I could be sailing down the Seine
doing it again,
erasing
and it's
amazing that I always do.

A tower block kid
who
couldn't get rid of his
fear of heights

streets and council lights
they all look the same
to me,
nights in which I run free
and
days in which I pay,

but it's forgotten when
I put the radio on
when I linger on
the melody

she touches scars that heal
and I feel,
I always
feel,

I've been in enough **** storms to form my own opinions about the bib and brace brigade,
those of the tea and lemonade on Sunday after a night with the streetwalkers on Saturday brigade

and who are they?
let's start with the management
all bent
in my opinion
and the wannabes
say cheese
smile please,
those
selfie stick
make me sick
men

****
it's hard to pick a good side
when
they come in on your blind side
to
kick you up the backside.

and in my opinion
education
is a sleight of hand
by the ruling clan
to rule,

and man
I really don't like it

back to the **** storm
to
form more opinions
and
continuance
is my key.

Pain in a ring
Slip off into the dirt

Ring of hurt
Fall over into gray

Circle around decay

Stumble again

A flint axe hacks away at October
which is moving away from me
chips from the masonry
falling haphazardly

and a prayer in the abbey
as if that lot could help me

Limbo feels something like this.

We are all being threaded into one giant needle which is part of a sewing machine
to be stitched up and switched on to a Christmas long gone and we'll all make believe that this dream is the one from which we shall wake.

I take the Flint axe and chuck it, say **** it and get ready to work for the man
I am
Novemberless and
trapped in the wilderness
where
forgiveness is sold by
the litre.

It's when you get old that the monsters you thought were long dead take a hold
again
and I wonder if all that pain was worth it or worth ****,

Paul with his Nembutal woke up in the hospital and died five minutes later.

It's always later when we think about it and then sometimes it's too late to think.

They told me that Cath' who smoked crack and was as thin as a lath could **** down that pipe and blow smoke out of her ***,

urban myths

I never miss the things I used to think I'd miss
thinking about, but I see it in my dreams, the roundabout,
the swinging doors, the ****** and the street *****
selling more than they had for some more of what more they could get.

Jackson and his chemicals
made it look industrial
which in a way it was
because
it poisoned us all.

The traffic cam's on Peter Pan
but he flew on through the red.
and
it was Wendy led me down the path
but
I went willingly.

One day when this has run its course,
the well being dry
I'll take this horse to water.

The lesson taught
taught me well,
well as well as it could do
and the loop runs on
Peter still flies through.

I never know where a poem will go
it's like it has a mind of its own,
a diversion
of emotion until the poem
finds itself a home.

No apology from me and
what you see may be
what you get,

no promises though
although you never know
and I think that may
be the answer.

Mortality's a dying art
once we start
there is an end.

Most tend not to think of death
even when
every breath they take
takes them closer to the
close.

Who knows
things may change
or maybe not

I've got a soft spot for
the doubters
the hand wavers
the shouters,
but
living's still a dying game,

anyone want to play?