My friend Gerard, (who is alive), looks like an Arabian slave-boy, though swarthier and longer of hair than Tony Curtis; an olive –skinned Mowgli, ape boy of Kipling’s  “Jungle Book”, although I have never seen Gerard swinging through any trees, nor eating any insects, nor even kissing a sultan’s foot. But looks can be deceiving, or receiving, with the proper pen, the zen pen of a poet, this proper poet who lives upstairs with his multitude of books piled on the floors, walking on Whitman, sitting on Shakespeare; tripping over Ginsberg, sleeping on Sartre; not a single shelf for this Jung man.
“A place for everything, and for everything it’s place”, he stands and stares out of a window overlooking the jungle of five-foot high weeds that serves as our backyard and wonders aloud “whither Oregon?”; questions our alleged enlightened sense of awareness, his disposition toward liberalness in a world gone madder than usual. Have I convinced him yet, my naïve, trusting neighbor? Yes, he realizes with a sigh that it is so, now that he has finally succumbed and bought a thirteen inch, black & white television of his own, now he can see with his own brown eyes in his own living room, far off wars, instant coffee & instant karma, depersonalized tragedies, faceless fatalities, insidious soap operas and humorless sitcoms, adverse advertisements, Howard Stern; “whither sanity?” we both cry and laugh out loud at this mediocre media, the global sewage, the Marshall McClueless, me and Gerard Rizza, my friend who is alive.

Gerard, (who is healthy), is gay, yet straighter than most men, and has been complaining quite a bit about the ferry service lately; contemplating a move off of Staten Island, and leaving his sporadic substitute teaching gig at a nearby high school, a mere six block walk from our house atop Winter Hill, where he is trying to convince me, a wide-eyed cynic, that a blank, white, unused canvas, surrounded by a wooden picture frame hung upon his wall is indeed a work of art; the job is very convenient, but again the ******* about the ferry, not the boat ride per se, but the incongruities of the ****** schedule, which anybody who has ever just missed a three a.m. boat and had to wait for an hour in the Hierynomous Bosch triptych known as the Whitehall Ferry terminal ,will definitely attest to; and Gerard has this thing about Staten Islanders, like the homophobes at a recent anti-peace rally in New Dorp, supporting the carpet bombing of an oil rich yet still poor third-world country, throwing beer cans at him and his companions while shouting “we know where you live, *******!”. Rizz came home that evening, visibly shaken and pale, (not his usual olive-skinned self), knocked on my door and pleaded “whither ******?”. I went upstairs, sat on his couch and rolled a joint. Gerard puts on the new 10,000 Maniacs tape and tries, once again, to bait me in a conversation about his “work of art”, my work of naught; he speaks of the horrific details of his day. “Isn’t this picture of Doc Gooden on my refrigerator door proof enough of my manhood, my patriotic intent, for those *******? The ******’ Mets, fuh chrissakes!” We sit out on his porch, watching the sun set over our backyard jungle as Natalie sings wireless Verdi cries, and I pass the burning joint to Gerard, my friend who is still healthy.

My friend Gerard, who is *** positive, was quite possibly a cat in a former life, probably a Siamese, thin, dark and aloof; yes, I can see ol’ Rizz now, sprawled out on an old tapestry rug, getting his belly scratched by his owner, perhaps Emily Dickinson or Georgia O’Keefe, Rizz purring like the engine of an old bi-winged barnstormer; abruptly rolls over, gets on all fours, tail waving *****, slinks over to lap water out of a bowl marked “Gerard”. He’d sleep all day on books and original manuscripts, and play all night amongst oil & acrylic, knocking over an occasional blank canvas, which he, in a future incarnation, will try to convince me, in his feline manner, is art. Sitting and staring from his usual spot on the windowsill, his cat eyes blink slowly as he wonders, “whither dinner?”; and begins to clean himself with tongue and paw, this cat who might be Gerard, my friend who is *** positive.

Gerard, who is sick, recently moved to Manhattan, Chelsea, to be precise, in with his best friend; and has stopped ******* about the Staten Island ferry, having far more pressing matters to ***** about, i.e. the ever-rising cost of homeopathic medicine and the lack of coverage for holistic and alternative care; any number of political and social concerns (Gerard was never the silent type); the lateness of his first published book of poems, entitled “Regard for Junction”; his rapidly deteriorating health, etc., etc.; and is now a true city dweller, a zen denizen, a proper poet with high regard for junction. That’s all that remains when it’s all over anyway, this junction, that junction, petticoat junction, petticoat junction – “I always wanted to **** the brunette sister”, I’d once told him; “I prefer uncle Joe!”, he laughingly replied; dejection, rejection, reclamation, defamation, cremation, conjecture, conjunction, all junctions happening at the same time, at now, a single place, a single moment, this forever junction with Gerard, my friend who is dying.

