The Victoria.
A circuitous route to get me there where the Central line should be.

"we apologise for any delay, there is a good service operating on all other routes"

Circuitous where the two of us go round in circles and not on the Circle line,
Yes,
travel in London and you'll have a fine old time.

This has been a twenty minute rhyme on the Victoria line, Greenwich mean time.

If you're going to bow
kowtow to the ***** in this ocean that is life,
you'd better get a snorkel tube and lubricate your nether parts,
broken promises and the hearts that drown of those that bow down just float away,
if you're going to stay
stay tall
tread lightly
don't fall,
we all break and at times we all take a hit,
just keep shoveling the **** away,
if you're going to stay.

It's greener somewhere and the ocean's air is a soothing balm and the storms subside and it all seems calm,
somewhere
we'll get there
if we keep
paddling.

...and later on, though he wondered where the time had gone,he got off his seat,onto his feet and moved on through the day,
his thoughts criss crossed the paths down the line of bellyroll laughs and his eyes watched the skies for a sign,but none came.
The sun spun its rays in intricate ways and the heat bothered him,he's been fat,now was thin and the skin on his face was grimy and tight,he should have bathed in the light but he shunned it instead,
shaking his head,moving on,looking for her but she'd gone,he was fading away,there was death in the lack of excitement today and his days were the same,looking for signs where none came,searching for tokens and words that were spoken a long time ago.
He didn't know and nor did he care,he was moving along,he was looking for her,but she'd gone,travelled on through the veil,walked now in the shadows that rose in the evening, within the valley that lies beyond....

...and later on when the evening had come and gone and she still was not where,when his mind ceased to care and he was dead on his feet,
he sat back down on his seat and looked at the sky,opened his mouth but the words did not come,
with the sun stuck in his throat he put on his coat and went home.

That little creep..
..on the seat with his feet on the back..
..of the seat in front.

..and I'm standing here.

I want to tongue lash his ear.
I want to give him a bat around the head.
Get up you **** and give me a seat instead.

But I stay silent and smile..
..in a very short while the little tyke..
will be as old as me.
Then we'll see..
..how he likes to stand.
Not so bleedin' grand..is it..little ****.

He's got all his life and I'm at the end
I'd like to send the little sod away..
..into the tomorrow of what became my today.

But I stay silent and smile.
File his face into a secret place..
..and I won't forget.
I bet he's thinking of marbles and conkers
While I'm still standing going ever so slightly incredibly bonkers.
Didn't he get taught to give up his seat on the bus..
..to old folk like us?

Little ****..but in a bit he'll be me

Haha, I laugh because then we will see
Just how he likes it.
Little ****.

Before I go..just would like to you know..
..he got up and said,
"Would you like to sit here instead"
Such a nice young man.

I am acutely aware
that this government out there
won't share with us
don't care for us
and
that's their loss.

We can cross the road
vote for the other lot,
X marks their spot
but it doesn't bode well,
the others are just snails
crawling in and out
of the shell.

I smell the same after shave on
all politicians who stand and profess
that they'll save us,
they gave me sod all except a
stink in my nostrils and the need to
take more of the little blue pills.

It's not my future they're taking,
it's yours.
They are closing the doors on ambition
putting up barriers,
we,
should petition the Queen.
but
she's seen it all before and her door is
shut tight.

In this night of a thousand glares
she sits on her throne and stares at the clock
while we
in our madness,
pick up a rock
and throw.

I'm turning into Louis Wain
going quite insane.
the cats complain
I do not hear.

