city in the shadow of a mountain
like denver on vacation
shady and deep
flowing down like the river
seeking centre
houses cling to the crags like barnacles
inverted ship cavity
jutting out of the rainforest

paradise of truants and travellers
eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches
and displaced ***** enthusiasts
sailors without floatation
treading land and bills and PTA meetings
cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights
rivers under troubled bridges
fish suffocating underwater
living on the refuse of the nuclear generation
transmuting the lead into sustainable energy
recycling the atmosphere into breathable air
apathetic anarchists return from extremity
living on the dole
or working for the man
we are building something greater than this

War Memorial In November
Empty Fountain Lined With Leaves
Old Town Hall, Cherry Trees
Caught In First Winter Breeze.

Solidarity
Moment Not Soon Forgot
Not As Easily Remembered
Not As Easily Shared

City and Colour Soundtracks A Storm
Down Along The Mill
Before A Sloping Upward Hill
Wind Whipped Wild At Trees Stood Still

Soaked Wet Through Clothing
Late Autumn Truants
With No Other Reason To Be
Than To Feel And Find Expression

Making Back The Way To Work
Held Hand In Heartfelt Hand
Making The Best Of The Bland
In Such Moment's Not Meant To Disband

rain beats dynamic rhythm
ever changing syncopations
speaking to underwater sensibilities
feeding dreams of nymphs and pots and pans,
mushroom damp truants

records and players
lent out to the Master Librarian
hermit in her books and closets
dust on her shelves
thick as thieves
sticky as raindrops

Pangs of loneliness
creep like shadows
and fleeting images
sad and solemn
of truants hiding
stealthy as the slide of tides
observed with half-closed eyes
finding freedom in perversity
and the serenity of silence.

Laying low and waiting
in the grass, see the sky.
Light above is grating,
caught, perfect, in your eye.
How the moon guides you by
its untroubled movements.
Pristine, untouched, how thy
hand makes no improvements.

With the spear you’re weighting,
once again you will try
in the dirt translating
(caught, perfect, in your eye)
that unbroken line. Lie
that your own amusements
could hold that light. Each sly
hand makes no improvements.

While you stand hesitating,
I place your hand on mine.
“Look,” I say, “duplicating,
caught. Perfect, in your eye,
the moon reflected, spy.
Despite the light’s influence,
to your beauty, his high
hand makes no improvements.”

In vain we satisfy
our heart with our reply.
All of us are truants--
all of nature’s students.

There is dog howl wind
behind that cold door
out there
where
all the stories
come true.

There are manic truants
running wild across
my back lawn
with
little hatchets
and bags.

There are sneaky smiley men
inside the TV box
greedy tongued
cold
begging money
and souls.

I will shut off the TV
let the dog in
lock the door
rock
creaking
dark
old
happy
safe.

It's funny seeing us all turn into the same person,
The same taste in music,
The same fashion sense,
The same events attract us,
The same mediums refract us,
Our skin is inked with the same tattoo over and over and over again,
Our hair is clipped to flow in the same wave that each ocean moves,
Our voices all make the same noise because we all say the same thing,
Our camera lenses are always pointed in the same direction and we all take the same photo over and over and over again,
We all feel the same high because we all use the same drugs,
We all have the same house, the same car, and the same salary only because we all have the same jobs,
We all like the same people because we are all the same,
There are no rebellious truants because we all rebel In the same way,
Our hair is but one shade one pigment,
That compliments the same shirt, the same make-up that we all wear,
We all wear the same sizes and have the same bodies because we all eat the same thing,
We all make the same jokes because we all watch the same shows.

Deafened by a similar silence,
We reach for peace through violence,
Similarly hurting one another while similarly trying to heal our brother,
All carbon-copies of an image displayed and projected from the Great Wall of China to The Grand Canyon,
And it's probably because we are all the same species
No need for discrimination because we are all the same, pathetic animal,
Grooving to the same funky tune,
In the same sunny meadow,
We are all one herd of buffalo,
One congress of baboons,
One flamboyance of flamingos,
One army of caterpillars,
One tower of giraffes,
One school of fish,
One heart,
And one
One love....

But maybe
Just maybe
If we all are part of one love,
Then that means we unify to create only one part of a relationship,
One half of a house,
And only one side of the family....

