and so to infinity
if things pan out
it'll be the end
of me.

*** you Bonanza
I'm on the verandah
with a spiced drink

you thought
I think
*** you

cute eh?

but it's melodrama in the
panorama
the doctor tells me

'he would wouldn't he'
(and him never knowing the
Christine that I did)

About this time I'm high
or I was
time gone by

the genie is looking after me
thinks he
as he balances on the edge
of the World.

Atlas
kiss my ***
I'm calling you out.

I met me a gypsy somewhere South of Poughkeepsie, and this hobo from Hoboken offered me his creased hand in a token of friendship.
We travelled out West in Box cars,made some dollars selling jam jars,slept under lilac trees and drank rotgut from the river bars.
Down in Kentucky we got lucky with diamonds,drew a full hand at poker,smoked Cuban cigars,spent more than money in bars and blew the whole *** on showgirls.
Then hobo got sick and he died awful quick,it was the pox and the rotgut that took him,but hell we had fun.

Even as I ebb away
there'll always be a time to say,
how much
I loved
your
gentle touch.
That kiss,,oh how my lips will miss
that kiss
when everything that's in me dies,
and as I ebb away
your eyes will stay with me
and I'll still say to thee
how much
I loved your
gentle touch.

Slice me and running through me you'll find,
printed in italics
the words,

'are we there yet'

and I bet
I'm not the only one that's got this going on or through them.

She was heaven sent
but I fell in love with
the postman.

As the helicopter chopped the air I sat there unaffected,
at the table
I elected to carve the roast
giving myself the most of it and putting aside a bit for 'Bob', old now and not  a remnant of the dog he used to be

The helicopter bothered me
it flies in each day before our dinner or our tea and sits there in a field beside the house quite elegantly
but what's it for?
the pilot never gets out,never comes to knock on the door
and I wonder what he's waiting for.

I think he may be wanting me to take a ride across the sea and consequentially I am afraid
that one evening when tea or dinner's made there will not be a place set for me.
And in the tower blocks of regret up on the twenty seventh floor,I'll find out what he's waiting for.
I want the elevator to hesitate somewhere between floors two and three
Not willing yet or able to see the future that is waiting for me up on the twenty seventh floor.
I know what he's waiting for
but I'm not ready yet to face my future or regret and in these moments when I let my fears arise
I sometimes cry,my eyes are red
I butter bread and eat my roast and whether or not I got the most is not the purpose of this meal
the real meal is sat in the field,the helicopter will not yield its secrets until I take that trip
until I slip the harness
accept my lot which is always less than what I want but never need and on the twenty seventh floor, I'll find that one door that remains locked shut until I put myself in place before the mirror that shows the face of who I am.

After dinner is done,a slice of bread and jam to calm the nerves and soothe my fevered brow.
I don't know when or how or if I should even try to escape from that which would make me fly into that which I would hope not to see
but the helicopter waits
and I know it waits for me.

Sat in the doorway,
a throwaway man with a
cigarette and beer can
and a hangdog look on his face.

In this city of wealth,poverty takes some by stealth,
those who are healthy and fit often don't give a ****,it's not them in the doorway,they cannot see themselves brought down so low,
but go down to Mayfair or Stepney or Bow,there's a tidal flow of the throwaway men,who have nowhere to stay and if they do, then,
there is no job for them,no way to earn
and the cigarette burns,the beer can is crushed, a bit like the throwaways beaten and rushed to an end.

The end is an end by no means,
to the hungry and needy
who watch as the well fed and greedy go by,who sigh through the day in a throwaway kind of a throwaway way,
but it's what people expect from the 'workshy' and worthless,the cesspit of the city, and life does not pity them,nor do the throwaway men really care,
sitting there
in the doorway
where there seems no way
to escape.

Fight to the end
send the night round the bend.

