Truthspoon


Insider info and illuminati analysis...


...from the man they just can't recruit.

Poems from the Duat





Ambushed by Sighs

My self lies ambushed by sighs,
In an ecstasy of uncertainty.
For so long I held my passion in the sky,
Blew kisses to the sun’s all seeing eye,
And hugged kindling myself alight from the inside.

The quiet harmony of the spheres now in disarray,
And wingless I am brought down to Earth by day.

A chemical dance,
a drunken jive,
The slow dive,
To romance,
From soaring solitude.

I could resist this,
But I don’t want to.
Apply a tourniquet with a twist,
This feeling to sever,
I want the pain of love and longing,
The sadness and softness to drown me forever.

I hugged you with desperate tenderness,
I wanted to tell you everything with an embrace,
Because words are not always worthy or faithful,
Or as powerful as two people,
Sharing a single personal space.

I have nothing to fear and nothing to lose,
Here at the bottom of my heart to fall no further,
Checking the tightness of all my screws,
You are the new me,
This is my new fervour.

When I texted you,
I expected you to quickly text me back,
But the hours moved me through stations of anxiety,
From Meknes To Kenitra without a word,
Then at Rabat Ville,
Past city walls which reinforced the panic I feel.

I was guessing and hoping you had no credit,
Or your phone needed charging and you hadn’t even read it,
Or maybe your car crashed and all your bones were broken,
As you lay by the roadside in a sleep,
From which never to be woken.
But now humanity’s secret language can be understood,
And that whatever this feeling is, it is something good.


So Called

The best way to avoid being caught on the fear line,
Is to always insist on having a good time.
Seems you’re a menace to society,
When you’re all a little bit happy,
Smiling at all and sundry,
Treating everyday like a laid back Sunday.

So in case you forget,
It’s time to get upset,
About all the foreign scroungers,
And the dope smoking loungers,
And the terrorist threat,
And all the other bad things that haven’t happened yet.

Your kiddies ain’t safe from the so called teacher,
Your souls ain’t safe from the so called preacher,
Your ol’ nan ain’t safe from the so called doctor,
And your so called neighbours, all they do is watch ya,
Then they shop ya.

So called rock n’so called roll,
Taxable delirium for the prole,
It's the Tavistock crock,
Of Shrink wrap,
Mind your mind doesn’t get fucked right up,
And caught in the gap,
Between so called sense and so called sin,
When the fun is all over the darkness creeps in,
And the so called high and so called low,
The so called youth’s that’s a pain in the ass,
And the so called old says where does it go?
And to get it all back who can I ask?

They’ve got ‘em in the ring,
Hanging on the ropes,
It’s the final round and running out of hope,
They’re knocking ‘em silly, punch drunk with the blues,
Now might be the right time to turn off the news.

Smilin’ at full volume and feeling the force,
Chilling all out and love yourself hoarse,
Skipping over the obstacle course,
Of ties tied tight on corporate clowns,
The higher they climb,
The deeper they drown,
And so called pop’s so called stars,
Overwound, frantic and pissed in bars.

And the fully qualified busybody,
Your misery’s their full time hobby,
And the day glo lolly pop bobby,
Has got an itchy new toy taser,
He thinks he's Duke Skyplonker armed with a lazer.

And so called family,
And so called friends,
So called lovers who you never see again,
So called fish fingers,
And the so called week end,
And the question still lingers,
So what happens at the end?


Give Me the Sack

One more day duller than the last
And I wonder I feel so sleepy
Feels like life is dying so fast
Chasing dreams  already behind me

And I feel older
As the monitor cooks my skin
And my blood runs colder
When I think of the papers I shuffle for a living

Just give me the sack
Just give me the sack
Just give me the sack

Another week I’ve sold to the man
Now I can afford to pay my taxes
Almost like it’s part of a plan
Wasting our lives in boredom factories

But they never told ya
At school you’ll work for this
To be at one with a folder
And a boss who counts each time you go for a piss

Just give me the sack
Just give me the sack
Just give me the sack

I have a dream
A dream that keeps me warm at night
I’ll build a fire
A fire big and bright
I’ll burn all those files
And my fucking CV
And the fruits of my labours
Will finally make me happy

Weekend’s over it’s time to go back
Workday week always starts too soon
But my dear boss he gave me the sack
So I don’t care I’ll sleep till noon

Now I feel bolder
As the sunshine soaks my skin
And the weight’s off my shoulder
And the rest of my life is about to begin

He gave me the sack
He gave me the sack
He gave me the sack
Never looking back cos
 it’s looking so good
Gonna do all the things
 always said I would
Gonna play my guitar
 and sleep all day
Gonna count the stars
 and climb trees in May
Gonna live my life like a once in a lifetime holiday.


