Barbie's so sharp
she knows Ken is now broken,
he's just a token of
the doll he once was.

There are
words spoken from seashells,
whispers, but
wedding bells?
no,
the glitter shone for a time and
then faded.

It's gone in a flash,
too much ******* and cash and
nights on the lash with the boys.

Toys that we were,
but now Barbie don't care
she's got ****** and gin hidden
everywhere and
a rope that hangs loose,
a noose at the top of the stairs
no one cares,
not Barbie
not Ken and there's
no action men
anymore.

Everything broken
everything bust and
everything turns as I
touch it to dust,
except
plastic faces,
botox at the races and
never passing the post.

All we can hope for is
another shell on the seashore,
whispers,
for someone to see her.

Eighty dollar Cuban cigars
fast women
fast cars
and a seat on the Board.
Lord,
what on Earth did you do to deserve all of that
Who's yanking your chain
who's pulling your cord?
Suddenly life seems so flat.

Dog ended days
Chips cut with corn or with maize
the life of the lowly
slowly I am beginning to get the gist
of the things I have missed
and I see things must change.

In this City
I can see disparity.
polarised opinions
factions on the margin
Verging on obscenity.

So should we all be stars in cars
have cigars with
fast women swimming through
in a boardroom grinning to, the poor folk
who's winning the war
what is life for if not for the promotion of wealth?
by stealth
and all other means necessary.

A pessary for Pilate
for where the sun doesn't shine
on this hit parade the weather's just dandy and fine
or it will be
when I get
what's mine.
Reserve me a seat on the board
attach the chain and the cord
and start
pulling.

In my dream I was again twenty four
out on the town and doing much more than ever before
and doing it very well,I might add.
Am I bad or what?

You really do not have a clue
as to things I dream of things I do and that's all good
I don't think that you, would like me as much or as well
if you stepped off the safety and dropped into the hell I inhabit.

But *** for tat if ya want some  o' that
you've got to be a delinquent
a teenage,old age tearaway,
a dream a day keeps reality away
and an apple in bed is better than a bullet in the head
or a 'Glasgow kiss'

How I miss those mad fights in back alley nights when the sun went off and disappeared
knocking out teeth and biting off ears and howling in rage when taken off to Barlinnie
and locked into a cage,
and then rehabilitation into a suitable product to be let out into an unsuspecting,unproductive,stuck up,shut the **** up,keep your head down half drunk nation of halfwits and half promised promises,the premse of which is we'll give you employment and if you're looking for fun or enjoyment you'll have to look further afield than the field where your tent is and how contented you'll be.

You'll see the future before you, before we then ***** you, out to high street agents who work on commissions from her majesty's prisons.
You'll hardly have time
to do any more time for you won't commit any more crime you'll be fixed up,mixed up with cocktails of hormones and shot full of honesty to be as honest as any one free,
and what will it mean when you're not mean any more?
open a door for a lady,well maybe
or smile at a baby.well maybe
give up your seat on the bus or the train and to make sure that you paid you will pay once again for a ticket you don't need.no more drugs,no more **** so you count the rosary beads and you'll wonder how wonderful everything can be.
can you see it all unfold as your bright future is told in case conferences and committees and everyone pities the lamb back in the pen
where the wolves and their teeth have injected a sense of morality,belief in your veins and you won't play any more games with dodgy credit cards or slip over back fences through unguarded entrances and make any appearances in courtrooms before magistrates who in any case are full of frustrations that they can't sentence everyone to death like they did in the old days
Oh yes
we'll change your ways and you won't recognise even though with your eyes you will see
what we
can do
when we shoot you

in the interval
when the ice cream lady
came
we bought
Kia Ora
and a box
of Poppets

I put my arm around her shoulders
she said,
it's not that cold,
I was hot
chewing poppets
and when the movie started
I tried to kiss her
but
only once,
she told me
that she'd tell and
I would go to hell for it.

Her name was Jacinta and
we were at the Odeon
the Odeon's gone now
and
Jacinta married
Bob Shriver who
drove for Amoco

I remember her though
very well.

It was very standoffish
back in the forties
still
I wish I'd been there.

Not so different today
just a new way of being
in and seeing things in
a different way.

*****
a torpedo
from
Saucelito
killed time in
the winery

a fine fellow he,

but down there in the canyons
loose cannons
abandon
all hope.