An Invitation,
To all the arseholes of eternity
come fight right here alongside me and join the battle,write your MP see if he'll come too,the more the merrier to ferry the dead across the Styx.
I pick and mix the chicken gun and with carrot and stick see how they run,all a bit of madness,fun for some and for some not at all as they fall into insanity,spouting out profanities,words I've never heard before and I've heard many sworn.
One day the day before I'm born,nice and warm,another cell,one more division before I add up into hell,I never slept to well at all,just thought of being and the fall.

RSVP,
I'm waiting here to see who will arrive,who will survive,who will have madness in their eyes and we all know how fine that line becomes when playing chicken with the guns.
Bring a friend and he can join us round the bend,we're all going round it anyway,but I'm ahead of the game.

The morning gives a wink,a passing nod
and sods off
to play again in yesterday.

I lay my worries to one side
pry the lid off Monday night
as if the innards of yesterday had invited me
to come and play
a game of hide and seek.

Last week I did the same and was rewarded when the morning came
with a blindfold on my eyes
and mournful cries from Wednesday when it realised the games we play
were lost,
and who could say
when found once more in the morning which had discovered that I wore
pyjamas laced with polka dots?

Each anniversary of Sunday,Tuesday,any day where night comes out to play
in the nursery
where the dreamers and the children stay
and the lemon socks of half eaten sticks of rock will stick tight to tiny toes
I tap my fingers on the window pane
I want to play in yesterday again.

Who knows the secrets that we find when rummaging within the mind and yesterday is often kind,
much kinder than today.

In the pools of her eyes that meet the sun where she lies
on the beach.
A seagull cries.
And out of reach of the tide on the wide side of forty five
she makes me come alive.

In the dunes that dance where we started this romance and the
smell of the seaweed that gave us the lead to get away.
I remember this as if yesterday
And the memory drips like the melting ice of the cornets we bought.
Never thought that before.

I wonder if she thinks of me
Did she
Marry?

Did she call our son Harry?
(yes I knew)

In the scents of the evening air
It feels as if, she's still somewhere out there
Waiting.

In the sands through which I run my hands
I can feel her
but it makes me blue.
And I stop.

Topping the crest of a wave was the best
but only with her
I wonder where
She is now.

And the tide comes on in
I begin to pack away
The thoughts and the wishes
that were yesterday.
The seagull still cries
Maybe it's crying for me.

I have heard it said,
That the lonely people stay in bed
And order
Pizza,
Pepperoni.
Oh if only I was lonely
I would call for cheesecake pie
And then I'd sigh and order
Pizza too.
Would you?

There were thousands and thousands o'kids
Pushed down pits or stamped out in t'mills
Mekin theer bids fer freedom.
Aye...from the drudgery and slavery of serfdom.

Now I realise..all that they got was a sub standard plot..
..and two penny's to cover...their poor dead eyes
And in the parlours Ma cries.

It was the minimum rate from which..
..we still cannot escape.
The rasping and grasping maws..
..the jaws that still trap us in poverty and penury
It's time for the judiciary to alter the law
To give poor people more.
What the **** are they waiting for?
A return to the old ways..
..back to the old days?

I wait for the answer but suspect I won't hear
And wonder what year this can be
Or even what century.

I see a payload on the rocky road
and no one's crying wolf
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but there's warships in the gulf.

The clock spins back,the lights burn low
and off we go once more
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but it's still a ****** war.

As the night drifts away into the night of its day
and the dues have been paid
to the Devil's handmaiden
when the birds start to sing to bring normality back
and I lacking foresight am trapped in the still night
an explosion occurs.
Boom
and the room that I'm in starts to spin
and my head comes apart at the sound of the din when my body wanders off and does not let me back in to control where it goes.
At the end of my nose which is as far as I can see.
I can see this is not good for me.

The night always wins
always spins me around
sometimes in explosions
sometimes with no sound
I never can tell what horrors born of hell will waylay me as I try to sleep like an innocent baby(fat chance of that)

Scratched by the quill because if it wants to it will
I have no choice but to bend, words are written and I send them to all that would read, then I send them once more
words are the clothing I wore yesterday
before night made its play and tomorrow,today I will write anyway to escape from the twilight where words become the only light and shadows dance across,
I might start to dance too
night gets through to me
invades and seduces me
whispering it reduces me to a quivering wreck.