Lucky Lazy Bastard

Lying on my back as lazy and useless as the day I was born,
No work today... far too hung over,
To even make it to my desk for my morning nap,
No responsibilities in sight,
Sometimes I would like to play the alpha male,
Be the head of the tribe,
The breadwinner,
Be ‘all that and a bag of crisps’,
Someone’s chicken dinner,
My own children racing around on the floor,
And me trying to keep up.

But is it what I want?
I don’t know.
I define myself more by what I don’t want,
I don’t want hassle or stress,
I don’t want a wife who shouts, 
When I’ve left the kitchen in a mess,
I don’t want to be trapped in a terraced prison,
I don’t want to be frozen,
Into a permanent forced smile of‘The husband’.

I want to be a kid.
Eternally cared for and care free,
Loved by a benign overseer who watches my every move,
From whose eye nothing escapes,
The Son loves his children,
But some have left home and don’t return his calls.

But I’m not too hot for life here on Earth,
Seems to me to cost more than its worth,
Merely to survive on your own is hard enough,
Keeping myself in whisky, 
Foreign sunshine and an internet connection, 
Requires all my efforts, well.. not all,
But as much as I am willing to give,
Without killing or corrupting myself,
I like to think I am young, 
And try to pass myself off as such,
Eternally 18, free of childhood but still a child,
But my dad saw right through it bless him,
He reminded me that 34 is not young anymore,
And I felt I’d finally ran out of excuses,
But his advice is the soundest, be ‘happy go lucky’,
And don’t get sucked into something just for the sex:
It doesn’t last.

So I live in a world which I refuse to take seriously,
The bosses whose authority I trample,
The orders I joyfully refuse,
The rules I happily break again and again,
The advice I ignore, as if being given from one madman to another,
I see people worn down with worry and concern,
Held over a barrel by governments,
Knowing they will obey,
And play ball,
And work for the system,
Paying their all,
In taxes, fees, charges and loans,
To fund the swindlers’ casino,
And ring up the more loot for the bankers tills,
And if they refuse, the threat is so subtle,
Your family home may be repossessed,
If you fall behind on your bills.

But where I dwell they cannot approach,
Nor the banks and estate agents swarm and encroach,
My world is not theirs,
And theirs is not mine,
I am on the edge of eternity,
Waiting for the end of time.


What's on TV?

What’s wrong with this picture? 
Every day a relentless fixture,
Of innocence corrupted and cut short,
Playtime darkened by mealtime murder,
Kids growing up in boredom and neglect,
And they seem surprised as if they didn’t expect,
To see that look in their eyes.

Let’s have a baby then,
It’ll be different for us,
But it never is,
We’re all the same,
Half insane thinking we’re sane,
Easily led and like Kosher cattle bled by the family butcher.

What’s wrong with this picture?
Home sweet home going bye bye,
Repossessions at an all time high,
The papers told you it was good to buy,
It isn’t that they lie, ahem, they just got it wrong,
This time,
A bit like last time,
But nobody remembers.

So we buy an overpriced house and sign our future away,
On a death pawn,
But we never saw the strings,
They way they fiddle things,
And the prices suddenly fell,
And our house isn’t worth what we paid,
But a tidy profit’s made,
By the bankers.

While we and our family drown,
Our smiles turn to frowns,
And innocence is lost, the light dims and it gets dark, 
And it spreads, 
The poison little threads,
And the world goes slowly wrong like a broken clock,
And then it’s time for war,
And so it goes on, a life stealing cycle made law. 
I think it’s time you woke up! 
You’re not going for gold when you’re playing catchup.

Please wake up. 

There’s only one thing that you need to do,

Wake up please. 

You know how!
Can’t you hear the alarm?
It’s been ringing for a long time now,
But your mind’s in a mixture,
What’s wrong with this picture?
Asleep in front of the TV,
Wake up and be free.