Under the microscope,
the microcosm of hope being telescoped
into your eyes.
Who out there denies that they have never been intrigued,have never walked the seven leagues to find inside themselves the mind that is their own,
Is it me,
am I all alone in this,do the stars not shine outside these bars of mine?
Underneath the microscope the seeds of hope shall grow,shall know me yet,before you forget me.

I knocked on the door of a saint
Shouted..
Let me in,let me in
Help me paint over this sin.

It was never the same after puberty came
And childhood turned into much more.
Yet.
I know there are Saints and there's definitely paints
So why don't he open the door?

Lifeskills and the willful ways of Men
Not something you'd think would fit together but then
We're all made from pieces and parts
From good or bad hearts and we have to make do.

So I knock again at the door..this is getting a bore
If he can't forvive me
I've got more living to live see..
..the time.
I could climb over the wall..into the window and down that long hall
But I think I'll go home
I might go to Rome...they've got Saints over there..enough and a plenty.


This is what's meant to be..no undercoat or fresh gloss on me
Gee.
Can't wait to see
Heaven.

I see no industry but can hear the buzzing of the Captains in decline,
the sign reads,
'work in progress'
I guess that sign is old.
No one told me that the rich would rule the land while bands of beggars roam with hands outstretched,
I guess I would have thought that sounded too far fetched,like some fairy tale being played out in a studio,like three goats gruff being stuffed into the *** and the troll got all the sauce,
of course we must be satisfied by crumbs that fall from fat men and their fatter waistlines but their were times when all this wasn't so.
Equality you know was not a dream although it seems so now,the fatted calf was carved up long ago and served by servants to the masters,greedy *******.
Now the factories have gone,heavy industry that once shone British might and steelworks blinding in the night have disappeared,our future has been mortgaged and our unborn sons are deep in debt,for this we get a bill each year and each year we owe more and more,the door is shut,tomorrow if it comes will find each one of us picking up more and more breadcrumbs which once we fed to garden birds and no words that could be written down or said aloud can make of me an English man feel proud of that.

Can any one of you please put a penny in this old mans hat?
The captains very deftly have packed their trunks and they've all left me in the ruins of today,no job,no pay,tomorrow came and I found out to late that tomorrow is today.

No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.

In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)

But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.

A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.

In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.

A tiger lily crept up on me and bit my arm.
I tried to calm it down by using my tin of Tiger Balm.
Did it work?
No such luck.
I'm going to give up gardening and go on Safari.

Letters get jumbled and mumbled words spill forth
a fifth of gin would help me begin
to sort these thoughts into a sensible order
but I can't afford a fifth and my sixth sense warns me
that alcohol will destroy me
so I set out blind
unable to find the sentiments in sentences or paragraphs
and,
someone laughs out loud.

Me,
I'm not so proud now
can't tell you whether or how I feel and though I want to be real with you
deal with you on an equal basis
my face is
lost in the jumbles
mouth that still mumbles
stomach that rumbles as the the acid builds
filled with some fear that if you try to come near
I won't and don't know what to say or do
and do you never stop and think
how much easier it is to write out words of love in ink?

I think a pen is a godsend to those who could not lend their mouths to their words
and in words I can write,
I can write us of night in the bed
pen it in red
pen it in blue
that's what I'll do,
Send to you my  love, written in lines and written of times when the mighty pen holds all the aces
even then my heart beats fast as I pace the floor real slow and the ink don't want to flow and I think there's something wrong with me
calamity.

I need some help to wander
then I need some more, to pen the words to make you soar
and will you marry me?
oh
the pen wants a wedding
shedding its ink into what I only think but have never said
penned in red.

If I used a marker
wore a parka
had a part time job as a fairground barker
would it be the same as any time I hear your name.

I freeze
and could you please unjumble me
unmumble the words I cannot say and let me be
a different pen and in the fountains where I spout
let me shout out everywhere
that you're my girl
but when?

Harper scarpered with the loot and Jimmy Tang was in the boot of the Ford Escort,
thought he'd pull a fast one,how wrong was he
now he's off to see the sea in concrete shoes,
Harper doesn't lose he wins
and Jimmy Tang just spins below where tidal currents flow.
The Old Bill had their fill of killing,and
Bobby shoe shine who was willing to grass up Harper for a new life in Santa Barbara or somewhere hot and dry,told the old bill of a story,****** gory and full of death.
hardly daring to take a breath Harper hid out in a redoubt,(a throwback to some ancient war)
The cops swore later he shot first but it's anyone's guess,the upshot was,the world is less a villain and a spiv
and Bobby shoe shine doesn't give a hoot,he'd got his loot a different way.