I seek what is there but where that is I don't know
the night does not show nor give up secrets,
I know there is much I could find if I could find that my mind controls my body
resignedly I halt
slip the bolt on my lee enfield
and yield to that temptation
to reach my destination without calling at any stations on the way.
Night has its way with me
trips me up and then slays me
once again.

The whitening lightening
The appearance of ghosts
Are to me not frightening
Just thoughts though they last
Those pieces of the past
The stones I have cast
In the oceans of time.
When we all wore that sign that said beware
Those who go there dare look into the fires of hell
And with the coins of their souls sell their life as well they might.
My nightmares in the night remind me of darker days
When I became those ways
Those stygian deeds and the wasting seeds of minutes that tick
When I being sick of the sight of me.
Took a hammer,
Busted my knees, my feet my face.
I had to get out of that place
So I howled at the moon hoping that soon
The pain would quicken make I sicken for something good.
Would that it could but it did not,
And what have I got?
Broken bones busted face ghosts laughing back at my place.
I can't escape
I'm locked into my fate
Imprisoned by yesterday and so I lay on my pillow
And weep like a willow.
Sinking in my tears
******* on my fears.
And those that were near are so far away.
Removed from this Earth to a spiritual rebirth.
But It dont help me Because what can I see?
The widening chasm
The spastic ******
The inevitable starvation
I can't see my salvation in here or in there
But what the hell do I care
I'll go back in the trap and that will be that.
But.
I know there's a key
That will set me free
First I have to find the lock
I have to be a rock
Take the sand from my eyes wake up and realise
If I don't do it now Then It's Adios John
Kapow.
The lights go out the clocks don't chime
But then I will mime in some other place
Far removed from this race
On a seat beside those who went before
When life was spent in laughter and song.
Now I know why I long
To jump in the lake partake of the death after life
That life after death
The stuttering breath that cleanses the brain
But it's all the same just a different phase
Like some mist in the haze when my head's in a daze.
It seemed I swallowed the sun and it stopped all the fun
Then It smashed all my hopes and put me down on the ropes.
It cannot be denied that I have defied
Some obscure deity with my contrived gaiety.
But now I'm back in the zone
I want to go home
I feel so alone
In the midst of a crowd I want to shout loud
Give me a hug all they do is shrug
And say another mad druggie looking for a huggie.
I say kiss my *** because you're not in my class.
Yet again I don't care
Because I'm no longer there
I'm in the whitening lightening and the ghosts in my flat
Go rat a tat tat as they knock on my door
Kick me down to the floor till I beg them desist
They know that I missed
Them all.
They are my friends until my life ends
Until I'm with them forever in the day that is never
Night.

John Smallshaw   2010.

If only the Christmas lights on Oxford street
could fill a table with food to eat.

In the hungry days of shop doorways where
some sit silently
shiver violently
the lines of lights light up their nights
as if they need reminding that the
'morrow brings them nothing new.

Nothing to do but wait
as another bus draws up and
more get off to sate their appetites
among the bright lights of
Oxford Street.

Winter nights.

The soup run does not come
never will
the traders,council and the coppers
think it gives bad vibes to shoppers,
still it would be nice to think
that homeless people get a drink of
something hot.

Down Trafalgar Square there's somewhere where
they can spend some time
have a meal ,a shower and a crypt
seems fine if a little odd
for the poor sod
who's only got what he's given.
A new shirt and trews
he's not from Scotland
but beggars do not choose
they accept and
sometimes painfully,
the helping hands from a charity.

It's such a sad affair that some don't care,
don't give a look and yet think nothing
of sharing pointless posts on
the pages of Facebook.

Another bus drops off a few even as some drop off the
grid
and we bid goodnight to the rights and wrongs
the Christmas songs
the happy throngs
and hide
inside
another
doorway.

In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.

On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.

The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.

**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.

In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.