A Woman of No Substance

I am cleansed,
I am released,
I am freed,
From the deadly love snare,
Which kills men and makes them old.

A certain type of woman,
A mind trap to trip you into frenzy,
She a skeptic to the truth,
She whimsies over foreign travel,
Distant churches,
Empty ritual,

Which she owns as her personality,
A dim thinning blonde haired figure,
Mesmerised by solemnity and candles,
Into the belief that this is what spirituality is,
And if this is the case then it’s not that much fun,
And nothing more than a quaint museum curiosity,
Dusty and dead.

But how wrong you are,
It bursts with life, 
And you are nothing but old bones,
Shocked and shamed by a God you can't put in a scrapbook.

In one minute I was in dewy-eyed fairy-tale,
A trip to Sicily, little suspecting the Crowley connection
Then she announced the truth of herself,
And me and my life’s work,
She denounced.
My truth was run down,
With her runaway and driverless skeptic juggernaut of 
Unreason and fear, 
And hating a man because he exposed a world,
Which she can never comprehend,
Of humility before God.

With her coterie of 'artistic' men living in Tangiers,
Of whom she is so proud, 
But they looked like seedy leftover 60's paedophiles to me. 
And in her lack of moral sense, 
It probably wouldn’t shake her for a second,
Unless of course they all got found out,
Then she would find it convenient,
To denounce them utterly.

A vane woman being blown by the wind,
Despite the myriad miracles I had endeavoured in vain,
To show her.

Forever ‘fascinated by Crowley’,
Forever afraid of the truth,
And dismissing it as a depressing topic,
Thank God I am free.
I return to my first love,
The night sun’s loving arms which lull me to sleep.

I love life without you and those like you,
I wanted to love you,
But I found there was nothing in you left to love,
That inside your heart was darkness and confusion,
Your mind a chemical pinball machine badly wired,
Pumping your angry and irrational thoughts,
Spreading yourself so thinly,
Almost to evaporation,
All over the world,
With fevered desperation.

Searching for some kind of transient pleasure,
Or a new local ‘boy’ to play with,
12 years your junior,
But it only makes you older.

I gave her my seed,
Of an E book she didn't bother to read.
Yet she wants her own literary salon at Starbucks,
Full of wittering writers and schizoid humanist fucks,
She admires strong men from afar,
But never wants to meet one,
Che Guevara she would drive to despair,
Dismissing him and all his life’s work,
Because it isn’t funny or superficial enough,
Anything too real or intense cannot be assimilated by her,
The truth she cannot face and so no interest in it,
So they create an unreality bubble of dogs,
And gardens and sweet-pea seedlings,

You experience reality as a series of veneers,
Everything exists to you in millimetre slices of facade,
Cut thinly to exclude truth and true beauty,
But to give only the appearance of it,
And of intelligence, art and meaning,
She used words about concepts she has never really understood,

Who did I love?
Was it ever you?
Or a shadow I invented of you,
When I found the real you to be much darker,
The shadow of you I created,
Was a better person,
I am so far beyond your understanding,
As to be a million light years away,
From the dark dust cloud of your brain,
Such is my power and your powerlessness 
In your road to decay and loneliness,

The women smirk at your inability to compete,
The men ignore you for the most part,
But I didn't, 

I gave you a chance.


Dinner Time Blues


What is this beef? 
Chicken necks giving me grief
Left over stonecold meatbones of disbelief
Me finding out what it’s all about
Being a WINNER
Not a Sunday dinner,
Breakfast with Champions after midday,
Space cadets with space-mountain crampons,
Don’t need to feel the morning,
To know it’s going to be a bright day,
The Sn and the mother and father,
The Etymology of enlightenment,
The road less travelled or rather,
The road not went,
To the Heaven sent event tent,
Tripping in a field, 4d reality and stoner transcendence,
Magic tickets,
Two for one and one for the sorrow,
Then later an ecstasy maze,
Orpheus awake but lost in a dance-tent daze,
And his love forever lost,
Drop three for letdown comedown and disappointment,
Perhaps these things happen for a reason,
I expect they do,
But they still hurt,
To relive the moment of loss,
And to experience love for only one season.