My friend Gerard, who is dead, officially passed from this life on a Saturday morning in early April, a mere two weeks before his junction with publication, although Gerard my friend passed away much earlier, leaving a sick and emaciated body behind to play host to his bedside guests, to help bear the pain of his family and friends; so doped-up on morphine, no longer able to remember any names, he called me “*****” when I entered the hospital room, where this barely physical manifestation of what had once been Gerard Rizza was being kept alive like the barest glimmer of hope, and displayed like some recently fallen leader, lying in state;  “whither Gerard withers” I thought, saying goodbye to this Rizza impersonator, this imposter, this visitor from a shadow world, an abstraction of a friend, whom the nurses told us, his disbelieving visitors, was our friend Gerard, who though technically still alive, was already dead.

My friend Gerard, who is laughing
My friend Gerard, who is singing
My friend Gerard, who is coughing
My friend Gerard, who is sleeping
My friend Gerard, who is holy
My friend Gerard, who is missed.

With heavy hearts the lightened feet march up on Whitehall
take a peek,
then down below the trenches go
light up a woodbine,
'dontya know this is the show that we'll be late for', Says Scouse.
'Gor blimey mate' says cockney Joe, 'let's have a look at all them toffs'
and ups the periscope as scouse scoffs bully beef.

Thiefs of body, thiefs of friends,thiefs of time and there is a belief in some older men,
that this is a time when we remember 'them'
No words need be conveyed
no tears for what they gave
just a sober, sombre silence
like when the guns fell silent
one hundred years ago.

Nelson
gives that wry kind of naval guy smile as he watches them all down along
Whitehall and
I,
the bystander standing still until the last casts another look, wide eyed to see the gay pride
festival,
best of all,
no looting
no stabbing
no shooting just the hooting and the hollering and the crowds of people following
enjoying all the fun
dancing in the sun
on Saturday.

19:14pm,  23/08/2010

I

What names of high renown lie here within,
What wonders of a cinematic age?
What players of chameleonic skin,
What vast dimensions leap beyond the stage?

Withnail and I would walk this hallowed road,
Dreaming of turning visions into deeds;
Train-spotting trains of thought that overflowed,
Where levity had trampled karma's seeds.

Tread softly here and utter not a sound,
The scene is set, for all lost here below,
With all forsaken dreamers underground
And all who yearned to go on with the show.

For all the lost, forsaken and foregone,
Dead lips whisper of "Hunt" and "Cameron".


II

Walkways of fame, like dreaming colonnades,
Gold sunrise shoots that everyone admired;
Lost eras when producers all wore shades,
And divas turned up early and inspired.

Hot cappuccino served with bright ideas
In cool cafés and bistros of desire;
Their ghostly image flares - then disappears,
With all who held the torch of inner fire.

All those who now endorse perfumes and creams
And those in pantomimes on seaside piers,
Remember well who crucified their dreams
Replacing honeyed hopes with bitter tears.

Inscribed in blood, their torrid names live on
- Don't speak to us of Hunt and Cameron.


III

A beautiful laundrette, deserted now,
Reduced to an accountant's numeral;
Open the wine and slay the fatted cow,
To find the wedding's now a funeral.

And did we, in good faith, believe their lies,
Electing them to office, fuelled by hope?
Now strung along by feeble alibis,
And all because we gave them enough rope?

Hope is the dreamer's dope. We who despair
Are never fooled by optimism's glitz;
Sometimes we are too fatalist to care,
Sometimes we must accuse, where the cap fits.

The coalition's follies blunder on
Up the Junction, with Hunt and Cameron.


IV

Avert thine eyes, Tim Bevan, CBE,
A tempest comes, on terrible black wings,
A blight hath fallen on the industry
That used to bring such bright imaginings.

Our protestations have a Little Voice
That Whitehall deems too indistinct to hear,
Must we the free be faced without a choice,
Must everything we loved now disappear?

Tread softly here, for it's the final take,
No accidental noise disturbs the boom,
As art is crucified for money's sake
Respectful silence settles in the gloom.

Sometimes progress moves backwards and is gone,
Like bright ideas by Hunt and Cameron.


The End....?

On the flipcharts and billboards and boardwalks where cash talks and greed stalks the unwary and where the darkness is scary,
huddled underneath moonlight that fades into the long night and holding on tight to their bedrolls along with the soup and the bread rolls and the mission bell tolls for the end of
round one.

'On top of the world ma'
look how far we have come,
and the nanny state looks after its favourite son but as the sun sets on Wapping and the 'mint set' go shopping
for some the world's stopping.
(I want to alight)

The sun sheds some light as the night flicks away and for those who would lay in the doorways of shop fronts,who we think of as stunt men,the cut off,truncated and blunt men another day starts.

And in Whitehall they call for the tea trolley at nine.
A fine time for some and the nanny state looks after its
favourite son.

Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that laugh as they scrape at the sky (they should bow)

It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we're back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no ***** should heed what we say,
we don't want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we're sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that's being eaten
being beaten
by us.

After the snow,with nowhere to go,when the streets are so hard,a yard thick in ice,it's not nice,
but for those with a home and a nose for some heat,the drifters can shift,because you can't beat a bit of selfishness ,
and surely them what has less, do not deserve more,or what the hell are we working for?