It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.

I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.

So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.

Some try to save the world but can't save themselves.

The ****** of calamity on the steps of the old church,prior to the feast of St.Steven.
My heart beating time and
the blood's flowing fine but
somewhere down the line
there'll be trouble ahead.

I see a Mediterranean blue creeping up on me,you
haven't noticed at all.
If I fall you won't see me,
I'll be frightened and lonely but my
heart's beating time so I
guess I'll be fine.

When we touch lips
you thrill me
when we don't kiss
it kills me,
will your heart ever make time for mine?

'tis the season oh by golly
let's get drunk and all be jolly
when we wake we'll all be sorry
tra la la la la,la la la la.

Christmas trees and poison ivy,broccoli and lumpy gravy
is this what 'he' saved me for
one more drink and then one more.

What's on telly,what no jelly?
custard tasted like the gravy,
think I'll maybe have one more
tra la la la la tra la la la.

I woke up at three
She was still laying next to me
Breathing lightly
I kissed her and held her so tightly.
She woke
And spoke to me,
"Can't you go to sleep"?
I wanted to keep this moment forever
To prove that it's never too late
Or you're never that old
To hold onto a dream.

The path's deviation a lifetime's privation

Some degradation.

Like the spinning of yarns

Like spiders in barns

Like old men and soldiers I am tied to the boulders

Like Marley and chains

Like toothache and pains and loss with no gains

Here come the rains.

Like I'm ticked off with this

Like no Woman no kiss and no one to miss.

Like snakes that go hiss I crawl and I writhe

I tell terrible lies like I'm a prince not a pauper

Like I've two sons not a daughter.

It’s like I'm not to blame

There’s something wrong with my brain

Like I'm mad or insane.

Like a slow moving train or a triangular mangle

An obtuse acute angle.

Like I've done this before and put out like a *****

Like the clothes that I wore

Like my teeth again sore.

I am a transient being I don’t like what I'm seeing

In the mirror I look and like the words in a book

Which crackle and shackle  my feet to the ground

I hear the witches cackle but I can’t make a sound.

Like a flute that’s gone mute or a trombone with no tone

I dangle my hope I don’t think I can cope.

Like the suns shining rays

Like I've burnt out my days so now I sit and I laze

Remembering faces and place coverings and carapaces.

Hiding in shells

Hiding from yells.

Like I'm missing life out but then it gives me a shout

And says come and stand in the light

Like get out of your night and walk into the dawning

Now is your morning.

Dance and be part of the beat of your heart

Like you were weak but be strong

Like you'll not wait for long

For your plate to be filled.

The earth in your soil tilled and what will grow there

Is a whole crop of care and a piece of the part

Of the birth of your start.

This Lusitania sails on me
she
is Majesty,
her ocean holds mystery,
this Titanic will sink and be
a part of her history.

Down
the streets that whisper names,
through lace curtains
people play their parlour games
twitching
sneaking looks from behind Gothic scripted leather bound books and overstuffed chairs
where ***** is taken and sherry drunk
and tea biscuits dunked in warm Earl Grey
and another day begins in mill house town.

Locomotives sweating steel feel their way
across the bridge
to Morecambe bay
where there's a different class of folk
used to smoke and steaming coal
to steam the fish within the bowl.

And the bowl is either empty or it is not
never in between,
Like the life we live a lot is never seen
but talked in murmurs on street corners
by former miners
agitators
free creative thinking men who know to use the pen and not the sword but they're starving all the same
all in the name
democracy.

We see it differently
a heresy that's being perpetrated to dislocate and disengage and put poor people in a cage.
In the zoo you'll come to see
democracy through iron bars
Tsars that's what these suited tyrants are
well suited to the task in hand
to strip the land of all its wealth
and let's not forget the National health which is good enough for me and you
they'll feed us anything here in the zoo.
Bupa now that is super for the supermen and ladies too who come to visit on Saturdays at the zoo.
I don't know what to do
should I laugh or cry or demonstrate
or have I left it all too late?
What a ******* awful state we're in
It's one for all or ****** all and then we'll fall
into the straw
strewn ******* across the floor in cage 3b
I see but can't decide
have I died and gone to hell?
well
only time will tell.