Apt Title

The reeking lava potent light
Erupts from a turbulent horizon
Sweeps away a shameful night
Posting life at dawn-day garrison

The clustering oafs shackled to boyhood
Bellow with bravado oath and crude joke
Sweating out their life digging at pits
Chained though they no it not, to stupidity’s yoke.

Their laughter that rings like a chiming leper
Advertises their presence
Sounding their sadness
Then they die.


Just a Slip Away

The reversal of dream and reality, 
When dreams comes true, 
Will the  turbulent images,
That lie in the subconscious 
Become real and material and reimagined?
The sometimes tedious progression of daily events,
Become a psychedelic catalogue of images,
In a mad man’s dream, 
reality is strictly subjective.


Spectacle in France

Saudi Arabians at the archery competition,
With their gawdy green tracksuits,
Jumping about at Nimes like bearded children, 
And security guards keeping their eyes on them. 
It was a men only team.

And the strange tale,
Of the youngest stunt horse rider in France,
And his Shetland pony, 
He kept messing up his stunts,
Losing control of his now wild pony, 
A child's face of terror, 
The pony was spooked, frothing and bolting,
French pride nothing more than a crying child.


Falling from a Tree

I’m trapped in rest,
Regardless of anything,
I’m feeling my flesh too organic by far,
Scared I might get broken or rot,
On the fly we live and die,
The brain a structured pulp,
Pensively contained in a tree,
Of rotting heads.

The worm eats eats eats,
It takes a lifetime to finish the meal,
Poisoned and paid for,
Self stripped and death bound,
Fed then led to your prized place in the ground.

Death of a Goldfish

Your final resting place ‘neath the enchanted shade
Of a graveyard parasol mushroom.
Returned not to sea but soil.
An unnatural perversion.

But surely no more perverse than your doom of a life
I would watch you, like me
Gathering speed
Your feathery fins flying through your element
Gliding so gloriously back to tropical seas,
From which your memory was fished
Until rudely curbed by the hard plastic of your prison,
Stopped in mid-swim,
Confused, you turn around, 
Swim until the reality of you fate hits you in the face.

Poor bugger.

I hope now you’re at peace  and back in the sea underground
And not painfully limboed in the wrong place stifled by soil.


Nature

Dawn’s spreading fever burns our sealing sky,
Coming to the call of my night sore cry,
That night has cast off all idle dreamers,
Shaken from sweet sophoria by all permeating photons.

The accurs’d son that pours its rage,
Upon a dank and humble Earth,
 God’s own eye so sharp and sage,
To view his swamp born birth.

Our sins, night incubated and nurtured
Mired down in sluggish mourning
Dreams lose their shape in the clear light of day.

A wide eyes baby confounded by its senses,
And feels the stirrings of a joy as timeless as nature itself,
 Contorts its face instinctively into a beaming smile,
A display so radiant as to melt the iciest dispositions,
To balm the most troubled souls.

A scene so often repeated yet so unique, 
Just as we feel that we exist as individuals,
In our own right and thus individual,
We feel make us unique.

But how many care worn mothers have cradled,
The fresh flesh bundles of joy in their arms, 
Feeling more love than for God. 

This joy so sadly transient all mothers must die,
All children must die.

 The whole game does seem rather sad at times, 
The mother, poor, but indefatigable, 
Toils on, working, bending her bones.
Warmed by her joys.


Why I Dream Virtue Say How

I lie lifeless prone and mute shivering in deep winter,
Begging my body to let me hibernate,
To slow the pulse of life to stop,
The beating of tortured consciousness,
Easing reluctant breath until happy spring,
Flutters to my door,
And you return with the promise of warmth,
A nurse to my sorrow and poverty,
Like the mother I outgrew,
That we all lose twice,
Once when knowledge of her dying no longer renders us,
Powerless and frightened,
And then a second time when she dies.

She who parched her blood and stretched her body for us,
Let us drink that milk that cost her so dear.

Who sacrificed all self thought thinking of us,
Who let years of labour build our constitution while,
Systematically,
Tearing down her own.

These things are and must be, 
But when the child gleefully leaves the maternal embrace, 
To seek adventures of their own,
 They shun their mothers and leave her a living relic,
Of their lost childhood,
That is the poor woman’s first death.
 Indeed she feels it, creeping within her, 
Closing down her love and happiness,
Approaching a kind of emotional redundancy.