So long is
a long time
coming,
shortly is
just
the same.

They shot me full of dextrose,
god knows why
and now
it feels like I'm teleporting,
courting the sky,
kissing her blushes as
time passes by

It can all be found down on Strutton Ground, or on Victoria Street,where the Angels meet up once a week to seek out worthy causes,
in between and between the pauses of the traffic that rushes past,eyes are cast among the cats eyes that sprawl on roads so lazily and look to see the racing of humanity.

Fleeting are the fleet of foot that shut away ,what, but only if they knew are people just like me and you.
And tanks tread leaden legs and heads no longer full,pull doleful souls to where the Angels stand and lend a hand.

Victoria has many palaces but palisades they'll all become,importuning what light there was and opportunities are light because,
the work has dried up,******* in the red tape of black crepe soled shoes that use the halls of parliament and only to abuse the lost,the friendless and the night seems never endless for this section of society.

Dreams that leave you hanging from the
opera in your mind and the
orchestra keeps bangin' on and still
you feel that hangin' on
is the only thing to do.

I don't mind that dreams don't find their end in me,
I can shift the light around until the night can't see
where I am hangin'

The opera's another can of worms
storms in B cups
bombing tea cups,
do your dreams make you squirm?

Flight or do you fight?
I fancy flight, but
I'll take the biggest bite of you
and chew and chew, do you
like music in the raw?

Something more
or something that the lady wore?

Dreams that leave you hangin'

it's that time
not long after nine
when the lights dim
and him
(that'd be me)
asks her
( that's She)

would you like a cup of tea
or something?
she laughs
I bring the tea.

Sunbeams dancing off the ends of leaves and
dropping to laugh along the rutted path,
running up my legs and tickling my tum,
sunbeams are fun.

We all think so except for grumpy caterpillar who only ever complains about headaches and hemorrhoids and pains in the chest.
His Mum's a butterfly and doesn't know why he's like it, blames his Father, the red admiral, 'he was always at sea', so she says.

'I'll be a sunbeam for you', we sang and the woods rang with titters and the twitter of birds,
'just storybook words', Mother said, as she tucked us up in a flowerpot bed and the day will be bright again tomorrow and so we borrowed some sleep from the moonbeams that keep the sunbeams 'til morning comes courting.

My heart is but the souvenir
reminding me that you were here,
but now you've gone,
my mind plays tricks with stones and sticks
my eyes see you,
the image sticks,
but now you've gone.
If only I could wind back time,
take back the words
then we'd be fine,
of this I'm sure,
but the clock goes on its tick-tock way
each day takes you so far away and
all I have's this souvenir,
a broken heart reminding me that
you were here
but now you've gone.

At times it is hard to sail on
when the sirens sing songs to me
and the depths of the dark blue sea
call out to me.
In the fearing there is wonder
and I wonder
how come?
where was it written in the heat of the Sun that my Kingdom will come
in the fathomless deep?
Would I sleep my eternity in this, the fraternity of pirates and slaves
whatever happened to Jesus saves?

The sirens sing sweet things that bring me to endings
and the doldrums are here
pending a sharp wind and rescinding previous posts
I host one more party to start me on my way
to slip into and down through the beckoning spray
and when the waters close over and cover
will I then live to discover a meaning to all this
will the bliss that I have in mind be the bliss I will find
or will I disperse
in the teasing of tides that would ride out my bones across waves into more temperate zones.

The sirens fall silent and the night starts to sing
I bring up my collar and call to the Moon,
so soon
so soon and the sky goes to sleep
in the deep someone's calling
and I have to stop falling
I keep my mind still and in the stillness
I will
find my bearings and compass point
and that is the point
to read the map
to find a route
to sail one's ship
to not let go
to not let slip.

I should rip apart this sadness,madness
but what else would I be
could it be this is the one and only
long and lonely trip
we all must take?
before I break apart
I will start to stop again
pick up the pieces that lie in pain
and hoist the sails
put up the mast and hide from the rains
and in the distance in darkness
the sirens begin.

leaking pearl ear rings
shining
she sings of
glass.

