Today is flint,
I spent all of yesterday
and now I'm skint,
it's tough but
so am I and
Friday is worth saving for,so
I can spend a little more
time.

I have always found trigonometry helpful,especially when boiling eggs,my maths teacher who was himself somewhat of an egg head,said,'it's all about angles,I read it as Angels and ever since then have been trying to plot a course to heaven.

I found Geography extremely useful,although I can't find my way back home on a Saturday night after a few pints of beer at the local inn,my tutors words come back to me,follow the spot on the end of your nose and you'll always go in the direction you are heading in.


Religious instruction was fascinating, who would have guessed there were so many thees and thous and sacred cows don't get a mention at all.Idols and idle men and prophets who preach for no profit at all,seas that part and fishermen and romans who rule are they the rowmen?

Sports was good.the physical exertion of training,the rugby field in the pouring rain,and the medicine ball..which we used if we needed no medicine at all. I climbed up the ropes in the gymnasium and expected to disappear,like some fakir in the backstreets of Bombay.it never happened and I'm still climbing

#English lessons. why is the language of my fathers all greek to me,past imperfect,present tense,commas and the colon,what a bleedin' carry on,Keats and Shelly and what the hell is poetry,my English teacher who was called Gupta Singh taught me all I ever knew.

Music, food for the gods and food for the cats and the piano never played in key.teacher said it was me who couldn't carry the tune,the oboe,bassoon,the flute,lute,triangle,the jingle jangle of mediocrity is everything that music means to me.

Art,the only lesson in which I really took part..loved the splashing of colours and the butter of words on the sheets,loved the wisdom of wordsworth,the delicacy of picasso and then,in the factory when I left school there was art in the furnace,in the pig iron and ingots,the melting of iron the fire and the bellows...but I saw none of it because work took it away from me,artists are only ever free when they're painting or writing and not working to stave off starvation.

yes school taught me so much but now it's all gone, as the headmaster told me....'you'll never be anything if you don't make something of your life' or is it that the headmasters gone and life goes on,...

Philosophy was good too.

Biology taught me that we come from eggs and we could have been ducks or platypii..and pi is not a platypus but a mathematical equation..education may help us to learn but it can be very confusing.

History..it's always good to know that we walk on the bones of the dead as we wander through The battlefield of history.and that Mesopotamia which is historical is also biblical, two lessons in one,

education on the cheap.

Me like a likkle of what ya got

'Cause I a zero not got a lot

I talks to me pastor

im a serious Judah rasta.

But me lives alone in this zone

I got to find I a way back home.

Me know me got life a wee bit wrong

And me never listen to da Masters song.

But now I got I a brand new deal

Me praise Jah 'cause im is real.

I gwan to church and say me tings

Jah he answer......me telephone rings.

Hello who im dat? and im say it is I de righteous cat

Den I fall down and me tears dey come

But im say rise up man you is my son.

Den me knows dat dis is da time

Me knows me faith is bang on da line.

Jah Jah im see me right

Yea even thru de dark of de night

Im me saviour me know dat now

Im smooth da lines off from my brow.

Jah Jah rule.

Jah is cool.

It all becomes retro
a bit like the sixties in a Parisian fashion show and
it's
all for one and I for one would like to go
retro.

Bakelite was alright and
crystal sets for the news,
but now it's crystal meths for the mad nights
and I have the blues. but
can't sing.
But
bring me a railroad and I'll lay down a track,
give me some retro
I want to go back.

I could wind back the clock for some 80's glam rock and
I could wind back in time  to the Maginot line or
I could wind it some more to the hundred years war, to the ships and the pilgrims who went to find fame in that country of which I can never remember the name, to Grimm and his tales, to Glendower of Wales and if retro's the way to go then that's where I want to be **** the modernity of the
21st century, all systems go
back to retro.

There's a lot of *****
in a cricket match,
don't fancy catching them.
There's a lot of bats and
batsmen,
and batsmen bat the *****.
An umpire calls the shots but
he don't bowl the ***** and
a wicket keeper keeps no wickets
but he looks after bails
which are not ***** but
if the bails fall
the batsmen do too,
are you
following this?
A no ball is still a ball
and no ***** are still *****
which is all *****
if you ask me.