Fear
the Devil and his deeds
for he will satisfy your needs
and then will ask for payment.
Content to be
insane that's me
my cats are all I see
and they're not real
they sit at tables playing cards
drinking alcohol.
In feet and yards they're streets ahead
purring, whirring round my bed
I cannot sleep
them dratted cats keep me awake.
I should take another leaf
become a thief
and draw the dogs
who hide behind my frosted eyes on worsted woollen sheets
made by ladies on the coast
in Brighton mostly but some do live in Shoreham by the sea
I love them and they do love me and they love my cats that's plain to see
except by me
I hate the little sods.
Making rods for my own back
I draw them toting haversacks
which they will surely fill with me.
I see it
The cats see it
the dogs are nowhere to be found
like lunatics they've burrowed under
formed the doggie parlour underground.
What glee
what medicine for me.
What time is it?
Oh half past three
I'm turning into Louis Wain
I've said that once but once again and just to let you know
I hate cats
they're so unpredictable.
Can't erase them when I've drawn them
It's almost as if I want to spawn them
I guess that's why I'm locked inside
behind the walls where madmen hide
with cats.

This is life lived in the Kinema
on the outskirts of a town
called Eczema,
where the usherette flicks cigarettes
at the players in the pit, they
think it's ****
but we love it.

The owner, eyes like razor wire,
tongue tied puts the price of
entrance higher,
with a look from the hook up on the screen
I take a slice out of the scene and
catapult him from the frame,
all in the name of art.

In the interval, we fill the time by
smoking dope and drinking wine because
the Kinema is where we're king, where
anything goes and often will.

The old iron bedstead makes a good bed at
the bottom of the white cottage garden,and
out from it sprouts,
stinging nettles and a solitary tiger lily,
a filly among the rough,
nature can be cold hearted and tough.

Nesting in an old tub underneath a mulberry bush,
a blackbird sings songs in the morning which longs
to be older,
and an old well now dry but once wished upon by
ladies in crinoline
sits and silently cries out its thirst.
This was the garden to be in the cottage where we
had such sadness and joy.

Many years pass and the footpath falls under the fast rolling weeds,
the cottage now empty is still and
surprisingly white as if
the passage of years has been a delight.

Strange though that I still go to meander,
pander to melancholy in the place where
we kissed under mistletoe
so long ago.

Of the pestilence, I write
in spite of or because of my love of
the equine
and not of the ***** swine,
the one of the four who sit on the hilltop,taking their fill until we drop and then they carry us away.

The four horsemen they say,you only see on the day,when at the end of your tether,you find yourself tethered to a weakening heart and as you gasp out your last,you can hear as they start,cantering slowly your way.

Pestilence and disease sit easily at ease on the saddle,and on his fingers cut with sores are the spores of my destruction which I cannot obstruct,
I'm ****** if I can and what was once a fine man is brought to his knees,by one of the four.

Now eaten away and the core of me being exposed,I compose a write,a light,a decomposition given the position I'm in and the position is this,
I can hear a pin drop as an ant pops the question
I can see the sky shy away as the night comes on out to play and the twilight does not have a say
in this, the slaying of a man,where only heaven can help me and only the devil would bother.

Give them oats,brush their coats and curry their favour,whatever you do will win you no favours,
The cantering horse will appear when the time of your end is quite near,
you cannot appease the one known as the pestilence who brings in the disease
known as death.

She let me down gently
but
it still ****** me
for life
mentally.

*** for tat
kidnap and ****
will
it ever
end?

Life,
the optical illusion
a collusion between
the eyes and the brain, where the
mind finds in each season
a reason to continue.

Life,
a temporary abduction
a somewhat absorption
a potential solution and
why don't we
give it a go.

The mission bells rang out and
the faithless were hung out
to dry,
today is a good day to die
or as good as it gets.

Menaces and threats never satisfied and
they died where they stood.

But it was Joseph of Arimathea who
came to be here
when the faithful had gone
and it was his words that shone
some heard him wrong,
but not me.

On the hilltop where olives gleam
against the towers where I
have seen
ghosts of the past
I saw it at last and
misunderstood,
that's as
good as it gets.

The look that says it all
says nothing at all,
but the eyes say everything
you'd ever need to know.

In twenty four and seven more and one week ahead we'll meet
down at the pilgrims parsonage,where travellers sit to rest their weak and weary souls
and where donkeys tied to willow poles, whip round and round thus bringing water above the ground from down below.
This is the flow of life I see in all humility and serenity,where tranquillity doth override man's overpowering urge to ramble on and ride upon the tails of tales we tell.