I need to think before I say,
'I do'
and if I fell,
I fell in love with you.
I need to think things through,
things about the me,the you and how do I begin
to think that I might love again,
to open up my heart
to tear down built up walls and start believing in what may become and what fun that it could be,
the you,the me.
I see a future where none was before and even more
I see what could be, would be just divine.
I need to think if you were mine,
and in time I think, I'll think it through
I think that I can wait
the question is
can you?

I kissed her once and it was not enough
so I kissed again,then
we did other stuff.
Tomorrow we will kiss once more and
other stuff behind the door,
that which concerns the heart that yearns will learn to be in time,the pleasure being hers and mine,
and every time it's not enough,the kissing and the other stuff,but every time it's just as good as if it was the first kiss,
should she ask and want to know ,I shall reply and tell her so,tell her that my heart's on fire with kisses of a just desire and I just desire that single kiss but the other stuff is more than good enough,though
the kiss is what I miss,her lips on mine and one more time is not enough.

Pumped into the grinder
pushed in by him behind ya
and like sausage meat we go to meet our maker,
the underground a wonderland,sit or stand,take ya places one by one,mind the gap and jump right on,and
in the make believe of Avalon we'll ride this steel horse to Babylon.

never saw red sand before,
but it was red on the beach
back in '44.

Friends who ended their days
looking at me with a
startled gaze as if it was
all make believe
and that later
we'd meet for a cigarette,

not for me yet,
but I never forget that
it could have been me
watching with eyes that
could no longer see

on the red sand
back in '44

All I need's an App
to get rid of the Krap
and one more App to get back
to the start.

There is always the waiting
you hit the panic button
but should be used to it
by now,
biting your nails as if that
makes anything quicker
pacing the corridor wishing
there was more
than waiting.

I waited a long time for longer
and wrong of me
I see that now,

my bones setting as
hard as my face
getting
old,
but we learn by mistakes or
we mostly do,
a costly do nevertheless.

it's whether the planets align
some say with that penetrating
look
it's a sign
I'm still waiting for the proof.

So
and so is a good thing
it gives me time to blink
to think
of a rhyme

sometimes I wonder if that's
not a sign, but there's
always time to wait
and see.

It's all a crock..
a body shock
a kick in the nuts,
don't forget the 'if buts'
another load of tripe,
when you're ripe for the knackers yard
and falling ain't that hard when you're already down,
for you,
who are out on the town and having a good time
let me remind you that tomorrow is mine
so
have a ball,go and get ******,there's nothing in that,
that I've never done and never missed
I could
write you a list of the wrong turnings you'll take,
but
you'll make them anyway,
you'll go your own way
and we'll meet at the end of it
buried up to our necks in a pile of horse ****.

Yes,
it's official,life is a gas,pass go and collect your money,don't you know life is funny and if you don't laugh you will die?
I tried and died twice,can't remember the laughter as I flew through the walls of the great, hereinafter to be known as the great ******* throne room.
And so soon,he said,
'you're leaving and leaving me grieving'
not really
because I don't give a monkeys *** where I stand or sit or who rings the bells,
I'm already there where you'll be one day
and hell is the price we all pay
for getting old and going grey and it's getting a bit late in the day for me to care
or bother to share this
so ******* if you will
and let me sit
still
deep in the ****.

On the streets are many sounds and sights.
Like,
dragons jumping traffic lights and busses buzzing through the long and lonely nights.
In the stable where I stay
some say that,'I'm unstable' well they would wouldn't they?
I lay me down but get no peace
the sirens from the local police begin to blare
How they love to share that noise.
A different place another poise
escaping from that awful sound
I start to burrow underground.
Lie down in a box and smoke cheroots
while watching daisies lacing up their 'daisy roots'

I'm waiting but there is no evidence of anything vibrating
it's very still and dead
even spiders stop the spinning of their webs in wonder
then the thunder of the day above
hand in glove
with the cacophony of that lunacy
I often see
spread all about me
finds me out
and digs me up.