She sleeps in the lake
wakes when I dive
when I drown
I survive and I die
wondering why
she sleeps in the lake.

They want more of you for less and that's how it swings,
the pretty lady plays me a song, but I don't know the words so
I hum along,
they want to see and never hear, want you begging somewhere at the rear in the penny stalls and it falls into that they don't want you at all.

If I could play the banjo or maybe the ukelele I'd be sweet, I wouldn't have to meet the scowls of howling managers with jowls so slack they look as if they're going when they're really coming back and the pretty lady plays a song,
it's for me,
a little bit of harmony among all this insanity and tomorrow if it comes on time they'll be waiting there all prim and primed to shoot.

Do I give a hoot?

If they want more of me for less of me we'll see how much they get and I bet it won't be much,
I touch wood for luck and **** 'em,
that the way it swings and the pretty lady sings for me,
things are looking up.

I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.

Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.

When the evening finds me weeping
underneath the curled umbrella of a tree
and the Moon looks down on me as if malevolently
and the stars up there refuse to shine
when what was mine is no longer mine

and time fades into shades of grey,

I shall look forward onto a day
where all evenings fade
and I shall sit with a glass of tawny port
caught
between the joy of this and
the kiss that life had given me.

feeling so so
is sometimes
as good as
it gets.

Time to smother, time to love her
time to hate and create another time to smother.

I was told upon my Mother's knees that days like these were few and far between, but I have seen the sloping of the shadows bearing arms.

Time to **** your brother baby, time to **** another maybe time to **** some time and more.

I'm sick and tired of being wired to the bomb,
press the detonator
save some time,
I'll see you later when the dust has settled and
the noise has died away.

The kettle whistles plaintively as if it knows it's time for tea
but the time is only five past three,
far too early
and she's the one who put the kettle on
but
she, went back to sleep
leaving me to keep my ears awake until I rise,get up and make a
brew.

I don't know what to do,
should I make the tea?
would she thank me If I woke her with some toast and tea upon a silver coaster?
I think not.
She's got me wrapped around her little finger,slinging me a crumb or two and leaving me to make the brew.
Sod the kettle
let it whistle on,
she chose the tune,she knows the song,meanwhile
this hungry boy is gone
to get some coffee and a scone, in a diner down the street.

Let her wake and wonder why
the kettle's dry,there is no tea
let her wonder
what became of me
but
she,
will take it in her stride
she's got her pride and that won't slip.
I think this as I sip my drink and wonder if she'd ever think
just how much'brew a man can take
how many tea's a man can make
before he cracks.

I keep my back against the wall
lest she should fall from a great height and beat me senseless,
it would serve me right
but this I do not let her know
I go
to work
whistling.

He meant the giant in the beanie
so I know he didn't mean me,
an easy mistake to make

and the giant in the beanie
who knew he didn't mean me
took me for a Chinese
take away.

and today I said goodbye to him.

If only I could slow time down
go back once more for one more
night in London Town,
see Hoxton Square
where witches flew with angels
watch the angle of the sun
become acute
shoot the breeze again
drink one more glass of beer
with him again,
but
that is not to be
and the giant in the beanie hat
becomes a treasured memory.

We all need that social inclusion
The man at the top
The outcast in confusion
Bruised and abused and begging for some form of input.

The social media is shut
For a few.
So we have to go out and walk while we relearn how to talk
And to interact.
Backed into a corner we have no other way
But to get out there
And make somebody's day
Whadaya say?
Are you in for the long haul
Or are you going to bail?
Back to the laptop where friendships don't fail
They're just discontinued.

I allude to myself
When I talk of friends off the shelf
A Twitter,a Facebook commodity
An Oddity.

We need the contagion of spoken word orations to retain some form of relations
Or we might as well just grunt and give life a groan.
Moan if you like which you can in the zoo (Facebook to you)
But we have to converse
Yes,I know it's perverse
But what else can we do?

The census is a gun
and every  ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.

The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the  score?

If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'

Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.

It was a Victorian night where the streets were alight with braziers and gas lamps,when out of the shadows a man rose, in the sight of those poor waifs who were waiting for succour and a bowl full of supper from the sisters, and mercy they were,for the man wouldn't dare to buy favours from females,not in front of the saviours who went among poor men, whose behaviour was suspect and where the language was ripe.