In the images mirrored she
has borrowed a lifetime
and more
conductors who then wrote
and loaned
her the score
tampering with time
she learns how to mime
the words,

vocal chords shot by
the distill of
a thousand and one
mountain men
high on the skyline
an end to a lifetime
a drink to another
old friend.

Down by the remains
of the charcoal pits
ash still spits from
the mouths of the homeless.

It's love
she knows and I know it too
it's that feeling you get
when each other wants you and you know
that it's true because you
want me and
I want you
it's love
so sue me.

We're not here to represent the people that were meant to do,
what's the point in that?
We, the boys in Parliament are here to stuff our faces with Beluga,(booyah)
and have a pint or two,
represent you?
not a chance.

Did I tell you how I prayed
on knees before the morning came
and listened to by bells that rang in mighty decibels
and fell to crush and stay my uttered syllables.

Where in the singing of the psalms did blood appear to flow from palms
and calm this torture
played out as a platform game on X box three or was it me
who could not grasp the significance
of an abeyance I would deign make
what if fakery was the order of the day and would then the bells ring out to say in sixteen chimes or as many times as I could bear
Would the lines that led to crucifixion day be written any other way?
Did those legionnaires despair
or on the darkened unlit stairs did they rejoice at choices made?

And we fade as thus we shine and in another time we'll do it,did it been there and bit by bit we bid this happening to reoccur
so we the unfit,unloved,unwashed,unholy,outcast ones can join in and share
the melancholy felt by those the ones who knelt before the cross
in the loss of things
or in the losing and the grief it brings another lonely bell rings out
with heartfelt pleas and once again I'm on my knees
and giving thanks for these the moments when the light has flashed
and bells have crashed to smother me with talk of other times
the chimes
the chimes
and would there ever be the time to hear them all before the call was sent
Did I not rend the air with blasphemy and would he see the truth behind the curses that I spat into the gutters
when in utter abject poverty
blinded by those who could only see
the misery and not the man?
I wonder if that was in his plan to make the beggars saints and vice versa
or could it have ever been the plan to make a man who felt so bad
that man who knelt would go quite mad
and wrap into a bundle tight
to trundle off with head down in the night.

I kneel before the altar
altered irrevocably
I don't need to see what others see
I now see me in my many faults
for I have walked and talked deep within the vaults of introspection
and selected only those the pieces suitable for my inspections of my soul
and now the hole there was is filled
and stilled the raging mind
and stilled the storm and tempest
instilling what is best and disregarding all the rest
I go to take my rest
and am at peace.

They told me in all honesty,
"you're a flying carpet"
and still they walked all over me.

I'd do the job for nothing if respect was what it gave,
but it seems to me Aladdin wants nothing
more
than for me to be a slave.

It feels like jellied eels out there
cold and wet and slippery
I think I'll put my slippers on
and watch catch up
on the TV.

But I've got to go out in the snow
fodder for the cannon
going on and on to a thousand
variations of at least four different
seasons in a day.

I know it's summer somewhere where
the Winter's left behind and its up to me
to find it, but at times this man's so blind.

If 'open sesame' won't do
and the bell don't seem to ring
I'll use a stick of dynamite
and blow the door right in.

It's a Sunday,
they say
let us kneel and pray
to some greater God
who's left the World in such a mess
I think that rather odd
anyway,
I get down on my knees
ask for forgiveness
pretty
please.


A chess game and they congregate
make their moves
until they reach
a stalemate

sixty seconds on the clock
the gun is cocked
the casbah's rocked
the door's still locked
I light the fuse.

On the horizon, I want to see,
four elephants marching slowly to be
joined by two zebras in stripey white coats,three stoats with hair tinted,a polar bear minted and in a sign of the times,a cavalcade of ***** that walk in straight lines.
On the horizon, I want to see
the new moon arising and setting for me,
Jupiter calling,Mars at war falling in love with his Venus and Uranus can do as it pleases, while in the lap of Saturn I map out my eyes on
what I would like to see on the horizon.

