intense
We are all waiting move along no offence

If I should get out and my lid I should blow
I want you to listen I want you to know
I'll loose my insanity I'll rip of your door
I'll beat you black and blue and extensively sore

Oh thank crap the ****** bags on his way
This is starting out as a horrific day
He just keeps chatting and babbling along
Why can't he see what his doing is wrong

The guy in the Audi is ranting and raging
The guy in the Opel is totally fuming
The little old lady just looks on with confusion
This guy is living in a mental dilution

I look on intensely what could be next
I try to keep calm and put my nerves to rest
Wait a second what did he see
Ah come on man not again I plea

The chop just woke up and realised
He should of been on the other side
That was the street that he needed to take
Oh please help me for pity's sake

The little old lady on his left saw it to
She looks frightened and turns pail blue
I just look on and I think to myself
This cant be good for her mind and health

On goes the hazards and he darts to the left
The ******* around me are making me deaf
The guy in the Audi has lost his cool
He thew a spanner or some other tool

The guy in the Jetta drives happily along
Sing away to some lively song
He seems oblivious with out any care
That the little old lady is pulling out her hair

She looks like she had a seize of sort
Shaking and screaming like bull she snorts
The guy in the Audi is 5 shades of red
But the guy in the Jetta keeps moving a head

Out of the blue who knows from where
His moving along with no worry or care
Appears a stop sign in front of his car
He hits the breaks and skids on the tar

The little old lady pink buggy and all
Rolls up tightly into a little ball
How she missed him I'll never know
She quietly sits there with an evil glow

To my dismay she opens her door
And falls to her knees just there on the floor
The guy in the Jetta gives a big smile
As the little old lady falls down in a pile

She's kicking and screaming and going insane
She's up in an instant and out with her cane
She fly's at the guy sitting as stiff as can be
Eyes bulging widly this **** you should see

He lets out a scream like a ***** been attacked
And jumps on his pedal and doesn't look back
His over the stop street and round the next bend
I just pray I'll never see him agen

I look at the lady who looks back at me
Oh what a pittyfull site did I see
She was a mess and her hair was a tangled
Eyes where a flamed and her dress was mangled

She put on a smile and she straightened her hair
Brushed of her dresses and did it with flare
She turn on her heel as she head for her car
This was one of my worst days by far