The man sunk back into the blackness of night out of sight but in mind,a kind of reminder to those in the raggety clothes,that the streets were unsafe,and
a place fit for weirdos and those who looked through you and you looked for safety in the arms of the stately,but those homes were all shut,tut ,tut
The old Queens on the throne and you're thrown to the hounds and evil abounds in this Victorian night.

The morning breaks wind as you sniff at the air and wonder, just wonder why life's so unfair,
lice in your hair and you don't smell that good,a bath would be nice and if you could you would take one to relax in,but the morning backs into your face and let's face it,the life that you're living is not good enough to **** in,and we both know these oaths that pop out now and then are not spoken by you but are written by the pen,
and another page
an Edwardian age
but the rage carries on and Victoria's gone but it matters not
you've got what you've got and there's not much you can do about that.

I should navigate
perspiring inspiration along the lonely streets
which are bottled desolation
but I stay here,
where once the candelabra shot sparks up to the chandelier
and that in turn shed tears of light which danced along the the gloomy walls
in palaces where ***** were held.

Spellbound I am shunned
outgunned by the desperate and dissolute
who eye up my shiny suit.
I've got to get away
pass my day among those who have passed away
sat beside the tombstones of yesterday
but I stay here trapped by my fears
and the years slip through my hands.

From the graves come two choices
in loud voices I'm told to take hold
and hang on
then the voices are gone
there's just the fluttering breeze as it whispers through the leaves
and the trees are silent.

I brood acquiescence
nod my head and arise
wipe the dirt from my face and my eyes behold
all that was told
and it's empty
blank space.
I've got to get out of this place
but the candles burn low and then, where is there to go?
and again I am trapped by the years that are wrapped
and draped over my shoulder.

At ten minutes to eight in a state of weightlessness,weighing less than I did,having got rid of my soul,I am on the whole
dissatisfied.
Though I tried to hang on and prove that the devil was wrong,the temptation was great and at a quarter to eight I gave in,and
sold off my soul for a portion of sin with plenty of sauce and now
of course
I regret this mistake and at five before eight weighing nothing at all
I fall.

If the motivation is there and why wouldn't it be
I could hold back the tides
I could dry up the sea,
we
if we chose could close deals on the spot
we
could do such a lot
with
the right motivation,
reach the right destination without reading a map
zap any obstacles that obstruct our path,
grow mangos and lychees
bathe in the ganges
do as we please
with the right
motivation.

We did it,done it, do it and each time you take me through it to the other side,
and side by side as if we're tied by bonds we lie.
You sleep and I keep watch,
and watch the spiders web that holds the cracks in place up in the right hand window pane,
and I have lain awake so many times, concocting lines and rhymes and words that stimulate,
but every time you wake,
I forget,
and take you once again upon the lover's train and the tracks we make,make the moves that take my breath away.

What will become will become of this day and I wake up to find this day's been taken away by the thieves of the night,is this right,
does the night carry on even though it has gone,does the day have no say in its dawning?

It is morning in my head ergo,I am not dead or maybe I could be.
If the night doesn't see me does the day really free me,do I carry the can for the sins of mankind?
I find in illusion a great deal of confusion,a smelting of fantasy,a melting of freedom.

This hit and miss in me really disheartens me and although I keep trying there's something inside me that tells me I'm dying,it's a shame.
There is no fortune or fame for the runners up in a game just the harsh feel of failure,but if the day should return and I am still awake,there's a chance of a part,a starring role in the affairs of my own beating heart,
is it here
do you know
did the day really come and the night really go?

In cahoots with the Pole Star, I map out a route that will make me fortune,the moon makes me a beggar man and the beggars just scowl,
I'll be free soon not out of tune with my peers,not retreating from the advancing of legions of years.
It's all relative or so they say,
and what will become will become of this day.

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

Get me the telephone..
I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone..
..I hate being alone.

Get me the words in a book..
Give me a look at these things that are living.
Give me some giving.

Sometimes, late at night..when there's nothing around..the world's without sound..and I sit in the chair..
..it's like I'm not really there..
...like I've moved out in time..and I'm in a space that's not mine..and these moments go on..like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here.