The well is deep and we take our fill
as the pill sometimes we swallow,bitter is the man who doesn't know,the flow and where she goes.

Insolent men will scoff,deride the secrets that we hold as true,inside the barriers we ***** to keep the heathens we suspect to be at gain, so ill,
and one more pill to chew upon until the taste of arsenic,
gone are all the thoughts of greed and if we ever needed them or did we leave them to the insolence in us,the men
and are we then the men become
those who look blindsided, sideways at the sun and never blink,nor stop to think of Icarus who flew too high,too near,
wings are meant for birds and men may try to fly as such,
a touch too much of looking at the sun!

Fear not the walkers of the sands with calloused hands and spirits free
fear not for he is we
the seeker and the same
the one by any other name we like to call.

I fall again into the flow as only fallen men would know
to feel refreshed and at my ease
anyway I like to please
the audience who only come to watch the show
and never really get the flow
at all.

There is only this,
A smile, a kiss a moment in bliss
And it's gone.
Life wasn't supposed to last very long
And it doesn't surprise.

I have seen too many suns that have set in the East
And at least as many rise in the West.
Either Or,neither is better than the one gone before.
The day begins and will end as we bow and we bend in the wind,
Like corn in the fields or chaff in the meadow we blow,
To the breeze we must flow and in this we will know
It is time now to go.

There is only a one and ever, a kiss is forever
A moment of bliss is a lifeline.
In the fall and the rise of the dusk and the day
When night carries away your prayers on a wing
Sing to the skies.
Open your eyes
It would not surprise me that what you will see
Is the spirit set free.

And when darkness falls
Deaf to the calls of the day
Would we have it any other way?
Would we say one life is never enough to do all that living and loving and stuff?
Or would we know this,
That life is a smile and a kiss
The bliss is in the moments
We so often miss.

Pale blue
baleful too
Mourning
morning
and the day begins
grins at me from behind the sky
slyly
wryly
I arise
wash the sleep
and my eyes
blue
sorrowful too
and I grin from behind the mask
all I ask is all there
glaring at times
and at times
daring me to break away
the day reins me in
from behind the sky comes another grin
a guffaw
and then more than my ears care to hear.

Fear the day
fear the way it captures the heart and wants you to live
carry a shiv
stab at it
grab at its glory
make a story from the fear that would trap you
wrap it round your little finger
**** on it and let its sweet taste linger
but fear the day just the same as it plays its frames about the screen that is your eyes
pale blue
behind the sky
we die just enough to enjoy and it's tough
to live
and then say,
'give me more are you waiting for an invitation
do you want each day to change and for every situation
to halt and arrange a moratorium?'

The crematorium will burn just as well
whether we're going to Heaven or bound in chains and heading for hell
this soul would do well to remember and write this in his journal.
The infernal cacophony of philosophy does me no good
I am the tree that cannot see but locked in a wooden embrace
with a wooden face
and behind the sky grins
at my wonderings
and I,
mourning
morning
place my hopes on a tomorrow that does not come.
For some it seems
those that live and die in dreams
tomorrow
is a shadow in the waking of the day which in a way is what I see
but what I see is not what I get
the day reins me in and once again I forget the story line
in time
I will
forget it all.

I shrink and am in quantum and want them giants stood outside to go away,the shadows that they cast blot out the sun,this day is faded gray and I wait for the moon to rise so I can bay at it.
I sit in sepia feeling like weeping at the sadness that surrounds me,thoughts of several years gone by hound me and there is no rest,
so I continue to shrink into sub where quantum then becomes the giant,the hub,the wheel on which I spin and the pin is me.
Atomically and anatomically quite comically I raise a fist at all those times that we have missed like ships that pass,escaping gas reminds me that the meter's on the starboard side,where in the past I've tried to hold things in,
now I just let it out and if farting's what this life's about then why am I still here,is it growing that I fear and If I shrink so much I disappear,where will I be?
quantum says, mechanically,
well,
****** me I never thought of that.