The Very Teeth of the Cogs

It’s the grinding of the wheels of history
The milling of hearts for their blood
The story of demons and kings and their mystery
Where neither side is any much good

The underground stream
Where money runs deep
Drown for your dreams
But the dead don’t sleep

It’s madness only madness
All you need to know
Nut jobs, crack pots, crazies and head cases
All running the show

We are the pawns
All the squares are black
Stop playing games
It’s your world take it back

Do you feel at home?
Or have we got the burglars in?
Do you feel alone?
Cos you’re the only one noticing?

It’s madness only madness
All you need to know
Nut jobs crack pots crazies and head cases
All running the show

Don’t worry, s’just a phase
Of planetary hypnosis
And we live life in a daze
Of mutually induced psychosis.

It doesn’t hurt to make a stand
It doesn’t hurt to pray
And if we take the world in hand

We might all get better some day




Refuel and Rest

Rows and rows of abused human doings,
The VDU that steals the eyes,
Salary is blackmail,
Eyes mind all learning senses,
Hones to God like perfection over 50 million years,
Forced onto a glowing buzzing  radioactive box to muse,
Over meaningless abstractions.
To return home to bask in a brief liberty of leisure.


My Tamed One

How rudely away you were plucked,
I recall the confused farewell at your Waterloo,
A formal handshake surely a joke,
What happened to the good old days
Of frantic farewells sprints down the platform,
While the train chugs away with half of me,
I didn’t even see the fucking train
I saw your frown,
Why didn’t we kiss?
So I could take away the taste of your soul,
It wouldn’t feed me for a lonely month,
But at least I wouldn’t be starving for you,
I have here your clothes your books pictures then and now,
They sustain me, your precious odour clings yet,
To your neck scarf,
Which I now wear, 
But it slowly surely being eroded,
By my own unexciting stale solitary stench.
The departure lounge of the Eurostar is no place,
For love kisses and goodbyes
I recall standing and watching leagues of tourists,
 breaking bonds with tears in their eyes.


Ink Scratchings

Looking to history for clues to live since now doesn’t exist,
It’s too intangible a game,
Wish I was smart enough to guess,
Correct the mistakes before they’re made,
Instead of joining ranks of foolish mice,
The past exists to guide the way,
We all avoid, to get lost in the woods,
To illuminate a small patch of future darkness,
Pushing at the walls of a cage,
To scratch an escape with words.


Like a Song

It’s very hard to find
The truth in people’s eyes
Look but fail to see
The depth of human misery

We all feel fine
Feed the usual line
All so happy to be
Beings of eternal mediocrity

Searching for a rhyme and reason
Grasping straws ‘cos suicide’s not in this season
Try drinking Jesus’ blood it’s the real thing
Faith never tasted so good

Soul destruction on the grandest scale
People, places, memories and faces all for sale,
Bid for your pleasures,
Drugs to fix your mind
God can cushion your crash
I’d rather be blind
But hey kids all you need is cash.
And all the while the Earthlings keep on breeding
The white middle class insanity machine keeps on breathing,

Gimme some hope,
I’d like to sleep at night
I want good dreams,
Need to see some light

Want some help
Through this time of strife
Will you be there for me
You could save my life.


The Game

The metaphor’s a game
And if the cards you’ve got are lame
It doesn’t help to complain
Cos we’ve all got the same.

Get a knock but not knocked out
Stand and fight and you’re in with a shout
Beat the unreal and the rest of the field
Score  the winning goal with a nifty back heel.

Cos champions are chosen If their souls ain’t  frozen
The rest  get left for dead
Victims of a cathode ray shot to the head

And their mind has gone and all day long its knife crime or shaking tities and  butts
When MTV’s still going for the nuts
Gettin’ em horny on some Barbie doll skank while their girlfriend’s feelin’ lonely they’re having a wank.

