Schwinny, Baby,
You were supposed to be

my

Bicycle.

So I don't ask for anthing special.
No dark Harley divas
To whisk me off into the sunset.

But I thought we were at least
On the same road together.
So please.
Don't go droaning on how
Life got too complicated.
I mean,
You've got one flimsy gear.
And don't go moaning how
The road got too bumpy.
I mean,
You went blind bonzai batshit
over burnt black tar pavement.

You just
Let go.
Threw away your
Chain of reasoning
Faster than I could brace for impact.

So am I bleeding?
Yeah, I'm bleeding.

And the worst part is,
I still need you!
No, No, no.
Not like Pom Pom pammy
Needs her purple-plated pogo stick
Nor like Princess Paris
And her prissy pink prom queen limo,

No.
I mean I need I need you like
Alibaba needs his golden cherub camel,
Like Ben Hur his crimson-fury chariot.

Because work is 37. Blocks. Away.
And it starts in 16 minutes.
And the bus is really unreliable.

So we ride again,
Guts against the wind.
But now I've got all ten fingers and toes
Crossed,
Two by two,
And point in fact,
Racing down Guadalupe with
Forked Philanges
Gets really hairy.

But your suicidal tendancies simply scare me.
Your thirst to incur first degree burns,
Fractured femurs,
And flayed skin whittles my patience
To tire track thin!

Think I'll
Roll my dice with a Segway.
She'd be a quaint, play it safe kind of girl.
Type to show off
To a Mom and Dad
Reveling in rosemary jubilation.
Aw, son.
We knew you'd land a keeper. That's my boy.

But in ten days tops,
I'd begin to miss your fiery imbalanced breath.
I'd yearn for your bipolar 180 turns that
Make my heart skip that terrible, syncopated beat.

So let's just say,
I'll give it one more shot.
But *****, just promise you'll stick around a little longer.
It's storming outside and
We both got a few blocks to go.

Am I the only one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing?

Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string

Yes, it can soar indeed,
so high, with the wind taking it places,
almost making it forget,
just enjoying the wind rushing through,
lighthearted

The wind drops,
then it gets snared
among tree branches maybe,
or perhaps stuck on a roof or elsewhere

with its string all tangled and knotted,
almost impossible to untangle

if made with paper,
it should be lucky to still be intact,
with nary a tear

more often than not,
it gets ditched in the trash,
the price to pay for
its momentary freedom

Sometimes, though
perhaps a rarity these days,
there is that boy who makes
that kite from scratch,
whittles the sticks himself,
painstakingly forming that frame,
creating that kite with love

So when it does get all tangled up,
that boy still tries so hard to fix it,
to make it new...
never minding the cuts
he gets in the process--

That string not meant to tie down
that kite,
but a lifeline to the boy

But like I said,
that must be a rare thing these days...

For I am one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing...
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string

Weathered, waxy layer in wind and rain,
Droplets detour, dividing on the earthy ground.
Autumn peaks - the skeletal structure begins to emerge;
Crispy, frail webs of skin become brittle and break.

Released from the branchy cage,
The voyage begins with ebb and flow,
Rocking like a pendulum -
Momentum builds ceaselessly.

Time passes, and sand seeps
Through the hourglass,
Like droplets of glassy tears,
Shattering. Salty pools percolate
Through linen sheets.

Wind whittles aimlessly through
A boulevard of undergrowth.
The robin settles and observes,
Twittering sweet hymns
Amongst the wooden cathedrals.

A new leaf is turned.
The renaissance of Autumn awaits another year.

You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.

I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.

But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals

were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,

only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,

my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.

Let me taste unclouded sun -  
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.

To pick my brain
I'll just lay here
Have some pins and needles
It's so fun walking on them

Reeling
Like a kick right to the feels
In my heart
In my soul
Or, maybe my nuts

As I grow old
I've grown more cold, to the terror
It whittles away
and I simply admire it, vacantly
It happens on the daily
Change the ******* channel

Every morning I look in the mirror
And tell myself, "Life's a ****. **** it."
You **** that **** duderocketship.
Filthy *****.
Bawling my eyes out
With a coat of smeared lipstick
streaking my face

It's my birthday.
What a beautiful day for nuclear holocaust
Good a day as any, I reckon
To wine and dine on a feast of destruction
While the world spontaneously combusts