Island hopping,
life
never stopping to
draw
a breath.

Racing through the lace of the sky,
clouds shout, Hi,
I don't hear them,
only slowing when
the light goes green,
which is the witch in me
being awkward.

Backflow, forward in slow mo',
side, headlong dancing
I don't know
where this island hop will take me or
if I will go, just a crazy guy
getting it on with his mojo.

Life,
the last train to the last pain
you will ever feel,
dance slow and make it last.

One billion Lego stormtroopers,
some raise an army
some
raise the dead.

He acts like he isn't worth saving
she watches
his antics,
it's just misbehaving.

To care for
be there for
to share and
still want more.

He acts like there is no tomorrow
she watches and saves every scene
and in cinemascope they abandon all hope
as together they fall into
the dream.

Boom,
Bangalore,
I move silently across the
dance hall floor
she guides me patiently
I do not know what for, but
I explode and this
torpedo is no more.

Boom,
Bangalore,
I have my chinos and my Rayban's, but
she wants me more and more,
she is menacing and I run deep across the floor
but have no more to give.

Work,
the *****,
the crack ******* house, the new dope den but someone is still pulling the strings,making me do things and all for work.
Should I go out in this pouring rain and smoke that pipe of labour again or sit here at home with a bottle of shame?
It's not on the cards but all the same
I wish it was summer.

Sunday but no bells yet,
we'll get them later and
a sermon from the Padre.

I have an opinion on his opinions
his minions do too,
my opinion turns the air so blue
he thinks it's the sky
his minions do too.

But he's harmless enough which religion and
biblical stuff is not usually so.

I pass go and
collect
two hundred
one hundred for me and
the remainder for the
offertory.

And it's the monopoly
that'll topple me from this
****** thorny crown.

Sunday may be or not a lot of good,
I'm always open to suggestion and
willing to question
should
the need arise.

The poor men will rise with the searchlight of God streaming out from their eyes and the sinner shall have this day.

On the *** of the city where the fat cats and pretty boys walk,,where the talk is of bonds and debentures,diamonds in dentures and pearl driven breath,
there,
where the air lingers sad and the crazy man had all the luck he would get,and
standing tight on the floor calling more,give me more as if enough was not a feast,was
Jimmy Malone at home in the square mile and though crooked his smile he was as straight as a die,
he'd say, 'good morning my dear' with a grin or a leer and you knew you'd be faked out or taken down in the trading,but he was honest enough among the shylocks and tough boys who used to be hawkers down in the markets until Thatcher (the plot hatcher) showed them the yellow brick clique down in Threadneedle street,but
now they're just wide boys with big gobs,the new gentlemen fat slobs,pinstriped fat **** wipes who ain't got no time for their roots,all bar Jimmy Malone,
who calls mum and dad twice weekly at home and sends a cheque through the post to the boys club in Sligo where the young lads still go to learn how to live.
This is give and take city where nothing's given freely not even pity,where you're charged for your time by the dollar or the dime and the rich will stitch you sideways which only proves that crime does pay.
It's the sinners who win in the end,
while we're chasing geese they're fleecing us blind,I don't mind that's just life,sometimes I wish I was living it and
not shoveling ****.

I am haunting the past,
my own,
and the others
who cast me aside.

Pearl after pearls before the swine found
back in the backyards of the backyard of time.
I am haunting the past.

The constant in me and at last or
somewhere near there
I share what remains,
the bain or the bane of my youth?
the pain of the truth that
stains the sidewalks with blood.

I am haunting the past and
I'm good at it.

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.

I'm going walkabout
It's time to get away to the outback.
I've been here for years.
It feels like I'm seeping into the seams
of the stitching of yesterday's dreams
And I've got to go.

No one will notice,no one will know
If I don't turn up for the show they'll just think that I passed.
My turn has come to get on the road and to run as fast as I can.
You can't catch this man he's to quick.
Tied to the past though I maybe
I am no baby when it comes to a race
I set the pace
And I'm off.