So what watch you better take care
Cos it hides in your head and just stays there
Put  a guard up at the gate of your mind
Cos when the lid comes off you’ll be surprised at what you might find

Life’s a bowl of cherries
Well that depends on your grocer
And the busy bees and wasps
Sweetness only brings ‘em closer

To feed or sting
But don’t fear a thing
Swat ‘em down
Be the laughing clown
Always singing never frown

If you feel the panic rising
Realise that nothing is real and take it down.
Infinite love is life itself the only truth
Better try that and taste it for proof

Get out of the war and of the front line

Living in peace chilling in the sunshine


Another Song

It always makes me laugh so sadly,
To see man treat his kind so badly,
The hypocrisy of the hospital bed,
Where a gut plundered patient, soon to be dead,
Is given with professional care and informed decision,
A blessed dose of morphine with surgical precision,
While those whose torn soul wounds are less explicit,
Whose calming purchase considered so elicit,
Incur the wrath of politicians and press,
Who fail to see they’re often the cause,
Of such suffering and distress,

The communal menace of society,
Blesses hard work and drunken sobriety,
Yet plugs us in to a life of TV,
While our national food gatherers drip feed BSE,
Fuck this and wheel me to the infirmary,
I feel it’s the safest place to be,
The freedom to lie doped day long,
With the promise of a slow recovery.


Alone in London

The drizzle dribbles down my window in pain,
But it won’t make me frown,
It’s nourishing my pining heart so I quite like the rain,
Leaving is half the pleasure of loving,
Because of the promise of return.

The sticky streets polished to a grey sheen,
As God wrings out his dust cloth clouds,
In London so soiled and worn.

The morning forced me awake,
The unpredictable tide of humanity,
Blown drifting unsympathetic to each other,
Propagated through a resilient medium,
Wither and thither swept by the cyclical vagaries of career, And friends.

Viewed from a 100 feet above, and with patience,
The city would show itself,
And orgasmic organism that takes two breaths a day,
The dusty weariness of mere men serve well as 
The 9am intake of breath,
Drained excreted at about lunchtime they waft back in,
To be released from corporate ventricles at near tea time.

I do believe that if we didn’t eat and sleep,
We would have no excuse for not working perpetually.


Discussed for Lisa Jardine

‘Yabba yabba yabba’ justify your job,
Dialetic iambic mouthing better than the mob.

Sucking the soul from simple art,  
Discuss and destroy,
Read refer, terrorise and tear apart. 
Don’t differ defer.

You think you can shine,
Satisfied in shadow,
Criticism is no aspiration,
Tapping the book’s blood,
Vampirically feeding your one way street of knowledge,
Sated in your symposium,

You’re a policewoman in the lecture hall,
Believing it’s all yours,
To do what you will.

So you fish out the guts,
The screws and the nuts,
And tell us how to think.

Sitting with a smart-arse edition dictionary,
Trying to find a good long clever word,
So you can entertain the herd,
Who graze sheepishly marveled by mud.

It makes me happy to be sad and know I’ll never be you.

Who what are you?
Want to be secure in your career?
Sleep without fear?
Ever hear of the game of life?
It’s losing hand don’t you know?
To be mortgaged and sold as an unhappy wife.

How you laugh how you laugh,
White teeth gaping from a painted skull,
Sprayed and displayed to the highest bidder,
Or the bloke with prospects but he hits her,
Lifeless eyes proffer no meaning,
No pain penance or grieving,
Daddy lovingly lined your litter tray,
With hard cash.


The Manic Depressive’s Picnic

It’ll rain tomorrow,
Though I hope it won’t rain,
I want to hear the sun.

We could do something naïve and beautiful,
Basking childlike in the adventure of summer,
I’d better watch my moods and mind
And avoid reaching for the wine too many times.


Illicit

The kiss swirling through my mind,
Testing, tasting,
Ethereal and ancient,
The divine and ageless,
Unreal and harmonial.

Disappointing, tasting her breath,

Trapped in this world where passion wrestles nausea,
Underwear stains and smelly feet,
The laughing hooved God and the word 'dignity'.

Ticking like a mechanic watch,
Feeble springs and cogs of flesh,
Every model destined never to reach antique value.

Finite pulses.


Morning

I rise solemnly as the day forces its way through my window,
Leaden arms acknowledge their duty and march from fleet footed dreams of you.

Oh I’ve lost my baby to the nine to five,
 And my bed is empty when the day arrives,
She’s been bought and sold and she’ll be on sale,
Until she turns old.