I have become the dead hour at Woolnoth
a sloth full of woe
and with nowhere to go
I go nowhere,see nothing.
Paradoxically
the deeper I sink
the higher I get.
I am set out on a table like gelatine,flowing slowly with nothing,is this a dream?
I need something soft on my skin
I need raindrops to stop me and let me get in
I need to touch and to feel that even I could begin,
but the clock strikes on dull,
I feel the stretching of sinews and I use up the 'tramadol'full already with 'aspirin' and 'panadol', and the mobile just lights up with the letters that spell out LOL.
it's the way not to start any day but the day never knew me.
I fly with the kites and am tangled in wires and the sloth only wants to settle,dreaming in spires, I aspire to be more than the dead hour.
I need to shower but the motivation eludes me and I sink further into the stink that I am become,
you can shun me I don't care.
I'm a slow learner on the back burner and I can't turn tin into gold,I need to be held,felled and falling into something more appealing instead of sinking into somnambulence and bouncing off the ceiling.

This is the state of play.

Nothing to do
everything to say
nothing to live for but sloths want much more ,as if there's a fire that burns deep inside them,ignites when they find they become men, and then there is Woolnoth,gothic and brooding.

Great poets don't die they live on and they lie in the beds between other poets heads and whisper,
do you hear them? the
ignition men
or do you hear the dull sound on the last stroke of nine?

The silence of violence
piston knocks
absorbing shocks
not a whimper,word is heard
third time this week
tomorrow she'll seek
a safer place
save her face.

Her black eyes don't cry even she wonders why she put up with it for so long,how could love be so hurtful,
how could she have got it so wrong.

The waiting room is full of 'dope'
zimmer frames filled with no hope and
I am on the slide.

They lied to me,
the ******* said,
'retirement's good,
and you'll have time to tend the flower bed'
but they never told me,that
arthritis and gout would put me out
to grass,
well
they can kiss my ***.

The old and the new,
do you remember
December back then?

Stockings hung
bells rung for School?
fool,
no school at Christmas time.

What now?
Google invents the new advent,
twelve days and a million ways
to find everything,
Google
can even sing you to sleep
carols to keep you snug.

Bah humbug,
handbags are on another page
Google and see, but
we
remember the go out and look days
I guess
we
are set in our ways,
the old and the new do
what they do and
I do
too.

A clove of garlic keeps vampires at bay
keeps a cold away
wish the lady would stay, but
she goes too.

I'd ban 'flu
man 'flu
nothing new there.

A pillow
to lay low
and under
the duvet, eyes closed
a rainbow of light.

I read Tolstoy
oh boy.....

,,,,spotting a Beano at the end
of the rainbow
I read that as well.

Garlic stinks don't ya think
I don't think at all
as I fall
asleep.

It's all about the social mining,the digging up,divining,modelling,refining,of what we call society,
the cream will rise like morning gold,
the frail,the weak,the poor and the old will sink into the sinkhole,poles apart from any start they though they might have had,
the world's gone fracking mad,
we are dug up,dusted,polished or busted and thrown back down the pit,they tell me **** don't smell so bad in a world gone fracking mad.
I refuse to heed the signs that say,'we'll all be socially mined one day' and prefer instead to look ahead to something far removed from the dynamite and the burning fuse.
The outcast few will far outlast the casting crew who cast their lines down the social mines to catch those who have not a clue that they're the bargain in the bucket,
**** it why do I care?
I've done my share of casting been outcast,outclassed,passed around and out and now in passing all I had, I still think the world's gone fracking
mad.

At times, the greyness sidles in
snuggles up to me and
I begin
to see in shades of black and white.
It all adds up to being right, but feels as if
I don't belong.

At times, times ten it sidles in again
stronger and more disconcerting
hurting me,
I see that greyness and in all fairness
it sees me as
a willing victim.

An evening to do what seems so right
a wrench from the *****
who
thinks it's alright
to stagnate.
I wait for the morrow to come,
for the postman and some
statement
of intent, but
I am bent on the track and
there's no looking back,
I am set
for the fight.

One more casualty.one more war
don't know what they're fighting for
why won't they shake hands,make the peace
why don't they just agree to cease.

When we played as boys with guns for toys and shot each other dead
how could we know the real foe was
bullets made from lead.

Payments due and debts, racing bets that never win,the roulette spin,unlucky dice
and blood that runs as cold as ice.
The gambling man goes rambling on,against the odds,playing slots,losing lots and never breaking even.