Walkabout
Talk about a jape
This jackanapes is making his track
And he ain't looking back.
I am gone as soon as the sun makes a face
In the morning this place will be history.
That's me.
Gone in a flash.
Now I must dash off and pack my walkabout sack
With a brolly and boots,two suits and a pair of old jeans.
That seems about right.
This time tomorrow night
I'll be far away.

It's only a
burglar,
I wanted it
to be
Batman.

The reflection came too late
and now
I must wait,
for the mirror is
fogged.

Dogged by the memory
of the years
that passed by me,

I see shadows,
halo's of lights.

I fight my way up
no use staying here
not when the new year
is on the horizon..

It's funny.

I always trust being
on the cusp.

She had to stand on tippy toes to kiss my lips but
love, she knows
disregards the differences in heights,
makes a mockery of the passions spent in
sleepless nights but love,
she knows is where we
stand
together hand in hand against
the world.

I was shooting spitballs at the stars in my eyes,
difficult to do,
but anyway it's a Saturday and
who
was to know.

Not the beggar who sat with his hands wrought in iron.
I have my eye on him,
he sits there
quite prim
like an old English gent,
but I sense the pent up frustration
the doggedness of situation,
if anyone has an algorithm for that, tell him,
he's sat by the stairs on the Jubilee crown which was placed by the Monarch on her way down to the palace,
a place he'll never see.
'Coppers for me,
coppers for tea'

I just shoot spitballs,
I'm getting quite good, but it won't pay the rent,
if only it could.

This is our very own '84
they watch where you've been
they see what you wore,
who you were with and who's
given who what,
recorded and sorted
filed and reviewed,
I wonder what kind of a camera
they use and
when do
they choose to use it.

This is our very own '84
we've been eighty-sixed.

I lived across the bay
from Windscale,
the power plant,
the real
Jack O' Lantern.

They said, not true, that the
power station turned tomatoes blue
but
we knew
and
fish with more,a score of eyes,
we were wise to them
the power station
atomic men.

I am weary of theory
and  need  to practice some facts but my theory is laid back whilst my practice is backed up and I need to  separate the will from the want to,the need to , yet can't do.
There is a circus inside me and the clown cannot bide me, inside the cannon you'll find me,a shot in the dark.
There is no theory for that and Einsteins equations fall flat as the big top gets taller and I seem to get smaller,so I do what I can't do and will what I want too but I see right through me into another identity and I pity the theory that tries to get near me..

Lidocaine
I lied again
not novocaine
but caning it
a bit.

Rolling up a dollar bill
to get my fill
of instant thrill.

The flash back drill
the door caves out
the cops come in
watching with a stupid grin.

In the 'nick' again
******* you
lido,novo, pro no caine.

You asked, 'is this your car dear john',
I carried on
speeding
leading you,
and though my eyes were scarred,shut tight
I saw you
to my right and looking like for all the world
a frightened girl
but this was never meant to scare you just to share with you
a moment
up on seaview heights to watch the lights go down
and then to drive
back
to the town.

But speed is needy ever greedy and I must confess to you that I like loving speeding,needing that excitement,
more than you that's heaven sent and I am earthly bound and tied and live to ride the wings that fly in cars where you are looking scared.

I never dared say that before
I put the metal to the floor, just one more flicker on the dial,one more twitch another mile and then we're home
I see relief in your wan smile,
you'll be back
you like to track and trek with me
you'll break your bleedin' neck with me
and only speeding will we see
what will be.

Every chat up line I ever tried was a waste of time and then I died a hundred times or more waiting for her to come but the door stayed closed, believing I was supposed to be the epitome of masculinity, steroids to increase virility and a mustache because it suited me I was irritated instantly each time that she rejected me,
I suspected a conspiracy,
but
she did it on her own.

To get a degree
you need to be
(which I was never)
clever.