Morning unbroken she’s driven from repose
Prised from the bliss of a loving embrace,
By bribery to follow a futile paper chase.
She’s freed at the weekend but boy she’s so dead,
She scarcely has strength to get off her head.

Like a lost stranger she’s blown in with the night,
Our love still alive with faintly beating heart,
She reaches towards me a half extinguished light,
But we touch bonding to a melt then the loving can start.

But alas it can’t last and our frozen dawn embrace,
So rudely effaced by the alarm clock,
That strikes like a power drill,
Scattering us apart into small broken,
Pieces of consciousness.

I contemplate the lonely hours ahead,
That seem to last as long as a disastrous childhood,
While the bed which held her warmth cools to a cold void.


London is Still Shit

The cadaver coughs a dull rasping grate,
Filth fostered lungs tighten,
Scarred at its middle gory waters stagnate,
Eaten the country where night skies brighten.

People congeal in an arterial streets,
Laughing sad sirens of loneliness and defeat,
Loitering intentless at a pavement cafe,
They flap and they nod like they’ve something to say,
But don’t mock dear don’t you know its the mode,
paying like madmen to look at the road.

A twitching corpse belching fumes,
Yet fortunes are devoured renting its rooms,
O wage slaves of the city bondage inhumane,
No wonder at weekends you drink drown your brain.

Flowing fields of tarmac,
Rain scrubbed to a shimmering grey sheen,
But to nature’s shower one set back,
These dirt perverted clouds can’t clean.

This season’s selection,
A queasy collection,
A rancid selection,
Of things not to mention,
Which flow like lifeblood deep underground.

This town has its scent but not the reek of Chanel,
Imagine a vent, sent from the entrails of hell,
A million festering Camemberts,
An odour that one would think might repel,
But the irony is that everyone wears.

A twinkling constellation of police copters buzz,
In a soupy orange sky,
A chronology to set atomic clocks by,
I survey you London a fool perched high,
I stare good and hard just to see you die.

A city that lives only for the weekend,
At which point most people choose,
To drown their brains,
In booze,
Or hypnotize and stupefy their way out of reality,
With poisonous pills,
And primitive rhythm worship.

A pear tree yields in a London suburb,
Its ripe bounty with a splash
Onto hard turded pavement bellow

And coke cans clutter churches.


Hashish

The treacly toffee thick sluggishness,
That weighs anchor into comfortable furniture,
And prevents anything but lazy paralysis.

Every thought that goes unsaid,
Every minute more I spend in bed,

I’m high and dry in an agony of waste.


Alone at Last

I long to be alone,
To open my door and find no one at home,
Slip off my shoes and leave them where they fall,
Let my feet stink out the place,
Without fearing a disgusted face,
Ahh! true comfort a double bed for a single boy,
Already my mind is clearing to joy,
No more taxing my genius for an insult to parry
A girlfriend’s vicious whining sally,
I shall pick my nose as much as I please,
Slowly and surely totally at ease.


Pointless Poetry

What’s the point of poetry?
What’s the use in verse
I come from a land of painful reality
Flowery forms and metaphors don’t represent me
How much loss can a line hold?
Finding words for a soundless scream.

Who cares for pretty words?
Cute metaphors and flowery verse?

Communication with ancient symbols,
Perversely painful,
Like the first simian scratching in mud,
Books line my walls,
Stocky self assured volumes
With too many pages,
And delicate quiet little ones,
That have more to say than their size might dictate.

What’s the point in poetry?
Where’s the use in verse?
Do I need the pen’s gliding silence
To make myself heard?

Is there any money or crowds to tame?
That’s all I need to know,
Escaping riches and fame,
On a barren century I sow.


Getting Old and Dying

As the dusk sets on these youthful days,
Baring down on me,
The glaring night of adulthood,
And earning my way.

Now my face cracks,
Fatal time lines of mortality portend,
Proof of being snatched from beauty,
And headed for Gravesend.


Missing Presumed Lost

Meaning drains from these dimly lit days,
A weak winter sun warms not my waning heart,
The roaring flame of love
I miss while a desperate roaring wind so aptly portrays
My soul’s fluttering uncertainty when we are apart

Wintering heart sleeping a restless slumber,
Uncertainty awakened  by doubt’s cold claw,
While frozen time prolongs the shivering misery,
Though through the gloom you appear,
A mere thirty thousand seconds hence,
When you will come and we two shall huddle,
Conquering the world together.