Even when he pulls four Kings, someone shows a Royal flush,
at a push I'd say he's not a man who should or can play games of chance where any chance he has to win,end as lost chances in the ******* bin,
the loser's tin,he gets the *** of not a lot,no golden prize,look in his eyes,
despair and gloom
and in his empty room,TV hocked,door tight locked
he sits
tries to slit his wrists and fails,hammers more nails in his head yet still he wishes red came up on number twenty three,
he doesn't see the futility
of the spinning wheel that really is not real at all,
but an imprint on his tortured mind and the same goes for the three of a kind,another hat trick.

Just a sickness not the deal and nothing tastes as good as throwing double six and tasting blood,
all good
or so he thinks
so he drinks to hide his shame of not a penny to his name
and tomorrow will borrow another dime
to try another time
to change his luck.

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.

So true
So true,
I never knew so true,
true is always so
I never saw a truth that wasn't so
so, so. so
always
so, so, so.

I wish that so would go
just so I would not know
that so was just
so, so.

And so what if I knew that
so was just so true?
but that would never do,
just so
you know.

The nightmare is always where I
least expect it to be,
haunting,
following me through the
shady streets.
I catch it at times in the eyes that meet mine
which I know are my own, or in
the tone of a voice that I hear and here is
the matter,no matter how deep I hide, that
tone of a voice follows me down inside,
you'd think I'd expect it,
but no,
which just goes to show how I fool myself into
a falser sense of security.
The nightmare always follows me.
I always expect that.

It is now
when the evening draws in and the warmth of the day dances on the point of a pin when the chances of charity from strangers are slim and the thought of that cardboard..
...yes,
that cardboard on the sidewalk by the superstore outside, the pharmacy, on the street where your breath paints the air with a sense of foreboding, it feels like you're loading the twelve bore by the superstore, super, the pharmacy opens at six.

So
we drop in a coin or two tell you to get a job, tidy up, have some respect for yourself and then we forget you because we're not you and we never will be, but I know and so do you that you were 'we' once, until the crash came and the sky fell in and any warmth now dances on the point of a pin.

Tough to get back and harder to get in when you're out of the loop, it's like the World's caving in on you and all you can see are the special offers in the windows of the superstore by the pharmacy.

It is now in the moment where you could be where you once went, but you're intent on self-misery and self-loathing is your luxury.

The night drifts in on the wing of a prayer.

There is nothing but the chimes to remind me, a clock face full of good times of sad sometimes not times, but the chimes hold no memory, they all ring inside me like a dishcloth wrung dry and only the damping of tears reminds me again of the how and the why and the crying out of fears, so many things in one boat.

Nothing but the dull throb hung on my chest like a watch fob and the chime, the chimes, cutting into and out of the day, no time and time's no friend until the echo of time starts to end and the chimes fade away.

And then we wind up the spring and step into beginning again, we are the hands on the clock face keeping pace with the clock and time is the lock that we open then lock and the chimes are the stock in trade.

Inflation is just another form of taxation
on the poor.
Was it Keynes who coined that phrase
back in those Bloomsbury days?
when the world was younger than now
when the when and the why and the who and the how
didn't matter
but now
it's appropriate
because of the awful state
we find ourselves in.
Was it him
Was it Keynes?
It seems that he was right
and if so,
then we must fight against poverty
fight against penury
we
could find insolvency
in our own back yard
Life is hard and they make it harder
raiding the larder
taking the food from your mouth.
The South
bleeds us dry
from the Tyne
to the Wye.
We really ought to get wise
and get rid of those guys
in grey suits.

Pictures on the bare brick wall that
fall into the atmosphere
surround me with a lifeless glow
and I don't want to be in here,but
the angels will not let me go and
so I stay alone in fear and
settle down to watch the show.

I see the young the old,the few I knew,
the Titanic in its infancy,the music playing
mournfully as it sank beneath the
cold grey sea,
the eyes that shed their tears for me,
the beggars in their poverty
the lines that took the trains away
the burning of the books that night,the
ash of bodies burned that day
and still the pictures come to me
on bare bleak walls they run to me
where air guitars still strum to me
these brick walls hold no fun for me
as if I'm the one who's falling free
and painted on a picture frame in
Gothic script
I read my name.

I had to think twice about thinking twice which was twice the work for an old work horse and
if nature truly runs its course then of course it must be true that pondering on the imponderables is a noble thing to do.