Let them eat cake, courtesy of this great welfare state who give benefits for,to keep the wolves from our door.
It's all give and take at the end of the day and at the end of the day they drift slowly away to some courtyard or bridge,ridges of ice on their brow,
how sad it all seems when the Queen's got so much and the dickwads in Whitehall are so out of touch,
such is the way of the city today,we bypass and pass by,some glance and some wonder why, but most of us really don't care.
It's not us who's there,no concern of mine and no time to stop and see what they do not
it has to stop.
We are the civilised and it's time that we realised, that it's not dog eat dog,we are all just a cog in the workings of life.

She was a dainty little one, that's what her mother
used to say, but now she wasn't so young.
Time was a tide that had flowed over her hair once
blonde and flowing down her back now a shimmering grey.

But she had noticed a decline in the world of those of
mature age, clothes were drab ugly and grey.
So much unattractive clothing made by the mother of
modern age dullness. Trying to sweeten the *** by calling
each a different name

The Ashen Collection:  It fell from the clouds and landed on you.
The Pearly Collection:  Even beauty doesn't need colour

Were they not color blind? Ok maybe a few were, but
this was just horrible, it was like wearing cement.
Just as stiff and ghastly to even wear. This just made
people look frightful in dismal clothing not suited to be
seen in the light of any day they walked out in it.

So I had to make a stand, I had to keep this dismal color
from tainting the eyes of a younger soon to be older
generation. I had wrote to the fashion designer by
Email, what just because I'm old doesn't mean I haven't
got skills. Her name is Miss Grey Bottom....

---------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------
Dear Miss Grey Bottom,

As I am one of less years than more, it would be appreciated that
these years are filled with friends amusement and children's laughter.
I see though that your clothes line has been hitting the scene,
Yes I'm hip with the lingo..

I ask that you add a little color to this line of mature wear
due to the numbing effect it has on those wearing it?
There is no color in there face, no smiles just blank eyes.

At This time were most alive, we need the vibrant feel of life
in our daily lives. Not the mundane clothes that numb the senses.

Yours Sincerely,

                           F.G
-----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------

I waited and waited, well ok I waited two weeks, ya don't
know how long you have left, it was like waiting for paint
to dry under the ocean. But I waited I even shrank an inch
in the time I wasted. So I thought I would do something about it,
as more and more were just walking around in dismal
clothing draining what little youth they had left. So I got a
few of my crew, and we got our design on. Front loop,
garter stitch, knit left loop, there so many weavings that we could
tell you about but now the first piece was finished.

"Try it on, it was an mixture of all our creativity, so we got
Mr. Robin he was 65 years old and had such cute rosy checks..
He looked puzzled?? "What's a matter Mr. Robin? Half his head
was sticking through the top of the jumper, not worried about
messing his hair or lack of...
He then preceded to tell us that it looked like a unicorn had
thrown up a rainbow on it.. "Oh, Colourful metaphor,
and then he proceeded to dance, I think he was break dancing??
He had good moves for his age.

"Ladies it itches so very badly, “I wasn't dancing,
"It feels like I have ants in my pants, crawling around
this jumper that I must take off now...

Sighing and regaining his composure,

"I never knew I had those kind of moves still in me,

Giggling slightly, he then folded the jumper.

He politely put it on the table, saying that if each did a
singular design, their own creation that it would be an art piece,
each a creation of their colourful imagining.
But please, please not in wool, try other fabrics.
And with this ladies of knowledge weaved there ideas together.
Two months later and quite a few pennies spent they produced
their own line of vibrant colours fulfilling the gap where drab,
grey clothing had drowned the feelings of an older generation
needing colour in this moment of their lives.

It now felt like what once was missed entered their lives through
the creations of these vibrant grannies.  But as there designs were embraced by the [silver mains] people of older graces.. The dullness was fading, and a certain lady didn't approve of such sunlight in
those that once wore her garments now being used as wash clothes.. Miss Grey Bottom was sullen for her plans to make the word
feel as she did, sombre in thoughts that weaved into her designs.
But she wasn't giving in  without a fight, she brought out new collections that had a hint of silver grey a hue not colour but
not as bland... but this was a start, its was called the;

Cloud collection:  Everyone has a silver lining..

Fashion Granny smiled, as she knew that seeing those of
Mrs Grey bottoms age infused had slightly changed her,
and with that they made more clothing to invigorate those
of climbing years..
Reviews were steadfast from those wearing there line:

Mr Whitehall:  I love the colouring of your clothing, it was
like it was made for my personality.
                                        Thanks F.G

Miss Waterson:  I feel like a millions pounds, this line enriches
my life every day I wear it.
                                        Thanks F.G

These were but a few of the thousands of reviews they were
scoring at 4.9 out of 5 stars in the reviews and the grannies smiled,
glad that they brought some reflection into their collection of clothing.
There was a knock at the door, and to all there surprise none other
than Miss Grey Bottom.