I'm what they called a late developer,
the picture being taken I was just late in
appearing to be
and no degree

It makes sense to me
that's more sense
than the syllabus made
and
educated on the lean streets of a mean town
is it any wonder I let people down?

whatever
how clever or if ever I'll be
I can't say I miss not having
that degree because
I've met idiots with honours
and
fools with some brains inside
and out of those
hallowed
halls of academia

being a romanticist I realise I might muse on what it is that I missed
but
if it was never no matter how clever in the stars for me

I will not worry endlessly.

The psychedelic tricks in the
colours
that she picks and what
she wears,
I swear are
diamond rainbows
in her hair.

And glycerine gives
quite a sheen,
my fingers slip across her skin.
I
can never pin her down to plant a
kiss upon her shiny lips,
gloss drops and drips from fingertips and
the psychedelic
strips the night away.

Lick a
lick a
stick a
stamp,
my friend
flicka.

Before the opening of the sky where three men sat
asking questions why,
of where the King of men would sit among the shepherds who could pit their wits against the wolves and worriers of sheep.

Asleep and yet in sleep I woke before the Oldest Magi spoke and talked to me in parables, as if I understood the riddles,being middle aged and hard of hearing.

In the clearing by the burning bush as hushed crowds looked on,with fish and bread and baptist John, a Rasta man from Birmingham, stood Salome daring me to take off veils so I could see
her nakedness and blood that dripped black off her hands,
These Holy lands,
this righteous band,these writers of a history that we delivered to the three.a triumphant trilogy that we become before the opening of another sky,another sun that burned names deeply on a cross of wood
and beggars in the hallways full of Baptist John,who with no head or eyes,could not imagine what was going on
but ripped out messages from the scriptures to paint pictures that he'd never see,while Salome intercoursed with Roman scribes and perfumed men and if to be as if she could,
When her name was carved into the wood,  as if another cross to bear would do more good and her screaming could be heard in prophecies by Galilee,as people gathered on street corners,to hear what they could never see and not believe,
and lepers grieved by river banks,their thanks and blessings washed away,their only ray of hope
hung out to dry
as three wise men sat and wondered why, the world moved on
Forgotten is The Baptist John,another prophet dead and gone and are we any better off for all of that?

I put a penny in the hat that's passed around to keep the upkeep of some distant consecrated piece of ground I'll never see
but hedging bets is what we do,
and make lamb stew
because we're all wolves with appetites to match.
I ****** another bleating sheep
and keep my thoughts
silently
stewing.

Sat on the sand with my life in the palm of my hand and in the other a razer,at times being the star gazer is not nearly enough,not when you feel that things are cutting up rough,
but the blade is the ***** that will dig you a pit,why sit on the sand when you can be a part of the land?
You and your left hand with the right one not knowing if you're coming or going and the razer,
the razer like a laser light will cut you a piece of the night and there'll be no return,what you plan to do,you don't learn,
you're a fail,go back to the start again,it's your chance to begin again and feel more pain
or cut.

I was asleep outside the church door
when at a quarter to four
I get a boot in the chest
And a loud voice boomed out
"I think it's best
if you leave"

I quite sleepy, replied,
"Is it the bible that lied
Can I not sleep in the heart of my maker?
If not,
Then tell me who is it, that is my creator"?

A silence ensues then he shoos me away
I limp off to the methodist church
where more people lay
on the cold of the stone
chilled to the bone.

I don't blame God for my lot
for I'm in his plan
just a plot on his graph
and you've just got to laugh
when you see it like that.

We are the crossbeam
in the dream of a better day
and you'd better get used to it
you're going to see so much more of it
It's **** and you know it
do something about it or do nothing
and hope that tomorrow will bring
something more than a cold church stone floor
and a boot in the chest
I leave it to you
I'm sure you know best.