Somebody hand me a beer
And we'll scale my collapsing cognitive function
With a ******* to The Man!
I got a whole fist I'd fancy to ****** inside him

This end of the world clock is broken
and keeps ticking
And I just listen
Tick tick tock
Waiting for the bomb
Losing hope
Idly twiddling my thumbs

To go out with a bang is my lone desire
It rattles my bones
Set the world on fire
Light up the night
I just want to watch it burn
There's a pretty nice view
from my back porch
Replacing the stars with torches
Scorching a ravaged sky

It's a party
******, Gandhi, & The Pope are coming
Bring your friends
I'm cringing yet effervescent
In supple prepubesence
His dead eyes ****** me

Jesus wept

There are many unseen dragons that torment me in this life

There is a tiny dark creature
with a vicious forked tongue  
Who crawls behind my ear
and twists a barbed tail around my neck.
It whispers bitter words and
noxious notions that dissolve
my sense of self-
That make me believe
I am nothing
Unwanted
worthless,
Talentless
and pointless.


There is the sleek silver beast
Which laughs as
Sharp blooded claws and rapier teeth
cut and rip at my flesh
Guided by my own hand

There is the fiery flash
That ravages my mind to rage
And fight
And destroy those close to me
And the things I hold dear

There is the red heart eater
Who eyes glow brighter
As it steals the joy
And the pleasure
From the things I do
And from the magic moments in life

There is the grotesque malformed nightmare,
That drips sickly slime
And pumps putrid poison into the air
As it breathes heavily on me
And whittles away my will,
Drains all my energy
Until I can barely breathe
Or get out of bed

Then there is the great beast,
Of whom I only know eyes
Darker than the blackest night,
A despair that seeks the quickest end
That teaches my surrendering soul
To long for the final sleep

957

As One does Sickness over
In convalescent Mind,
His scrutiny of Chances
By blessed Health obscured—

As One rewalks a Precipice
And whittles at the Twig
That held Him from Perdition
Sown sidewise in the Crag

A Custom of the Soul
Far after suffering
Identity to question
For evidence’t has been—

The world takes out its blade
And whittles away
On all that you do
On all that you say

Pared to the bone are you
Naked without cover
All of your dignity stripped away
Nothing is left in the souls bay

Sometimes though its blades
Are ***** and dull
As it whittles you
Into something you're not

The disfigurement of you
At the cruel knife's behest
Where a lasting scar
Stays ingrained in your breast

You find you slowly bleed out
From what you once were
Beginning to end
Carved up by the world

The redeemable pieces of yourself are pasted together
To go forward with the tools of hope
The spirit within is broken
But in this life you find a way to cope

He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.

He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.

He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.

In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.

And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.

But while life whittles us down, he also
carves lessons in riddles on twigs we then
collect in baskets woven from love’s loose
ends.  Like how to wrap arms around a memory.
Or how to keep the flaws in the self-portrait,
even when the world tells us to paint them out.
And how to love the way the air smells when
the rain stops, or how puddles reflect rainbows
when the sun shines.  Or how to cross the
bridges we would rather jump off.  And
when sorrow weighs down pockets like
loose change, how to toss each teardrop
in the wish of a penny in a fountain.  And how to
recognize that no matter how much we give
to the world, we must not take for granted
that we deserve anything in return.

I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes

I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc

Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc

Dance within the moonlight until happiness whittles deep into your core. Live within the passion as your blood begs for more.

Let loose the inhibition that impedes the third eye still, decalcify the walls of salt to release our true ability to feel.

Once the visions open to reveal the golden path as greater, we change the way we wage the war to reject the fighting nature.

To be the shift in frequency be the light bringer to mass stagnation, be the love of unity and give our all despite frustration.  

We cannot seek blood when so much of ours was taken, we must end the cycle for only our souls are breaking.

Call me
The girl with flowers.
Flowers in her
Chestnut hair.
She clocks in her hours.

Smiles away.
Grime under naked nails.
Gets ready
For the grind
As she gathers up her pails.

Waters and whittles.
Pours her heart into every pour.
Trying to make
An impression on
Viewers of the store.

Wrenching
In her harmonious heart,
She picks out
The dead
And tosses them onto the cart.

Brings to the back,
Never to be seen
By eyes that need
To brighten their lives
With pink and green.