I take that cup of old Laings building site
where once the labourers might have dream't
of men unkempt in ***** rags
begging for some food and ****
and a bit of work to pay their way.
Not today
or any other day
I heard them say it
watched them spray it on the walls
and as the failing hope falls down
the ballgown that she wore
is worn again as second hand
by salvationists from the army band
who try to fill the dragging days
with songs of glory
hymns of praise.

What's the use
we suffer more than shock, abuse
and yet we stay
where we as dinosaurs
no longer play but plod.
Life's a sod laid on the Earth
we animate and give it birth
and then it bites us
on the ****.

Snow,
deep and white
fell
sometime
in the night, but
I was alright
snug in bed.

Under the snow lies the world that I know,
the ***** and grubby
and yet it still snubs me,
I don't want the snow to go.

Under Waterloo Bridge,
another shelf in the fridge, a cruel World for some
where the Sun doesn't shine and it's cold all the time
designed to be beat
dead on their feet
a bed on cement
backs bent by the day
lay the broken and cracked.
A fact of society.

Snow came as a blessing,
one more white dressing for
the ulcerated trunks of
incapable drunks.
Do you see them?
the jetsam
do they worry you?
they will if you let them.

I bet some of them had lives
children and wives,
washed out in the flow now
thoughts  covered in snow now
and it's cold outside.

She builds me
a home
in
her
heart.

Oregano
sounds like
a
Japanese City

River boats float along,
up and down
from side to side,
Putney to
Rotherhithe

all this
stems from the Thames
the arterial tree

for the sailor in me the Thames will do
on a flat bottomed barge
muddling through to
St Katherine's and Tobacco dock, to
Tower bridge and make a stop

Ferries and Wherries and
waterways
days on the Thames

making friends
with the mudlarks, the spivs
the preachers, the sharks
all parts of the stem
a branch of the tree

life is for me from
the Thames to the sea.

First they decentralise
secondly they marginalise
then they criminalise
and all the lies make you
believe
that you're the
bad guys.

Nothing changes what is and can be,
democracy
was a pipe dream in
Ancient Greece
which was sold on and we hold
on to the dream.

Criminal records play a very poor tune,
the sooner you realise that what lies
ahead is not what you thought of,
you'd  be better off dead, but
the triumph begins when our sins are absolved by the abolishment of parliament and the reinstatement of choice, what choice do we have?what more do we need?

How about enough food to feed the family?

If I could weave you a story then I'd spin you a yarn.

The potter and his pottery,
dull clay on the wheel
can you feel how the spin turns and starts to begin
when a shape takes its form and
is that not sheer poetry by the potter
and his pottery?

No one kills you with kindness, but with kindness they will and the World will become a still place ruled over with one face, stern, unartistic, sick and pliable the people are liable to fall under the wheel again,
can you feel again,
is this not another poetry by the famous,
is it some adultery by the nameless,
add 'lise' on the ends of all words and
are they not shameless?

Blameless?
I don't think any of us are.

Build me a mountain way up to the sky and
throw in a river with boats sailing by,
I
have movies that float in my head and my eyes see them all when I'm home in the dark, in my bed there's a shark that plays music to me, ghosts and chameleons they're all running free so build me a mountain and allow me to climb, bring me buckets and spades and some cool Rayban shades, I want Sun, I want some, some fun, wholesome, some funsome and frolic, a nice alcoholic drink in a cup with a straw, see-saws and dodgems, amusements and candy, men on stilts, girls in kilts, ducks with hooks, story books, slides and rides galore, give me more, more me, running free with the chameleons and ghosts, trains to the coast can call then, see the mountain and when the can falls hit by three wooden ***** hear the shouts, glee on the roundabouts, goldfish in a bowl, hole in one for a prize, crazy golf, crazy eyes.