Fear is a part of it..a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave..I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death..I have to save up to save for my next breath but that's cool.
I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool..in a rockpool by the beach..and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair..
Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere..and as I ponder on this..

I think of a kiss that I stole long ago..In the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips.
I can feel my mind slipping away..late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day..it's okay.

Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my minds wants to go..
I go too.

"I think therefore I am"
but
not this man who I see
whilst having my tea,

the bathroom mirror mimics me
and yet if I don't look
I won't cross the lines that meet
in crows feet.

Head's full of cotton wool today
and as if to say, I told you so,
cotton buds blossom
between each toe.

This cannot be real.

I watch as the faces
congeal and
set into one,
if I am
then it goes on too

Saturday mirrors me blue.

The wake up call
bells ring
rainfall.

It'll clear
and as I peer again
it has.

I still look the same
but different.

We,the childhood delegation arrived at midnight in Lapland, to ask for the resignation of Daddy krimbo.
Only three months to go and the toys are not done,he's as drunk as a skunk and his helpers are having our Christmastime fun,
It's not fair on us kids,we've been good,we've been kind and didn't swear or go behind,any bike
shed and were not led astray.
If our prezzies don't come Christmas day, we're going to torch his sleigh,set the reindeer free and see how he likes it,not one little bit I should think.
Just
lay off the drink and get cracking,start racking up points,collect a few stars or we're coming back,some of us with iron bars,
You have been warned Santa.

My body rippled as I swam into the river that ran through the town,deep and muddy brown with water washed down from the hills.
And rippling, I got my wish and turned into a silvered fish with golden fins to help me swim, down, down, down and deep within and under water.

Glad I brought a snorkel tube.

With ruby eyes and skies that faded into black,I watched a rack of pilchards passing,no sooner followed by a schooner of gadding tuna who watched two angel fishes trying to copy flying fish and failing.

A sail appeared,quite weirdly in the deep which keeps its secrets free from damp,
and then a lantern shone on me, a voice boomed out,
'what make are ye,
starfish,garfish,cod or roc?

A shock to me under the sea to be accosted by a skipper with a lip of larceny and what would I answer,could it be that I should not swim in the sea?
A fish
a wish,
one unfulfilled and killing off the thought I'd ever be
a citizen
of planet sea.

Drugs that will keep you awake
or make you sleep tight,
drugs that will give you
a ******* all night,
drugs that will open the doors
to illusion,
drugs for confusion.

Happy?
take drugs
Sad?
take drugs.

Let's give a big cheer for
the chemical freer.

Drugs that will bind you,
drugs that will blind you
drugs that you find in the
back of the drawer.

For future reference
my drug of preference
is you.

A box junction,dysfunctional miscommunication,down by the station in one more of its type,a shattered crack pipe and a broken down motormouth man,spanning the distance between here,over there,swiping the air,******* his pants,ranting at rainbows,begging from strangers,
he's just another of the night time ghost rangers,a shadow that falls off imagination and walled off behind solidified dried up and **** out hot dreams that appeared to be real,in the stealing of childhood in the big world bad wild hood,where the good don't die young but are used as the fate bait for just wait and see state, you get in,when you stick the pins in your veins,bleed drain fluid cleaner, how keen are you now?

How the mighty have risen to be crushed,cast aside on the mad ride to stardom in the Kingdoms of blinged up and blind men,
dazzle me, quick me,me brain's oh so sick me,
and sometimes I wonder
and sometimes I don't.

I won't make apologies to pygmy type minds who only find it within them to carp,criticise,and as I prise up the mountains to catch moles for my dinner,I ask of my god,just who is this winner that's wrote of on totems?
Poles apart
we start in the middle,fiddle the figures which figures not in the outcome and I come out fighting,
delightful in madness where the sad can't attack me,where the strait jacketed banality of life is finally flushed,where I'm not rushed in decisions,make insightful incisions with obscure ramifications and cut anyway,cut everything away and cast off.

A bit like knitting
but not with wool.

Powdered eggs from powdered hens and powdered cars, Mercedes Benz and diesel, perfumed fit for use.
It's changing now and how it feels, like blood on cold water as it congeals and this sets the seal on what we are
perfumed in a powdered car.

Someone has to pay for this,
unload the bank accounts
and kiss the cash
Swiss the cash,
miss their cash,
goodbye
and quite rightly so.

