Shrouded in secrets
The men from F-Branch
Recite the techniques
Undiscussed in advance
Of Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Hundreds of men
Hooded in the dark
Of the midday sun
Kneeling on the run
From Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Suspected by students
Back home and online
Theories get conspired
Petitions get signed
"Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance with Terror!"

The attorney general
Is called for advice.
A solemn exchange
Top down bottom line.
His argument is
"If it's nice it's all right."

Ministers from Ministries
Are detained and questioned
By the goggles of a press
Suffering sleep deprivation.
It's like a game of touch rugby
Outside downing street
With a twist on the rules of 'Just a minute'.

And outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Democracy doggedly dances her dance.

But the rhythms of the dance
The stress of white noise
Peaked
And escaped on the wind
Blowing through the forgotten kindness
Of confused hearts and minds
Escaping through the drafty guilt
Of hung up uniforms
Dancing on the mumbling lips
Of sleeping soldiers
With wives, partners, families, friends
Back home
Who don't know what it's like
They don't understand the drill
They can't do the moves
They don't know what it's like.

But the dance did not stop
It did what every bad vibration does
And moved elsewhere
And was henceforth known
By an unpronounceable acronym:
JFIT!

And now we join James
Young musclebound man
With a drink in hand
Back from tour of duty
It's a Saturday night
And the Weston women like a soldier,
A real man.
The fact that he
Has been doing his duty.
"Do you mind if I ask..." Asked Deborah
Showing more than necessary of her bra
"Where was you based, your base in Iraq-
Your third base, in particular?"
"I'll tell you," Said James
And the ladies came quick
Putty in his hands
Just like a joystick.
Said James, with the gravitas
Or some silverscreen star,
"While out in Iraq,
I was stationed
At a British logistics base in Shaiba.
It's outside Basra.
Basra in Iraq.
Iraq?
You have heard of Iraq?"
But by then,
Deborah and her bra and her friends
Were talking to another group of men
Who worked in property development
And apparently, Deborah, they're neighbours
Or something, because that one said
They've got seventeen houses between them.

But what James hadn't told them is this
The exact meaning of words in English
Like British Logistics camp is
Not always what you think that it is.

Oh did I say camp?
I meant base.
Please delete any mention of camp
From the record.

It was not long before
That James' routine
Had been... very different
To say the least.

Indeed soon after crossing the border
And re-invading his parents' home again
He'd been watching Jeremy Vine when
He spotted a pattern of systematic abuse
On the curtains
Whenever he muted the telly.

James decided to get out of the house
And to help him get a grip
He decided to go shopping
But when he looked down at his list
It said:

59 hoodies
11 Electric plugs
52 Alarm clocks
122 pairs of earmuffs
160 torches
117 blackened goggles
132 stress positions
39 enforced nakednesses

And by this stage he realised
That perhaps he ought to see someone.
But instead of seeing a journalist
Or the Swedish King of wikileaks
He went and saw a military psychiatrist
Who charged him a lot to let him speak
On a one-off profit plus! contract
James ended asking the same question
Week after week -
Do you think I'm crazy?
What does all this mean?
The doctor replied:
"Of course you're not crazy,
It's just your mind is very ill,
I'll tell one part of it to ignore another part -
Here - take one of these little pills
They're only one pound ten each
And if you take one
Every three hours
Every day
For the rest of your life
(Or until you die,
Whichever is longer)
You'll be fine.

Meanwhile,
The dance continued to be taught
Like capoeira on a foreign-office team-building course
On the art of interrogation
The alpha-tango
Aimed at prisoners of war.
But the footsteps of karma
Where circling once more
And the base back at Shaiba
(Near Basra. In Iraq?)
Was once more withdrawn
This time to the airport
Along with other UK forces.

Now relatives of the victims
Both at home and abroad
And those most susceptible
To empathy's ill-considered force
Were planning to divert the dance -
Divert the Dance!
Divert the Dance
with Demo Dances,
Demo Dances!
Demo Dances!

Then it was the turn of the politicians
To work their magic of popular logisticians
By answering the questions no one has asked
Like are we human or are we just dancers?
We are just humans
Doing democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance
Democracy's dance with
(cough, cough).

And the news reporters
With their sleep-deprived goggles
Reported in such detail
As to make one's mind boggle
Each step, each move and each deliberate error
Of democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
With Terror.

(To be Continued... on the BBC)

Stand in dusty pew and listen
through cracked stained glass, hear
bellows of bike corpse peddlers
under glassy sky with loud sirens
that pierce the mindful silence
of a downtown service riddled with
seemingly thoughtful reflection.