"Hi grey, about time you answered my email,  
Said her sister. Yes Miss Grey was fashion Grannies sister,
older by 10 years 2 months and 3 days.

"Why wouldn't you answer my calls and emails??
" I was really worried about you and those clothes so
gloomy yet I could tell the beauty was trying to come out
with those beautiful lines,

She just stared at her sister in silence and then, noticing
a tear she wiped it with her thumb tenderly holding her sisters
face. Miss Grey burst into tears and Fashion Grannie held on
to her sister, they hugged for what seemed like forever before
Miss Grey composed herself. "I have missed you so much,
Fashion granny smiled,
"Me to, you silly sausage, 
 
She introduced her sister to all those who helped her with
the colouring and design of their brand F.G, then they sat;

"Your my sister I didn't want to burden you with my
problems,

Fashion granny lent over and kissed her sister forehead

"You silly sausage, that's what family are for,

With those words a smile eclipsed Miss G B's face,
a smile rose across her sisters remember that beauty
that she once knew returning to her sisters face.

"Well you have me and my crew as friends now..

"Your crew, giggling aloud Miss G.B couldn't
even frown for she was for the first time in a long
time smiling, laughing.. Even though tears were
falling they were of happiness, not sadness as before.

Three Months Later,

The world had become a brighter place as sisters
and friends created art woven from cloth and not
only for those of silver locks, but these were hip
grannies they were weaving for the younger crowd.
The first show was about to start and they looked
out to see if many had come to see the new line,

A unicorn had thrown up a rainbow collection:
         So much colour you'll see rainbows in your sleep

It was an international hit, and the grannies were so proud
of what they had done not a singular person, but as close
friends. They carried on with this until they retired which
was not as far away as you'd think. But they had made new
friends and two sisters had once again found each other again
both thinking of how proud there mother would be now.

I didn't write this work, it was written by my dear friend Carole Hurley who has been having a problem posting

I sit on the top deck of a red London bus and view the world passing by, so much more interesting than a drive in a car.
Where are they all coming from, the people I see? Where are they going to, what do they do with their lives? These people I view.
That little old couple,  side by side holding hands. They look so content as they walk down the Strand.
The young men and women hurrying by, perhaps going to work, maybe going to buy a sandwich to eat in the park.
Tourists in their thousands viewing our London sites. I wonder where do they all go to at night.
I gaze eagerly down as we pass famous stores, their names proudly emblazoned over the doors.
I love the hustle and bustle of our London town, a wonderful mix of the old and the new, I try to absorb all the breathtaking views.
Theres Tower Bridge in her livery of gold and of blue,  her ramps held aloft as a ship passes through.
Whitehall where the soldier high on his horse so proud and so still, while tourists take photographs later to view.
Big Ben chimes as the Houses of Parliament we pass. Westminster Abbey so stately and tall, for hundreds of years overlooking it all, the laughter the sadness,  the tears and the fears.
I look at new buildings all made out of glass.  I look at it free courtesy of my free bus pass.

Promises made
given and laid down in writing on stones.
I read runes in the ruins of what has become,
what they have done to me.
No longer free
I am devoured alive by those who contrive to control everything,those who bring nothing to the table and the table is bare,
I share my crusts with the beggars who sit on the street,in dark corners I greet them and then I console them
for they too have lost all to the mighty of Whitehall who don't give a ****,for
they are the ram raiders the modern day slavers and we're all in chains,laid on the slabs,looked at in labs,dissected,inspected and put out to tender,sent out as fodder for the high in society to shoot at like pheasants,for aren't we the peasants of old?
Life grows cold an old story indeed
those who can't pay are unable to feed.
So let us give thanks to those wonderful,fabulous,marvelous food banks who are there just in case we try to get out of the poverty trap that stares us in the face.
****'em all down in Whitehall I know where I am and I am a man not a note in a margin but marginalised just the same,just a piece in some game that they play.
It'll all change one day though I may not be here to cheer but where ever I am,I will still be a man, and
not a laboratory experiment.

