Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits  
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.

I want no prize for telling
the lies that you
wanted to hear.

I'm here
you're there
we are somewhere
in between.

Kings and Queens and
men of means
and ladies indulging
in leisure.

A pleasure,
he says,
to do business these days
with those whom I feel
are genteel.

The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst  the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with  Phoenix  rising, I suppose.

Her ruffled hair and trailing headphone
she stands amongst the seated
perhaps impervious to inconvenience.
Her momentary gaze out of the darkened window
sheds her personality
she meet life on an even keel
thoughtful
honest and assured over
never intending to surrender her
next stop Battersea Park.

You told me somewhere yesterday and somewhere else the day before that what we're really waiting for
is an omen from some shaman who lives in Battersea or was it Tooting, but I'm counting on the abacus
there's three beads for the two of us and one bead for the shaman if he's a man at all,
there is word out on the corner stone, a marker, come home alkadry or don't dry out just stay out where the termites hone their skills on autocue pro forma wills and will you dine with god tonight or will it be the devils light you see?

The omen comes and with a codicil, old ladies, laughing gums upon the white washed window sill, I still admire the old girls with desire, with that tiny bit of fire that won't let go,
I know I do go on a bit and most of what I write is gold haha, (**** would've rhymed there, why didn't I think of it)

I'm too old to give a monkeys ***,
gold or **** is just the same to me
each one has its poetry,
the shaman doesn't see it
I'm not surprised
at all.

No barons down in Earls court and no Surrey in the quays
the underground's a mess if names are things that please
in Raynors lane there's rain again
in Catford there are mice
in Epping it is epic and I think that's awful nice,
In Battersea there is no sea
in Clapham they don't clap
at shooters hill they don't shoot guns
and Network East's a trap.

In Stepney there are several steps
in deptford they sink under debts
nothing gets me on my way than to pass through Green lanes, Harringay, now I don't know many gays down there but I'm friends with some
up in Sloane square
no Knights in Knightsbridge anymore
no Kings at Kingly court
Bradford's not in Bingley either
neither here nor there nor in Trafalgar Square will you see any ships

But the underground's a fabulous place for going out on trips.

It's an eye for an eye
and swap a truth
for a lie,
they either **** you or
we'll let you die.

Kindness,
a mess
in a pickle.

In the end, when unseen
and the fairy King changes
into the wicked old Queen and
all the cards
have been marked,
my ignition
catches the sparks
and I come to life.

Old men.

Generally speaking in private
when old men are dribbling or leaking
I keep to myself,
safer that way when the window's
the only way out.

Poetry bothers me much
more than old chimneys
that smoke
down in Battersea.

Anathema.

I smoke **** in order to be
insufficiently free of
deficiency,
which is in any case
all Greek to me.

The wind is howling and to be honest, I'd howl too if I was outside in it, but being snugly smug with a mug of tea, nice and warm just her and me
listening to the harmony of the winds that blow in off the sea.

Sunday and I've not yet met my doom,

I heard my doom rents a double room
in Battersea
perhaps he's waiting for me
to call,
perhaps he is not a he but a she
that waits in Battersea for me.

not ready for church yet
not ready to queue for a pew,
not when I've got a fabulous view
of the woman I adore.

After I left, on my first night
Prompted my journal, describe your now past life
Perhaps, things like:
The telephone boxes,
                     The theatre, the foxes,
                                            Ben, Battersea or the eye.
At worst, at best, simple a request
But against my behest,
I Immediately flustered
As only memory my mind mustered:
                  That feeling felt when I caught your eye
              
              And I just wasn’t ready to ask myself why
                 
I wasn’t able to say         
                                                                ­       goodbye.

I guess what often said is true,
Like what last heard to me from you:
                     You run from things you cannot deny.

Bermondsey,
the new Bermuda triangle,
Battersea too
and Bromley By Bow
what I want to know is why?

Things disappear all the time
like people,
some friends of mine
were people and
they disappeared,

somewhere between
Mile End and the West End
they vanished,

buildings as well
they disappear just the same,
even streets do and then
one day they turn up with a
different name and you don't know
them at all.

Perhaps we're at the edge of a black hole
and it's ******* us all in
changing the concept of where things begin
and more importantly
where they disappear to in the end.

I have a street sign for Carnaby Street
Hanging high, upon my wall
Me, and a close friend, used to go there
And to Portebello Road, and all

We'd jump onto the tube, every weekend
Not a ticket did we buy
Dodging the ticket collector, with derring-do
Up destinations fire escapes, we would fly

Our road map of central London
We eventually carried in our head
Having knowledge of the main attractions
Like Highgate Cemetery, where lay the famous dead

We visited museums, and Buck' Pal of course
And Downing Street, and Big Ben
Crossed most bridges over the Thames as well
Battersea Power Station, and the Dogs Home den

Witnessed changing of the guard
Visited the Art Galleries of the day
Listened in at Speakers Corner, Hyde Park
And sneaked in at Regents park zoo, by the way

Went down Baker Street, to see Sherlock
And Madam Taussauds, full of wax, and flair
How we never got caught sneaking in, i'll never know
I think London wanted us there

We also saw the drunks, and homeless
All scattered in disarray
There was something about their life
That i knew i would experience one day

I kind of knew i'd become a squatter
Before i would become a woman
i needed to have more life experience
Before confronting that truth

My friends name, was Irish Bill, he was a wild child like me
He introduced me to his girlfriends mother
I was fifteen, she was thirty six, i was a ******
she plied me with Dutch courage, we then had a bit of the other!
by Jemia

They're on a demolition mission
tearing it all down and also, they're
building on our green and pleasant land
and turning it all brown,

no bees
no dragonflies
no bats
no butterflies
the only thing that flies
will be the time.

Our children's children
will see nothing but
building and buildings
a bit
like when you're on the way
by train to Battersea.

'We'll meet again'
ah
but when will that be,
between here and eternity
which I believe is
somewhere
in Battersea
or Swansea?

We'll all be late
because
getting out of the habit of
getting up like a rabbit
and hopping along
makes us lazy.

well
they can only shoot me
or
give me the boot,

I smoke a cheroot on the
last day of forever and whatever
comes next
cannot be as bad as
what came before.

Nothing says Saturday like sunshine and what a day this could be,
it could be a trip down to Brighton, a dip in the sea, it could be but it won't be and the only sea I'll see is Battersea and that's if I'm bothered enough to go there.

Do not despair
something is out there
there'll be something to do
somewhere to go and
someone must know.

The writing's on the wall,
'get a dog
throw a ball
exercise
use your eyes
be careful,
Kilroy was here
freebasing'

so
what made Mac tick?

the carrot comes before the stick
the horse before the cart,
he knew from the beginning
and he made a flying start,

seen that and done it
run the race and won it
gave the gold to charity
and
took a dog from Battersea.

Couldn't understand the man
being simple as I am.

It's often six of one
when one would do,
I say thank you
and take six

carrots and sticks.