Nose and eyes, I am dripping
from my face I am grabbing
at my stomach to keep it from
screaming out, to keep it from
disrupting city noise and
undiscussed knee touching and
squinted side glances.

In some corner in some alley somewhere
a young boy cowers, covered in dirt
and takes a long swig from a bottle of cheap rye.

Struggling recklessly to move the right way
the most painful thing he could refuse to say
fighting the same undiscussed battle
from 5 feet away and in iron shackles

seeing everything inside of you in the still fresh moonlight
she can't understand why they didn't really fight...
still afraid of the truth she would never deny
she longs for the nights he begged her to try

mistakes were not made,
lessons were learned

your beautiful words are quickly disturbed
trying to so hard sometimes to remain part of this Earth
the spark that still lingers so quickly ignites
and our love lights up the entire night sky

In new linens and cloth,
the blood finally stops
humble and weak
she accepts complete defeat

a wise man once told her,
its in the eye of the beholder,
he slightly brushes her hair off
her weighed down shoulders

one weight seems lifted,
...thats hopeful at best...
she waits for the moment  
worries put to death

her world seems so awkward
in the panoramic view
misunderstanding the options
shes reminded shes used

emotions, they pour, as one becomes more
holding complete composer to the depths of my core
I refuse to be weak,
I've seen to much,
don't you see?
happiness lives in my moments of sleep

Lines on palms
to show direction

to unknown passenger
Van to allow a ride

Life a road
towards You

Eyes to see the path
undiscussed

Ears to listen
words unsaid

Nose to smell
flowers untouched

Life a road
towards You

Feelings to show
purity

Sense to chain the feet
Vision to see you

Wish to talk
to own You

Life a road
towards You

Vision to have
your company

Heart to have You
Hands to solute You

Life a road
towards You

If I could transcribe behind your eyes,
I’d see the times they’ve sunk and cried,
The shadows of pain you’ve held inside,
And all the needs you’ve been denied.

You don't speak much on heartache,
Or insecurities you can’t shake,
Breaches of trust, being treated unjust,
Are there fears left concealed, undiscussed?

If I could dive inside your lovely mind,
Swim through your veins, us intertwined,
I’d find exactly how your heart perceives,
Study the language your love receives.

Maybe it's the 'I love you's throughout the day,
Or these poems, though limited in what I can say,
Even a warm meal after work on a cold day,
Or perhaps it's those weekends we spent away.

Mapping responses to our conversations
And how you react to my love demonstrations
I’m looking for clues, all sorts of indications,
Fine tuning the way I love with my observations.

I’ll narrow in, long as you continue to share
Your reception of love–please make me aware,
For, finding your love language is all that I care,
I’ll express my love, I solemnly swear!

Something about the way we relate to each other -
Doing 80 down opposing ends of the same grand highway, strung out in shades of purgatory and sunset, listening to the hymns our fathers taught us before they stopped believing, imagining how easy it used to be to get lost and never be found again, back before they had us by the throats every moment waking or sleeping, this is the kind of thing I live to romanticize,
When we used to talk about Howl you said it lived within me, in the back of my throat desperate to escape into something larger, and when you used to write poems I always wanted to leave the room, there have always been things I couldn't put to words, and yet I still can't stand to leave things undiscussed,
I couldn't give winter the dignity of a graceful death, always listening for the first breeze of spring and falling asleep before things pick up,
And dreaming of a freedom from all of this context; the world has always been big enough without you, and once you bet me I couldn't out run the setting sun knowing full well this is the only fight I have left to lose, and I have yet to accept that responsibility.
In the end everyone has the same question for everyone else, and everyone has the same answer phrased differently:
I wanna
I wanna
I wanna be adored
I need to
I need to
I need to be adored

The way Mrs Dillinger had
of making it
seem so simple

even that time
she said
come round
one afternoon

and we can discuss
your writing or politics
or whatever you like

but she didn't mention
that her husband
was out
or that she

was after your body
and wanted to hear
you read your work

only after
a good session
in her bed
but your pecker

wouldn't perform
wouldn't act
like some circus horse

and so of course
the politics
didn't get discussed
or your writing craft

maybe next time
she said
in any case

my husband
maybe back soon
and I don't want him
getting in

on the act
of discussing politics
or your art and craft

and so
you went away
your art
and craft intact

and your politics
undiscussed
and your pecker

breathing a sigh
of relief
well this time around
at least

you thought
the wilful
bashful beast.