Ham's woman in heavy Black,
Hawk disturbs water's color,
**** Big Gwyneth **** Black;
*** throat bumper stickers
Individual learning accounts
and shouting path, *** Marshall;
Hama, white reeking acetate,
***** your housewife's IOU;
**** soon, she was two white *****
ebony                 EWB *** ***;
***** you duLani is happy supplement - ooo
*** mature adult level, white ******;
He said loose strife, Führer dog is careful
not to deal with the baby's **** money
and DP "first not with Gaggers
swallowed steep rose, *** chair cases rose;
Tristina;       Millie, Cherise,
City Two Thin White Girls *** ***;
Marley Sneak Cook Boost DP,
And ATM ** **** *** Black
And Ebony Black Or White Chicken
Ashlyn **** Big Fragrance Of Black
*** Crane Surfaces Getting White;
DPD White Loose strife Dream
To See Grand Slam *****,
Big Big **** Big Big **** *** t-
Marley is a 19 year-old Hoodrat,
Neu kat, two Führer's tail and Will,
3 Marley Marley and Mary Merle's
coats, Wu B BC, and Sara Javi Marsha;
Big **** Big **** When DickWWXX
X v black neck,                                                          wh­ich is two *** *****;
Kayla It makes ivy league behavior
very popular with the wholly complete
composite theory of Whitehall based
on two terms.                                          First, the hippocampus is similar.
Second, if we want to avoid this problem,
especially when putting Kadam
peaks in education,                      the animal must have the hippocampus,
the most common side effect.
Jeffrey Gray wrote the concept of general risk.
On the other hand,                                      the dam is less than one-third.
This process is the second most important package
to automatically copy the memory process. This is the first historic road.
Diplomatic Montgomery St. Henry Williams
[36]        The idea of ​​Sescoville's small head;
and Brenda Miller (lightweight spas) [37]
has been known as the "sick" patient process.
The result is aggressive loss and emotion.
After the operation,
Molson finds a new job
and new memories for the operation.
But I remember these events many years ago,
    most events held youth memories of events.
At that time,            especially the widespread
use of these principles, which led the collapse
of a forgotten story.
In the next few years,
other patients will have the same hippo
campalage damage and amnesia.
(Accidents or illness)                                 Connecting to the patient's body.
We have an international agreement
to build a helicopter. However, the importance
of this project is mentioned [39].[40]     Hippo
is the third largest area in hippies.                First, the term was completed.
"Map of the human and animal space system"
Tommy has become international agreements.
I think the store irons buffer plays,
search space and continues to search.
Note that there is no contact
between the points. There have been
two studies in these areas.                           Two responses
are the first words,
trying to enter the broad field of the Hippocamp Campus
to give feedback, but the organization
must be involved in a 1948 graphic organization
(idea), probably air,   including spectrum survey systems
                                   and algorithms. and his own design,
which is riding a routine. Managing Director [4].
On the other hand, dragon neurons, concepts,
processes, memory, design activities, evaluation methods of the same origin,
                                     and spatial relationships between the core algorithms.
In fact,                                                some researches,
MRIs, used to be banned. It's about Persia and dragons.
The difference depends on the decision process.
Smooth wife guilty of a serious Black Hawk
offense in a separate intervention related to the color of the water,
******* ******* in Guinea,
a mature neck pain in every
garment sponsored, in Hoya,
a white reekasetat Hed with you,
his mother's housewife and the mature river,
cried, they came close
                when I went to him and two other
Lays are rolled titanium;                                 EWB Mature *****
To transfer happy,                               oh list of adults hello adults,
loosestrife Führer is called, it is a dog
that does not replace the money from
the OP and can not less its oppression
"I Gaggers have a dramatic increase
in the number of cases of adult residences;                                    In the yard,
                                                William Miles has Cherish high on two draws,
but slim white women and Perkins' Cook,
30, with a black,                                                      matur­e surface of Cicero
with black and white chicken have produced
a profoundly delicious PC and consumer scent.uel,
Neu Kat sees the couple gets a list of DPD:
White Beach Road Tracer Führer;   m 2, 3
and artist Mary M. Yfirhafnir AU Latino,
P. Wu, his wife, Marsha French big French breast eggs;
Z morality; Known DickWWW *** mouth,
neck, Kayla Ivy is perfectly prepared,
she resists mixed conditions WHITEHALL, based.
Like Hippocampus, first. Jeffrey Gray
wrote a systematic risk perception.                                                    **­wever,
this amount is less than one-third.                                              It is important
to develop a package
that replicates the process automatically.
This is the first travel story.           Henry Embassies, S. Cicero Williams
[36] a small head and Secondsville's James Miller;
(light erivatutai) [37],          which caused damage.
                                   The procedure of the patient,
                "sick" after the action is over.
Enemy of the idea of ​​pain,
the thoughts and actions of Molaise
one must find a job because of the disease.
The story has not yielded pretty much
the policy has already forgotten the key.
Patients gummed with Ultrices for several years
will be the same loss.       (Or business) at home.
I refuse to do a helicopter. However, this is a project                           [39].
[40]                            Hippium Centaurus
is the third largest in the region.
The first season ended.
Map of People and Animals in September "-
Tommy plays a crucial role
in an international treaty I go to bed at night
to create a package that allows me to see the works;
Contact Please Note:       In this study,
he
There were no two people in the field
Two did not respond to the first attempt response
from the beginning to the end (Half Camp Field)
Banana Initiate Copper shaping algorithms
in 1948 (for example) The manager [4]
of the sapiens processor's neurons and the elements,
on the other hand,
is the absolute basis of the same algorithm.         The MRI is a question mark since it is in
                The best of the dragon Difference Design
                                        The game depends on you.

In the split of the separateness
enjoyed by the desperate in
their loneliness,
where her highness looks down on them
are the men called the building blocks.
.
These are the men that roll with the knocks
the men who say, ******* to you.
The navvies,the chavs,the spivs,
they're the lads that raised up this nation,
the ones we owe a due to.