Build me a mountain way up to the sky and I'll show you how and I'll tell you why it's importantly me, importing some glee, running crazy mad free,
with boats sailing by.

One more recess
and I depress the lever
then laying prone
with a metronome  that ticks away
like a clock that's gone awry
I lie and close my eyes and listen to the steady beat
tick
tick
I lick chapped lips and wonder where the balm would be
inside the conservatory
or in the kitchen drawer?
My lips are sore
my life's a bore and so, prone upon the bed
I step outside of this weary head and wander through the passages
remembering massages and brief encounters
steps on which I've stood and wept
stairways crept up fitfully
just to see what was up there
and now
I come across the bare light
the coldness of the moonlight
and the howling of the winds that bite and harried me along
for I in fear would not delay
to welcome in another day and welcome out the night
polite is always best to be
never know when you might see or need a darker place
so just in case
I go that extra mile put out a charming smile
and all the while
my insides churn
my body burns
twists and turns and
in turns I see
the metronome that laughs at me
and what a waste then it would be
tick
tick
never as sick as when you're well
too much heaven down here in hell.
Then rising
realising that I'm back at where I started from
is like someone has dropped the bomb
and I am just collateral
a colony of flattery
and a sycophantic man I'll be
until the evening when I see
that no one stands alone with me.
In this saturation
this desolation spiced up with my perspiration
I don't smell so sweet
another timely beat from my friend metronome
ticks the box and I am home
tomorrow I may lie prone again
tomorrow just might be the same as if in this never ending game
I do not go to jail or collect my bonus from the bank.
Why So Serious
well Frank, the Government sponsored failsafe think tank
said to me,
'drug free is the way to go and then he went'
leaving me with bones so crooked,bent I can hardly stand
A helping hand that helps itself
to dreams of youthfulness and health
I see
or rather cannot see
what is the point and what's for me
but that is just another lie
tick
tick
my how time does fly.
Why
I don't think I'l ever know the answers that I seek so
dearly
I'm not nearly bright enough.

Nothing remains there anymore,perhaps few stains on the floor where the body lay,sadly,
badly scrubbed and faint signs where death outlines in multicoloured decadence,his eminence,the one who went when wings lent him the final flight.

Tomorrow night they'll hold a wake and take a minute to remember him,whose hold on life was getting slim ,and it was time for him to go,but they will show due deference to what was once his eminence,then stuff their maws and fill their paws with good food and fine wine.

It happens all the time don't be surprised, for when the time comes that you fly away,they'll have a pray and settle in, to eat what's left in your bread bin.
Then they'll go too,they always do
but who will hold a wake for them?
Worry not,
for there are always men to feast upon the dead.

Halloween.
Where the Queen of the imps, pimps her minions and daemons fly
where the good man asks why
and the bad ones don't care,
Halloween
is in the air.

Lock your window,bolt the door,keep the cat in,
dogs are for barking when goblins are larking about,
hear a shout and cover your ears,
let your fingers hide the fears,
hold your heart in,
don't take part in
Halloween.

The Pope pipes out hope in St Peters Square
but Halloween is in the air,
where will you be
under the bed hiding with me?

Even with my eyes closed
I can see you near me
even when the darkness
of the night closes in.

I can touch you,
smell you in the moonlight and
my
senses reel in the
revolving of you
wanting you to do those
things
when you know
I love you.

In the early
mornings
when
you reach out
with fingers
that paint words
and pictures in my long
tousled hair,
lips that tell me you're
everywhere.

One more moment with you
and I feel blessed,
it's one more moment
that together
we share,
one more moment I can
show you I care,
even with my eyes closed
I can tell that it's her.

My temperature is 105 and
I don't think that I can survive
'til Saturday, which is a shame
I've paid my rent
bought some jeans and
lent my friend
a couple of quid.

If I could rid myself of this cold,
I could live
and be quite old,
what a dream, but
the mercury keeps rising and
to me it's quite surprising
that
I'm still around.

I think that anyone I know
would have given up the ghost to go
six feet underground.