She brings forth nurture,
Love, and care
To each of her
Bountiful blessings
Caught in her summery snare.

I'm not sure whether it’s the swarm of parasitic tasks we busy ourselves with
that wedge between the two of us,
as if work supersedes love.
Or is it the stress that is curling its fingers around our throats,
digging its nails into the flesh and thickening the air
until we choke on tension.
Tension that could be replaced by passion
but instead takes the form of a dying flame that desperately cries to be tendered to.
Perhaps it is the distance that is more than just geographical, but the gap that truly lies between our close chambers of slumber so that every night gets colder, lonelier.
What I do know is the fear that resides in my heart, the panic that becomes depression that whittles me down to a measly core,
one that cannot so much as hold itself up against the wind, and before it can recognise it,
blows away like a tumble-**** in my barren mind.
Barren, empty, soulless,
but I, I have my soul.
Yet with each passing day, half of it dwindles -
the half that is you -
for I have sacrificed that half for one who I was sure would have my heart forever,
but in both petrification and melancholy,
feeling definite in it is not surely so.

He contemplates the Bible
As he adds up every page
Religion's an equation
As he totals every age
Of Man and Beast and Angel
(He's a thick and dowdy sage)

He tries to sum redemption
Through his numbers in a book
He thinks he sees sin everywhere
He's too afraid to look
And so he squints with whetted pen
(to carve his Heaven's nook)

He sits and waits for Rapture
As he whittles souls away
He does it all by numbers
In a slick efficient way
And when it doesn't add up...
("Forgive them... Let us pray.")

How do you keep it at bay?
As it whittles down your soul?
Past, present, future combined.
And you sink into the hole.

Your shield is love, your sword is hate,
And you’re standing alone.
But who cares you’re broken, it’s all but done,
And you have to atone.

I was a strong and sturdy man,
That so much was true,
Strong skin, but not within,
I just didn’t have a clue.

Fix me, strip me, now I’m naked.
Set to self-destruct.
Here it comes bearing down.
And now we’re ******.

My sails have weakened in the wind
And the waves are too high.
It’s dark, the blackness is hugging me tight,
And I can’t, I won’t, I failed, goodbye.

all that ******* fire;
whittles down to a muscle memory.

i went to the bar
last night. had a few drinks.
jukebox played. people danced.

my glass
spun around
in my hand,
like my head, and
it drank

me up
good.

i have
a hard time
a lot.

i know

the press the press
to be someone

so well; and, she knows me.

the trim of her pale green dress
whittles the beats that

keep me going.

wooden boy with a prop in his hand
and a flower for a face.

My wife
the ocean

an expanse never ending
beyond my perception

She is molecules upon molecules coaching the life of the sea.

Follow me
to the solidarity of one

She instructs the purpose
And pleasure of life

She spots me above
I am the unknowing passenger

Her plain produces curves
Her tempest whittles my boat

I wrestle the sails
plead for dry land.

She smiles
laughs
invites me to the deep.

Dirt is no home for you
Come be a fish
Meet my soul

No

Maybe

OK

One does not barter with the Sea.

Collateral Man

Some sun sent straight through the riddled sky
blistering forward in brave reprise
the silhouette of a stranger dawn
the ***** of grandeur, emissive, strong
masquerade of a less placid pawn
stink of firestorm in cavernous eye
blazing ember in the pit of sight
restless mask, protruding glass
the sold now sit behind entrapped
the onward glare of marching minds
autonomously grips and grinds
the foul spell of its riddled woe
fervent tyranny whittles, molds
shells the straps that bend and hold
glittery gossamer blackened tryst
of power, hunger, greed and fists
slapping fate with criminal charges
turn the guard and crumble logic
pass the weightless forms of youth
with high regard for rotted fruit
undone with passion
to the roots
the death of Reason's grim salute

Relationships so different
all have a commonality now:
There's nothing left to say
in every conversation.

It's just you and the shame.
Wrongdoings of the past
***** this lonely tower
where you crouch.

Too tired to cry,
too nothing to act.
Too ashamed to look up
at the grocery checkout girl.

So just stop eating.
Bar up your windows and doors.
Cancel the mail.
Phone rings:

You use your last hope
to unlock the screen.
It's an 800 number
but you answer anyway.