Whitehall wizards.

The chinless and spineless in black suits are mindless
and we gave them carte blanche,
brought down an avalanche on our heads,
these are the saintly who praise me,
lie to and patronise me,
politicians are slimy
they remind me
of worms,
they take like the snakes that they are
and no doubt they'll go far.

We only see them as He Men,because
we've been hypnotised by
the old school ties, which tell even
older lies
I despise them all.

***** Whitehall and the mandate
become the revolution before it's
too late.

Here in the split
I don't give a ****
they can all **** orf
and leave me alone.

Shouted out in little bursts
the truth will wound
and the truth hurts
but spread out thinly
grimly
slimly grasping hold
the truth is truth that must be told.

Truthtellers on the ball
never seen down in Whitehall
where slimy grips with microchips
and microdot would stop the truth before the rot of truth
infected all electorate
at any rate
I think it's true
or just another lie to lie in bed with other untruths that were said
and was the truth put in a book I read or was that just another lie in bed?

I can't tell what's true or not the microdot has chipped my brain
I'll never be the same again.
At Mansion House where I've never been
you should have seen me there
another lie ,oh I can't bear the shame
tap me on the shoulder,send me off to jail
disregard the pleas for bail
and let me fail inside the cell
a battery man
electric hell
don't tell me lies
don't give me grief
I'm safe within my own belief
that everything is right and just
and only those who think they must tell lies
will die inside the living
of the truthful eyes that eye the man who would tell lies.

The essence of it seems to be
the truth will always set you free
from any cell,electric hell
I'll give Whitehall
a call
and let them know.

No entry,
they're putting sentries down in Whitehall
and snipers on the roof,
the truth is, they don't want to see
how they've ****** up
society.
They'll be shooting us like mad curs
there's no reasoning with them and
they'll be laughing with the bankers.
This is the ministry of gentlemen!

I woke up in every way
That magic bus was fading away
I here these words
Echoing in my head
Here the "Who" singing at whitehall stead
      
           I don't wanna . . .
           I don't wanna . . .
           Live to be sixty-four

This time last year I was sixty-two
Know what I had to go and do
Went down to Social Security
Signed up to collect
Before I was sixty-three

           I don't wanna
           I don't wanna
           Hey !
           Live to be sixty-four

I began writing then I learned to drive
Developed skills to stay alive
Drove trucks with big round wheels
For the longest time it gave me thrills

           I don't wanna . . .
           I don't wanna . . .
           Kiss my *** !
           Live to be sixty-four

When I was young I had my *****
Heard recently she's not around anymore
I shed a tear when I think of her
Sometimes I think I'm the one that's cursed

           I don't wanna . . .
           I don't wanna . . .
           Hey !
           Live to be sixty-four

When I was young I lived so fast
Go out Friday and wake up Tuesday
With an unknown lass
Pills and *** and whiskey shots
Had every up and down , I could not stop

            I don't wanna . . .
            I don't wanna . . .
            Live to be sixty-four

I used to run with the antelope
It's all I can do now just to lope
I had a big car that went so fast
Now I can't afford to buy it's gas

             I don't wanna
             I don't wanna
             ******!
             Live to be sixty-four

I always thought I'd die real young
With the words on my lips
To my favorite song
Where are my old friends
None are here
Now I'm alone living in the yesteryear

              I don't wanna . . .
              I don't wanna . . .
              Live to be sixty-four

              tick tick tick

              I don't wanna . . .
              I don't wanna . . .
              Live to be sixty-four

              tick tick tick

              I don't wanna . . .
              I don't wanna . . .
              Hey !
              Live to be sixty-four

When common sense prevails
And Whitehall gets demolished
Once politics has died a death
When voting is abolished
The world can then recover
From an era of attrition
But mindful of the wandering
Redundant politician

For safeguarding the public
And ensuring that our nation
Is free from slimy bureaucrats
With dodgy legislation
Is vital for survival
So we’d better reemploy them
And here are some suggestions
As to how we might enjoy them

They could bungee jump volcanoes
For the National Geographic
Or lie down in a busy road
To calm the morning traffic
We could shave their glossy hair off
And turn it into wigs
Then pulverise the rest of them
For feeding to the pigs

If you’ve just made a coffee
And spilt a little drop
Then grab one by the ankles
And Presto! It’s a mop
Just roll one over nettles
If ever you’re impeded
And stand them on the riverbed
If stepping stones are needed

They’re great for hanging coats on
And extinguishing cigars
They’re useful safety dummies
For testing foreign cars
If hollowed out and quilted
They make a fetching scarf
And quite the conversation piece
If pickled, cut in half

The list is almost endless
And I’ve mentioned fairly few
There’s a myriad of ****** jobs
To find for them to do
But first they should be rounded up
A vessel must be chartered
To send them to the front line
Of the wars they ****** started

I see the mechanical men that peddle the illusion of wheels which drive down to the crankshaft,staffed by robbers and thieves that steal into the day putting a tax on the way you would speak,
and I peek in through the keyhole of Whitehall, dragging the chain and the ball that is tied to my leg,and sooner or later I will beg for some leeway from the mandarins but they'll say,
'Go away little man,we are the mechanical men in the doing of things and we'll bring blood and thunder,put you down 'til you go under,don't bother us now',
I have bowed to their power and ****** on their shoes,I choose not to be used by the ones who abuse the privilege of rank and position.