I love the real in you
the deja vu of you
the outside shell of you
the feel of you
when will it get through to them
that powdered milk from powdered cows
is not the same,
never will be when a
real egg only comes
from a real live living hen.

It's all about the date and time and
how you crossed the server line
that marks the bad from good.

Where everyone's a wizard
to be a wizard is commonplace.

The night draws pictures in my mind,I find in them a poetry that lines up perfectly with me,
and I look carefully,don't want to smudge the artistry of pictures made from poetry.
The night can please me,slow and easy,one step at a time and each step I take is mine alone,
they echo down along the frame filled walls within me and fill me with such confidence that no pretence could mask.
I ask only this,one night time kiss,one more time around the block before I knock the light off.

Jesus didn't go to Disneyland
didn't hold the hand of
Mickey Mouse,

he was
too busy cleaning rooms in the mansion
when he should have been cleaning house.

I never read in the good book
that we shouldn't give a ****
we're all children under the Sun
except them *******
who are crazier than ****
and **** indiscriminately
with a gun

Infinity is here today,
straight or gay
no way
did Jesus go to
Disneyland.

I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.

Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.

Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.

Poverty,
food in the reclamation yard.

Life's tough,
it's hard to be  full of energy when
the meter is empty and all you see
are the toffs who scoff at society.

Poverty,
cardboard caskets in the cemetery.

There's a niche between the have and the have nots,
the place they throw away food and it rots,
bread, bread but not for the dead and the mould
we can give to the weary and old,
it's share and share and **** them, they don't count
and we don't care.

Circumstance gives a fat chance and the fat cats get the fat other than that all is well for the poor and the needy who dwell in the dark because the meter is empty.

Poverty,
in the park, on the bench, what a stench,
why don't they bathe, why don't they shave, why don't they save the pittance they get or better yet why give them a pittance, give them ****** all?

Poverty,
call for ticket number forty three, your benefits have changed please come to booth B.

We are being outsourced to be the dampcourse in some old Etonian duck pond, all expenses paid by another raid on the 'workshy' who in any case will get by
because we're all in this together dontya know.

Poverty
is just a name they use to defuse the ticking bomb,  
castigate the poor, exonerate the rich,
build another workhouse and life's not such a *****.

We know differently, we who live poverty, we who see inequality but we still and will
**** for a dime.

If in one another's chemistry
a reaction occurs and
what was once hidden
our eyes can now see
then
take me to your laboratory
toot suite.

Paint tin blue sky
red faced white guy
and a *** of tea
for company.
One chintzy plate to hold the toast
and porridge
I like that the most.
Paint tin blue sky
red faced white guy.
Dresses up in finery
to oil the wheels of industry
and the only thing that he can see
is paint tin blue sky.

It's Sunday,
shall I perch on the edge of a pew in the church and be bored by the drone of words said to be set in a stone?or
shall I turn on the pages of that rock of ages and be battered quite senseless by the relentless epistles sent off by apostles or just whistle a tune because the pub opens soon?
It's Sunday and the weather is fine,time enough to pray on any other day
and today is not like any other,'oh brother' you'd better believe,better receive it into your heart,this is the start and
it's Sunday.

Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of ****, backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.

Facebook
as the
Godfather?
I'd rather google off this mortal coil
than
have it
as my
guide.

Of course, I lied
you know I lied
I tried so hard to tell the truth,
but to tell the truth I lied and
I tried very, very hard indeed
I am an addict and I need
my fix of Facebook's
social greed,
but as a Godfather?
I'd rather fry my brains.

I love that line
'I'm a prima donna'

christ it's
like a Bonny and Clyde
bank heist
almost
perfect
always suspect,
use that raw ***
get away.

Another Sunday on the sauce.

In the realms.

My kingdom for a council flat,
keep the horse
can't live in that and
Marie Antoinette
will she forget me? not
as yet as if she ever would.

A Hyacinth in Hounslow
down low
avoids the flight paths
like the plague.

I did not change my day in anyway because of God or any other sod who poked his nose into my business
I got more or less but usually ****** all from sanctities sat in some easy chairs in hardship hall and telling me how to behave,
or pointing me in some direction expecting rehabilitation and perfection.