Through portholes of morality we search for immortality and fight for our own sanity against the turning of the tide.
Chide the weak who fear the end, for them we'll send a sedan chair
to carry them off somewhere there,
where mountains melt into the sea.
To live forever
I would be invincible but mortality is  not for me
for I exist in second phase in parallel to all the days I spent,repenting of my sins and never winning first or second prize which went to heathens who told lies and pretty girls who fluttered shadowed eyes against the shadows cast out by the sun,
and anyone with half a brain, which counts me out because, I never was the same as clever clogs,forever bogging down while running on athletics fields,
who could have told me,rolled me up and sold me in bazaars and market halls,if only they had,had the ***** to make a stand against the pious and the hypocrite who never once thought to give a ****
for poor men and girls who swirled the waters by the dock and those with pockmarked,stark and staring faces trading several places to shuffle lowly in a line as once again the tide will turn to drown the scorned and those who spurned the helping hands
and the hand of fate can kiss my **** and wait for me
I'll stand with those and shuffle slowly to the end,
send a sedan chair,pay the fare
make sure it's at the end where I can see
that mortals and immortality are a crock of **** and we're only here for a bit of fun,
more shadows cast out by the sun and left to haunt the alleyways
and all the days I live I would not give a **** or seek out weak men just to help them pass beyond the pale
let them find a holy grail that suits their needs as Moses too was found among the reeds and stolen by a dynasty
A mortal,immortality still eludes the holy man who scans the heavens for a sign and yet shuffles slowly down another line
we'll all get there to share the silver chalice, if only to find that Christopher Robin divorced poor Alice and run off to where the piggy wig stood
Nothing's good that cannot last
and one more shadow casts a spell
we're going to hell get used to it.

He did not hold me in his arms upon
the sea of Galilee,
he let me down,
left me to drown
but worse than holding my breath,
is not death,
No
it's the somewhere in between
when you're stuck into a scene, a
kind of 'Groundhog...'

A mad dog may foam at the mouth but that's
the last thing on my mind when
I find I'm heading South
into the pit and the bit that really bothers me are
the philistines who roared approval at
my removal.

Death may be an obstacle to overcome,
the Son of Man
managed it
and that's another bit that bothers me as I
sink and drown under the sea
of Galilee.

Capped in a can,
trapped by the man
and sold down the river,
I should have known better.

Getting it right
reading into the night takes much longer, but I'm making the coffee a bit stronger to help keep things moving.

And the days keep on shifting
I'm drinking a fifth in a quarter
of the time.

Someone put a sock in it
a
right old writers block on it
and I am fukin sick of it
I think I'm going to paint.

This ain't no picnic party
but I bet you'd like to
start me
on a drop of mothers ruin

I'll be ****** if I took one drink
so I'll drink a flaming hat full
it's so easy being spiteful
when you're three sheets
to the wind.

And then
what happens to me
are the links of chains run through me
and I forge a new opinion

if only
and another

and
if only is the other side of sixpence that we toss.

Then I tried to paint the candlelight,
believe me
it's much easier to
sit and write.

If this world should end at midnight
I will sit tight
and wait,
the battery will be changed and all will be arranged as before.
Before,
when the poor were short changed and the rich had it all their way and that's the way of it,
It stops for a bit
it starts for a bit
It hits us hard
it's **** by the yard
but it's what we get
don't forget that, as you sit in a one bedroomed flat,where the pigeons have shat on your doorstep.

I bet you don't give a **** as the rich ram it home that the home that you're in isn't your own.
Well
*******.
they do
everyday of your life.

Mill to mill a bitter pill this treadmill that we're led to

and from mill to mill we will always be

candy for the mills of society




they gab in the background about Christmas,

alas

no Christmas for me

the foreman has told me to work that day

and no turkey shall I see




cold ham and pickle with cheese and a tickle of trout

lightly poached (nightly poached) from the river that runs through his Lordship's land




and yes




I bite the hand that feeds me for it's the same hand that needs me in mill to mill when will it all end.

..and then you wake
fall out of a dream because you were not strapped in,
try to return but you can't find the key and so,
you break into your eyes like you're stealing the mint and
the day oozes in with its mud and like clay your feet start to move as you start to sway when the scent of the morning, the sweat of the night lays on your skin and your breath's like a gray cloud, outside there's a shout but you drown it out in the jet stream of a shower, the power in your head ignites, the night's a memory now,
the dream is not it's all you've got to live on.