It's as if
Uniting and grouping closer together,
It just makes us crumble apart..

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

i rather like the taste of men

on the brink of something.

mere seconds away.

i like the brininess of their belly.

the dead drop to their pelvis

and i so like it when

my gaze is in grease dollops

sly and

cut, by morning, onto their thighs.

this is no accident, because god creates

for worship and i am meant to be.

god creates me right now and tomorrow

and if you ask him, he will tell you that

i am no light touch, no wind-chime

brush in the mississippi november.

i am a rollicking thing.

i lean on you like truants on brick walls

chew up all the toothpicks

of all the diners from here to oakland.

i drum the earth with a flex as

tense as a cymbal and recline

in the suddenness of peeping eyes.

hourly,

i will cut my teeth on you,

romp to the city of men,

and feed.

Uber morons of marshmallow county
the year eight reject and Comprehensive truants
think they have a snowflake like them to confuse
and in their playpen they pen nonsensical porridge for tea
some red uber pumpkin instructed them, faze him with doubts

here below is what doubt means
" a feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction."
off course semi-illiterates don't know butter from Jam
what the feral rent-a-mob are trying to do is called

Red-baiting,
also referred to as reductio ad Stalinum, is an informal logical fallacy that intends to discredit the validity of an opponent's logical argument by accusing, denouncing, attacking, or persecuting an individual

That is what the Protection Money Racketeers
who tried extorting money to keep Royal secret
and then broke in and stole from us
and when we stood up to them decided to ruin us
slandering and defaming launching ***** racist campaign
so trolls of thieves and Mobsters go do your job

*  Negative campaigning or mudslinging is the process of deliberate spreading negative information about someone or something to worsen the public image of the described.
The expression discrediting tactics refers to personal attacks, for example in politics and court cases.
we all know this is what Thieves do, and feral mob you are
just dunces being used by the Thieves and East London Mobsters

**Whispering Campaign
A whispering campaign or whisper campaign is a method of persuasion in which damaging rumors or innuendo are spread about the target, while the source of the rumors seeks to avoid being detected while spreading them.

Ferals, racists and Numpties come do your worst
you,re nothing but ignoramuses in the pockets of thieves
you don't scare me one bit and you can't soften me up
I will not be gagged, bullied or intimidated
a family of racist crooks demanded Protection money to keep
secret my African Royal connection, I refused to pay
they broke into our flat and stole our property
I had the nerve to stand up to them, they did not expect this
because we are kind, decent gentle law-abiding
I said I was going to report them to the Council and get them evicted
The Thieving Racists Mobsters said I was the one that will leave their Country

They called on their underground connection
Told me and my wife, we are now Toast
Well I'm still here, come **** me
You all, your Gangs and all the uber-morons in your pockets..

Doubts where? you're not eliciting doubts
Your under-developed minds are being made toxic
You are involved in a Poison campaign, get your facts rights
and now poison is in your system and you can never be the same again
Because whether you like it or not you now know all about seeing poisons and negativity in innocent things

And that is to your detriment, they have corrupted your minds
and it will stay with you
If your partner say I love you, you can now think of ten reasons
why this may not be true or real, erstwhile clean minds has now
been stained,
You have ingested poison, it doesn't wash out, you've been contaminated, and that's sadly true.....
Go on....continue!!!

how quick our dreams
become nightmares-
a petty betrayal

leads to tragedy
eternal..
woe unto us-

our hearts easily
duped
( a surreptitious noose)

a short rest
a tchick from jess
a loss of innocence

the pied piper
once more
places his pipe

the people abide
to melody
that calls to

the child in them
chilled-through
some-how-still

when the schools
from the bathing pool
(truants-too!)

come the little children
and they´re
dancing and laughing

(the pied piper
smiles the saddest smile
ever)

the people wake
from the dream
(or nightmare)

to see the line
snaking behind
as it shines

as it shimmies
and disappears
in the morning sun..

around the corner
and as one
on they ran

their cries!-
pray fine sir?!
take not

our children?!
stay our life
our reason

we implore
o lord
we beg fortune?!!

but when they
gathered
at the crossroads

there is nothing
gone!
only an unremarkable

mountain
without snow
or cloud

all-gone!
they wait..
for the birds-sing..