Walgreens' automated message
is a feminine voice:
Get your flu shot today
to protect friends and family.

You listen to the three-minute message,
four times.
It's nice not to hear the refrigerator hum,
for a little while.

The voice sounds nice
but you know how that'd end.
You'd be on the no-call list if they knew.
So you go on un-immunized.

Belly-up to the world,
sick at every exposure,
this shame whittles you down to bones:
Bones on the other end of the line.

Cold, skinned fingertips
cant slide green to answer.
800 numbers go to a voicemail
that will never be checked.

My Town
My town is a cool town, where you can go and drink beer in many pubs and clubs, from rock and metal ones to trendy dance bars. Fancy dancing the night away? Night clubs are open till gone 4am, with girls to dance close to and cocktail drinks to exotically drink. See a live band in The Abbey or Whittles, see a drag act in The Dog and Duck or try some Real Ales in The Upsteps.

If you want a job you can work in a variety of industries, from being a baker at Park Cake’s bakery, making cakes like chocolate éclairs and custard creams, to warehouse work in Littlewoods or Jacobson’s. Want to better your education? There’s a university and a new science training centre where you can learn something different.

If you want to write, there are several writing workshops. From Fitton Hill library to Oldham Central, where you can write poetry and stories about anything your heart desires. Myself, I write about my life and times gone by. Want to check your emails or go online? Every library is plugged in so you can chat to your pals in Australia.

Much of the old town is gone now. No more Mump’s Bridge, the two rail bridges are gone. The huge mill on Park Road is rubble, making away for something new. Same with the train station, haven’t you heard? We’re getting the Metrolink and trams to Manchester and elsewhere. You can come up and visit me and my town.

We’ve plenty of sights like Dovestones with wild moorland, deep blue reservoirs and hidden deep valleys. Enjoyable in every season, taking your breath away. Spend a day in Uppermill, a small tourist village, with a historic museum and lots of gift shops like Pieces of Paradise. In the other directions, you have Rochdale, Ashton and Manchester, where there are shops aplenty to keep you occupied.

People from all four corners of the world come and visit Oldham, some settle here. From the Caribbean, both America’s, Asia, Europe and more. Languages from many different places are spoken here and people have unique names like Anneke or Dalmia . All unique, adding to the culture. We’ve no aliens or Martian’s yet but never say never!

If you want history, you’ve got it. Churchill was once an MP in Oldham and a deadly **** V-1 bomb hit Abbyhills. Many died. To balance it out, you’ve local bands like Blouse, with not a breast in sight, doing top rockin’ tunes. A host of others do fun gigs and excellent nights out. This is my hometown, Oldham. Come and visit us, have a beer and try a local chippy or kebab.

Singed am I from dealing with Dragons
Though my hands feel their fiery sting no more
Soaring through the twilight of my mind
A sight for sore eyes beheld me

Their lair flows thick with golden sludge
The manifestation of drudgery borne
From a life intent on the taking

Scarred am I from feeding Lions
Yet my limbs grow anew from the power of love
As the dove lays nest upon its head
I spread my wings so boldly

The pack moves with flow designed
To magnify their pride through birthing cub
Through the Lioness they come
But from one seed solely
That is a lonely world

Wise am I from running with Panther
Her feline grace abstains from false action
With a keen eye around on what happens around
She whittles and reads the minds that encounter her

Then lying on the branch with the thickest limb
She will tell you what boundless potential lies therein
By pouncing and slitting those shallow words
To release you from this carnal grasp

Bruised am I by the will of Bull
His blood-shot eyes a curdling pull
To challenge what has turned my family
T’wards that mindless short sight reality

Hidden pen is much smaller than his head
Though the master will deny at all cost
For the fear that the bull would join the executives

Tired am I by Horse’s drive
With its impeccable, ceaseless stride
You have outrun me in spirit
Leave me by the pond awhile
To ponder my demise

Your hooves they clamber in my head
My muscles lock and flesh is red
Though I don’t blame you for your optimism

Wallowing am I iScorpion’s venom
Her futile lunges so careless
Drunk with its own preservation
It spasmed at the sound of my name

Let me stroke it and soothe its poor vessel
With a gloveless hand showing trust
As a homage to the power of love

I am all these things one
They are all inside thee
Am I living through you
Or you living through me?