I changed because of you alone and how you changed me,
how could one man be so blind with blinkered eyes and not see kindness,love and honesty, that shone from you and into me.
Oh
how simple it now seems when dreams come true and you are here
how easy to slip off that coat of nonchalance and fear and wrap my arms around the arms that wrap around a man like me.
This could be the reason why I want to fly,to float,to sing and shout and wave my hands about
this could be my making and I am yours,here for the taking,take me now and show me how to love you true,to be at one with you and we could be that harmony.
I was imprisoned but now I'm free
and now I see,
the plan designed for me
included you
and you
alone.

The academy of hungry men
opens for business
only when
the night draws in.

The night is time for being thin,
Cholesterol is fat and won't get in.

I have a tin of boneless ham
A rich man me, in the academy and
where hungry men would hunger on,
I'd eat the ham
and then be gone.

No fees to pay
and words cost just enough to widen out
the mouth, which then tightens up a belt to say,
the academy is not a place to play.

The gravy train left on the boat or so the
hungry man in ragged coat
informs me.
Clever men in the academy
not me,
I'm just passing through and
on the way to something new but
the night drew in and
so I took a pew and with a pewter spoon
spooned up some watery stew,
it's what they do and when, in
the academy of hungry men.

..and anyway
One morning long ago I looked across the Morecambe bay
To see the tide roll in.
It seemed the sea was on skis that day
It came in so quick
Perhaps an optical trick
Or not.

These morning clouds glow pink as
they dance across the skating rink
of the waking sky,which turns a glassy blue,
a classy, sassy hue,each cloud winks hello
to me and
as I look up the sun sets free
the glory of the day.

She holds me if I stumble,
pieces me together
when I start to crumble,
talks to me,
makes me see
that impossibility is
possibly,
possible,
when I try.

Here's the story told to me about our glorious infantry.

Louts,rapscallions,friends battalions
arm in arm and full of glee
marching off to join the infantry.

In the rear lines drinking fine wines,hock,moselle,some burgundy
and some drinking ginseng flavoured tea from some far flung idea of Empire
while only half a mile along the road the whole world was on fire,
were the fat arsed generals with their horses, waiting on their second courses,
crepes and franzipans and to a man they didn't care that the war was waiting there,
'let the ******* wait',they'd say,
after all that was the gentlemanly way.

The bullets striped us left to right and falling into our own falling ***** we'd call for mum and dad
aye lads
aye lads
war is bad
but for the buggers at the rear who never so much as once came near the sound of a gun,
war was fun a chance to socialise,
society is full of lies and leaders they were not.
But death's got their number on his shell,they'll soon be joining us in hell,
so ****** them and sod the lot
were in a spot,we'll not get home,splintered bone and mangled limb and corporal thinks it's still a sin to swear
well ****** him as well,we no longer care.
As we share a final smoke,Johnny tells his favourite joke about three generals and some place called,but I forget the punch line as the time has come for one more bullet,one more gun and silence.

In Croydon,Roydon and North of Watford Gap,families are spoon fed some wholesome krap from drip fed Sergeants,battle,shield and argent,honour King and all the other little things that the senselessness of death brings home.
Let them keep their fields filled full with glory,we know the ***** **** filled story,
war is bad
war is bad
I'm glad that I cant fight no more.

I retire into the arms of a chair
there is nothing that holds me
except for gravity.

I take a book but cannot see to look
at the written word
I am not stirred by sound,
by sight nor touch,

what is left is nothing and
not much I can do about it
but sit and be held
in the arms of a chair and
wait.

I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.

It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,

all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.

I come with memory stick attached
plugged in, locked on and then
dispatched to unsuspecting
housewives down in
Brighton by the sea.

Memory
can find the darkest place inside you
chew you up and spit your bones out

This memory stick is
SICK
and sick means cool apparently
down in
Brighton by the sea.

anyway it's workaday
and playaway
for one more day to
hold tight and win
for more than that I
cannot say

Brighton by the sea
for housewives,
definitely
not for me.

The quintessentially British chap, in bow tie at
the table
with a napkin on his lap.
Will ring the bell for tea,
Darjeeling,
preferably.
And with a taste of the empire on his lips,
as he slowly sips the
golden brew,
he wonders
who he can *****
over today.