You and I know
that to go around in circles is a total waste of time
but we do it all the time which wastes more time and not being one for waste or time I found it easier to go in a straight line,
not a flat line because that's something different.

Any dimension you like is the dimension that does it for me.

Space
lots of it even in the little bit of what I see and what is a galaxy anyway?
just another chocolate like the milky way or Mars bar which is not too far off the mark,
in an inn in the dark and so am I, where
a pint of beer and a pie is my cup of tea
(sounds a bit Alice to me)
confused?
I always was.

If you had to think twice every time that you thought
I'd think twice about thinking at all

Comments to cut in,to but in and blank empty spaces where faces should be
and what does it mean?
**** all to me.

Say what you want and do what you will
but until you have walked in my shoes,
just lose yourself in the crowd,
choose the words to use and if you can't use them wisely,don't use them,
and what are they worth?
**** all.

And if you don't say it clear,say it loud,come out from the shadows and put faces to names,
then it's all games.
A run around,a turn about to disappear into the space you seem to fear,
and me,
well
I'm not here,I'm just some
writing on a wall
worth less than ****** all,
should I care to worry or to fret?
my bet is no.

It will go on until it stops, until my ears pop and my heart implodes and my eyes end up at the end of my nose,
but then I'll see
and I'll see what it all meant to me
which is not much,
a touch of ink,a link to a site,a waiting through night 'til the morning flies in,a pain in the ****,a bit of a farce
but continue I will.

And time can do handstands or stay still, I don't really care because it's not me that's there,
I'm off on my jaunts to old places,new haunts and I couldn't give a fiddlers elbow whether you come or you decide to go,
whether you read me or not.
But
this is me
this is what I've got,
which is a *** to **** in and an ear to listen,
get used to it
or not.

I have spoken with emissaries from the embassies of hope who filled me with foreboding of what is to come,I have seen Diplomats run from the mountains of papers that climb up their backs.
In sacks full of Christmas the listless lay dying,babies unattended left hungry and crying and the peace pipe is smoked in the Olive groves of Turkey,while the radioactivity,the new age nativity is played out in church halls.
I see buildings arise as each old building falls and the dust spreads its memories through the thoughts I have walked through.
I see you dressed in Sepia with the sunlight behind you
I see you and no more now
I see you and this is how
I remember.

Comes along an interlude where
the many thoughts I have are
thought upon,chewed up,spat out
and that's what thoughts are
all about.
The shuffle in the pack,thinking,things and,
going back,redealing,feeling something new,
thinking does those thing to you.

The interval is where I break,
where thoughts can gather and take up
the slack,knowing they'll
be coming back.

One day the interlude will last and all thoughts passed into the past will pass away,
I'm not thinking of that day,other thoughts get in the way and that's the way of it.

London welcomes visitors.

Vagrancy.
You can't see me but I see you
uncaring
staring at the faces
hiding in the hiding places
the alley ways and short stay cubby holes poor souls in poor condition
welcome to the new perdition.
Down at Millbank
the embankment
a euphoria
we live in Victoria under the droppings of the day where we lay
and you can't see us
but we see the bus
we were bussed in
put our trust in
and now we are here in the heart of the City
with no job or no home
and if you feel alone
think of how we feel.
Can't integrate  or get help from the state
and we're stateless and helpless
and guess what,
some of us drink
some of us think it's the answer we seek
until today becomes next week and next year
and on the streets paved with gold we've got old.
We should have stayed at home.
I'll put the NVQ's on a barbecue
that's what I'll do
because it's cold
the only options I'm told are to sink or to swim
I think I'll give in
pack up my stuff
enough is enough
and I'm fed up.

Second contact and down to the brass tacks,
the nuts and the bolts
good looking
no faults
as far as I know.

She scrutinises too,
looking at you know who
and who could blame her?

We agree on a next time,
I say,
at your place?
she says,
at mine.

Our first disagreement,
I relent
and say,
okay
at mine.

She wins this time.

Finally,
the beer is here,light and warming,strong and clear.
'Storming the Equator'
brewed by 'Thomas Roderick Slater' , founded eighteen sixty eight and by appointment to her majesty the Queen.
A finer beer I've never tasted nor have seen.
Excuse while I take a slip into a little sip of
excellence.