Please tell me that this is not true,
that the election of robots to Westminster is actually down to me and to people like you, and we get what we vote for,the
***** dealing,wheeling out manifestos,posing for papers,oil cans for arseholes and bolts for their braces,automatic voices,you've got so many more choices than this shower of ****,
do your bit,a bit of research,search online, easy most of the time,vote for them and you'll vote for anyone,vote for anyone but,
the mechanical men have replicated in them and all is lost,we are *******,might as well use the suicide pill.
I will.

Scaffolders grimly
work in Whitehall raising up
hopes of a hanging..

A million people
marched on Whitehall
every footfall
was a trumpet blast
every placard
bore an epic poem
every eye
flashed righteous lightning
and it made
absolutely no difference
at all.

The authorities can authorise as much as they please but they have no authority over me.
it's the rule of austerity
It's a dog eat dog and if you're down on your luck,you might as well **** on it,they don't give a **** and once you've feasted on failure it don't hurt a bit,
and a pound in your purse is as much of a curse as no money at all,you want to buy this,you want to buy that but you ain't got a bit of food in your flat.
'Live off the fat of the land',
like those buggers in Whitehall who sit on their hands and yet still have hands free, as they wave them around to try and authorise me.

And in those ivory towers the powers that be who think of roast beef and not about me,carry on, as if it's all tickety boo,
but you know,it was never like that as you sit in your flat with no food,the TV shows a riot,you should think why not try it and you're becoming unglued,
falling to bits and it's them effing ***** what's to blame.

Part two,

and you know who and what'll be there
the ****** devil. but
what do you care?
give him his due he ain't here because of you,though you'll do at a pinch,he's here for that shower what believes they're in power,he'll be calling down Whitehall for Ed ***** and Co,
and Labour may labour under the misapprehension that they are all in for a ****** fat pension,
but the Devil don't care what colours they wear he reads only his list, and he gets a ******* at toffs and the like and that pleb on a bike has no chance at all.
Whitehall's a write off
and we're all a **** sight better off
without them.

If you accept and agree
that it's not down to you
and it ain't down to me,
then who is to blame?
Who put my name to the fore when the talk turned to war and the *** started to boil?
this is my land and,
if and then which will not be when they tell me to fight,I shall decide what is just,and just what is right,
Not some Whitehall geezer who thinks it jolly beezer to rattle the swords.

The witches song.

Eye of gnat,one ministry t*at
and several shades of men in the pay at westminster today
stir them round until the ground is scorched
and we will all be torched and burn
turn and spit
at witless men who went to war, even when
we said no,
and there you go
another spell
and one more smell in
parliament.

It's not down to me,it couldn't be
I didn't vote to put on a coat
of armour.

In Whitehall stands a monument,
A column wrought in stone.
Empty as that mother’s heart
whose sons did not come home.
It bears the dates of two world wars,
And three carved words I read.
A politician’s shibboleth
About “the Glorious Dead”
Standing in November’s rain,
No glory came to mind.
Perhaps that word held meaning
in another place and time.
They have passed from living memory
those soldier boys of thine.
Now bronze reliefs and marble wreaths
Recall their deaths to mind.

I fell in love
with a ghost/witch/mermaid
The prettiest girl in the world
In any century
Atlantic City
Nineteen Eighty-five
  
I'm not sure who to point
or blame for the how or what
that led to change
the level of my dimension
Don't know why
  
But if I ever get to her again
and if it doesn't lead to sin
Not sure if I'd grab
the bargain or the Bible
  
I gave her just one kiss
to dare and tried my best
to not to stare
at all her hard shell/hard sell
Custom Homemade Ocean Jewelry
  
Tried so hard to hide my fear
of dying could not take the cold
hard facts of life's blatant destiny
Desire hurt my soul
  
I had to come back here
Again just to see your face
I bet that someday we will
Finally be friends or so much
More than that I don't pretend
I warn you Sam my
One and only friend
  
And if you knew my sister sue
She stunk
The world then had her due
I may
Not never
Know what door she would have choosed
  
And if you stick around
choo-choo
You'll hear a song/can sing along
about some trains
that I pretend I knew
  
The turtle and the snail
They ride on tender ground
I miss you girl
I'm tying this old country
Song to you
  
I was way to young to
let my burning ash exist
Had much more yearning
to do learning
what was asked, I just forgot
Don't know if I have that
much more to counter
  
No lady
bug would ever sing
about my blues
I have no ring
to give I even lost my broken teeth
  
I lived a week
Four Million years
or somewhere in between that
Dear you can
not preposition end a sentence  
  