But I'm a fighter
and a tight ***,
the couple of quid I lent
that sod is bugging me,
so I'll stick around above the ground
at least until that debt falls due,
wouldn't you?

When the temperature hits 107
I'll book a room
somewhere called heaven but
not today.

I should go to sleep but the mind wants to keep me awake
it is shunting along and I tell it
it's wrong to go on,
but go on it will until the still of the night and the absence of light weighs down my eyes.

Tomorrow lies heavy upon this old man and today can do as it likes,and it likes to harass me with memory upon memory and if I close my eyes is it then that I can't see?
can't be still
got no will to resist that look through the gather of mist that is hemming me in.

The needles and pins that stick where nobody wins and they always seem to be sticking in me,
or perhaps that's just a memory.

Either way
today has to go
I know I need sleep
I need to keep myself well and as the ref rings the bell for the third and final round.
I've finally found
a rest

She wakes me with the coming of the day and
lays still beside my pounding heart.
What a fabulous way
to start
a
Monday.

The cardboard jigsaw,an eyesore but it's sods law and when you've nowhere to go and all doors are locked,
you have nothing to lose by sleeping on a box.
We're a city of flatpacks and the homeless with knapsacks are the ones who are stacked up,jacked up and cracked up and for the lucky ones who've packed up and moved on, that memory is gone,
(the one when they're cast out and last in the queue)

So they do what they do when the night closes in,some take to beer and some to the pin and no one can win when the odds have been fixed or the ****** mixed with bicarb' or brick dust,
this twenty five to one shot which the outsiders have got is not a chance,it's a kicking,a beating and they're being deleted,a rewrite and the new world might never know about the down and the outs down and out on skid row.
I say
God bless the Queen but I bet she's not seen the rough sleepers with rough hands and faces and no places to go where they've not been before.
The revolving door says, come in here for a beer or a pin,come quaff some dry cider or fix ******
you've got nowhere to go and all doors are shut,
there's no maybe or might do, you'll pick one of the two,the pin or the beer to forget that you're here where you don't want to be.
Me,
I chose both locks and both locked me in and only my dreams let me out.

Talk to me
let's walk and talk to me
tell me of misery
show me a mercy.

The twenty third psalm of the twenty first century.

Abducted
Abused
Corrupted
Confused.

What do I know,
a rainbow,
yesterday,
or
was it long ago?
the colours blinded me
show me a mercy.

In sunlight's last romance
I get but
one last chance
come walk and talk with me
show me your mysteries,
mistress of destiny.

Ding **** merrily oh my,
I hear the cash tills ringing
wondering what I'm going to buy
and what is Santa Bringing.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.

Salvation army bands march past
trumpets at the ready
I was in the hostel once
the Sergeant Major fed me.
Gloooooooooooooooria
IN Chelsea,
they're all singing.

The elves are sat down in the bar
the reindeer are lunching,
accountants sat at home in fear
Christmas number crunching.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.

Resting it upon my palms I open up the book of Psalms..
..where I once walked in pastures green..and I have seen the shadowed valleys,running East to West..reminding me of mean dark alleys from my youth.
God's truth aches like the tooth that takes my mind away.

Would I pay to see this show?
To watch the slow..slow walk by the hero who took from the Pharaoh the "Chosen" and then was frozen out at the end of the game?
In Gods name would I pay?

Would I know when and how to say in Aramaic quite prosaic..Hallelujah?..or could I dream to speak in tongues and climb to heaven upon the rungs of a handy ladder?..and add another..Abel's brother with knife in hand to send me off to sleep the promised land.

What is it that was begat to think of thoughts unlike like that and dream undreampt,unkempt and sore to knock again on Heavens door.
Where no-one's in
To go and sin or sin no more..another knock upon the door..another notch cut on the belt..

..And I have felt the flesh grow weak
I seek an answer to a question set and yet I seem to know that what I get is only half the Parallel.
Twixt here and hell
I ring the bell and cry unclean
It seems the thing to do.