And if you know that I'm a tease
won't be surprised
But I won't leave you
Hang around
I'm sure there's plenty more
  
Well look at that I'm tired flat
I wrote two pages how 'bout that
I guess it makes no sense to further carry
On again I could just turn
  
the page
hey now, see that
I got more space to write
more facts about my life
and why I am so crazy
  
Her fins they flapped I followed
Her a million laps
from old man-
hattan lower end
I mixed it up my friend
No really
Hope there is no more confusion
  
I don't no life
I just exist
I tell no lie
I swear sweet miss
So don't you try
to get me into trouble
  
The turtle and the snail
will ride the earth once more
go where you go
I've been there
So I'm ducking in again
  
I think I'll have a beer
This ends I'm sure
it's not one of my gems
But what more do I need to say or do
Then sit here and songwrite again
or write haikus that never end
on this lazy Sunday afternoon
  
The turtle and the snail
will ride the earth once more
After we're gone
They'll still be here
Go bang a gong
They're two slow pokes
One's soft
One's hard
You figure out which
One's made just for you
  
An oyster clam or
Lady bug would get eat up or  
Just get stuck
No more eating that much
Pasta without salad
  
And now it's time to
Get on board
Hey you Choo-Choo
Four-Fifty-Four
I'm gettin' out of here
Hear what I promised
  
I don't know but I've been told
The Redding Railroad dropped its load
Go take the B&O; to someplace new
'Cause California outgrew you
With double headed 2-82s
Canadian Pacific calling you
No B&M;?
Rutland will do
with RS3 and 2-8-2
to Lake Champlain the 201 with you
  
Delaware & Hudson call
'ol Henry Stewart
from Whitehall
he's steering Alcors3; the engineer
But don't look here
'Cause I'm not there
That bobby fooled you/disappeared
and lookit
where'd they go?
that's all the words!

Will you listen to what they are telling you?
can you listen to what they say?
'the future's not in tomorrow,the
future was yesterday'
and may god have mercy on me.
Today is blank
and who do I thank for that?

Time doth surely flee from thee,

(******* Shakespeare this is about me)

If they are telling me this,then I know it is that
and they can wax lyrical on the world being spherical,
I point to a clerical error, a mistake in perspective
which makes what they say
(in one word)
deceptive.

And who might they be?

They be the grey men
the men who say when men,
the dead and the deadpan with looks that say,
'no man' and signs that read,
entry forbidden,
hidden from sight.
The only chance of reprieve from they who deceive is to leave and having left,there's a fork in the road,a cleft,a right way,a left,
will you listen
to what
they
are telling you?

The music plays on but the band has all gone and I'm sat here in the back row writing the new manifesto.

They're laughing at us while shafting us and drafting us into some warm sense of well being,
and all we are seeing are the rosy red cheeks of those Whitehall antiques who are selling us all for a song.
So,
say so long and goodbye while they cry all the way to their pay day in Haiti,not Southsea 'cause that's for the likes of you and of me,where poverty's not viewed as some incurable disease and while those ******* eat peas with their forks we're eating bread with no butter,cash talks and it tells me,'have me to be free'.
Well.
whip me quite soundly there's riches around me and it looks like they found me,washed up and spent,
but I'm intent on my due and so I stand in the queue,
I guess this is someone's largesse but I don't really care and I don't want to share but I will and until I'm the one with gold by the ton and a castle made from diamonds and cream,
I shall dream,eating peas with a fork and with a plum in my mouth I can talk la di dah,giving it big with a blah ****** blah in a big yankee car which will guzzle the gas and again I won't care
because, I'll have the ***** like they have in big halls where they dance with the debs and say ******* to the plebs and give them no cake and shall laugh like a madman until my sides ache,
then I'll shaft and redraft the new manifesto release all my guilts and away I will go with the men from the ministry who will in the end,come
to love and to mimic me and with no demands for no tax I shall sit and relax in the warm glow of the feeling that all I am feeling is the feeling I'd get from getting better and reeling from this realisation while the whole ****** nation is down on its knees
I'll thank God for the fork and the peas.

Subjected to the intrusion crew who
want my information,
stored and poured and taken to pieces
letters to Uncles, Nephews and Nieces,
emails, web sites, visits that I might
want to keep
a secret.
The intrusion crew won't let me do
that.
They want to know the in's and outs and whys and
wheres and who cares how I feel when
they steal my information, to
store in some great archive in
the ******* of this nation.

It can't be right,
do I want some pimple faced pervert in Whitehall knowing that
I went to a **** site last night,
or commented on 'Hebdon'?
but believe it or not they want to thieve what you've got
and unless they are stopped
that's what they'll do.

Whitehall
in flood
in springtime,
at a bus stop
a young girl
impatiently
waits in a queue
for help
from the hands
of a handful
of strangers
to lift her
up onto
the bus shelter
roof; atop
of the shelter
afloat
in an ocean,
a boiling tide
that blisters
the street,
she stoops for
a bottle
cast up
by its motion
and plunges
it into
the waves
of police.