Unfit for Purpose

Had a fit at a friend’s house yesterday,
The room was personality crowded,
Voices and faces,
Raised to appreciate themselves,
I was trapped in a corner,
With a leprous brain,
Trying hard to play the personality game
But throwing double noughts,
Suddenly something came over me,
A pale lightness of the soul,
Mistimed my movements
And confused my oxygen,
Physical stuttering in a corner on the floor,
Trying to brave my wretchedness then crushed by an opening door.

I’m suffering from a lack of definition like TV static,
A stream of white noise,
People sense this, some try to tune me in and help me out,
The majority merely turn me over to a different person,
I don’t blame them,
I grasp words and arrange them in order to define myself,
I don’t talk anymore, strait jacketing words
Great seeds of thought lie fallow in my brain,
Tides of shame envelop me,
Forever drowning but denied death,
I wade bravely in and out of cool conversation,
Words ripple to a frothing foam,
A toxic death.

It’s life in a fashion but it’s not really living,
The soul feels filleted and love lies dying.


The Sun Burns

The town teaches nothing but pain and dirt to the young,
Beauty and magnificence crawl to insignificance,
As we run across the highway.

You may not know it but your life is a fake,
As you sing along with dewy eyed  pop-star,
Who’s patently on the make,
And a self interest megalo bathed in dark conceits.

Dictates a grey dead life where colour exists only on TV,
Sells your life for a view of paedophiles and tits,
But proffers no receipts.

Doped on demon seed,
You are what you read,
You learn from pile-ups worshipping dead flesh,
At the altar of horror,
Of the rolling news trauma show,
You read about all about because it's all you want to know.


Wasting Time

The blank page mocks me,
The formidable regularity of line,
The blinding whiteness that slowly darkens,
Then it makes me wish it was blank again,
So little do my words impress the paper.

I wish for a timeless hell, not a stop-watched one,
It gives my purgatory a sense of undeserved urgency.

So time ticks on so what?
I can measure the exact duration of the rest of my life, 
Give or take a few million seconds,
And notwithstanding of course,
Any unforeseen accidents.

But yet my life wears down, 
And the clock measures its triumph, 
With a menacing tick tick tick tick.

I owe Christ nothing in this life, 
Yet he gave me everything, 
A fresh start and clean sheet, 
For the damned at heart.

He owes me my peace of mind,
I must thank him for the obscene dumpy metal breasts of the millennium dome, 
Whose shelf life was exceeded before it was even built.
Thank you Chronos for making fools of man, 
And eating his life with ticktocks,
The city’s chiming clock animates the dead.

                    
Eurostar

The sleeping army of suburban semis,
Resemble defensive woodlice,
Squat and watching and impregnable,
While the Lord’s light alights upon untroubled lands,
Sluggishly sheep are barely passed by our dormant titan,
Slowly slipping by Shoreham,
Winding rail and Victorian arch,
Impose on our European train,
Which must stoop and gently tred,
Like a tall gentleman in a house of midgets,
A junction taken but little improves,
It seems now we’re surely slowing for hitchhikers.

Held aloft, the track cradled in gentle steal arms,
Lead us gently through international junction,
Beyond and away from parliament,
Shoes off hot feet steaming beaten by London’s pavements,
Merge and melt into uniform second class upholstery,
Beyond factory junction where terraced houses stoop swarthy with high rises,
Which admit their faults.

The train for all its sleek and sculptured façade, 
Seems to wheeze up the hill,
Shamed at timed by older diesels,
Who seem better to know their way around,
Than this foreigner.

As a leafy fringe obscures the view of Sidenham Hill,
Darkness falls as our train delves through a bored old hole,
And emerges victorious a defeater of old stone.

The train drags out of London’s stew,
And with a bound of energy,
(Though slowing for Swanley),
The way the synchronised sirens sound like laughter,
Absolutely saturates my mind,
With a terrible fear/hate reflex.

Alone transforming preparing myself,
For the next portion of life,
I shall not dawn anew upon the world,
Merely repose in a life-long nightfall of infinite peace,
Nor no more bright sunshine days of people and parties,
Of human desires and fawning self interest,
Humans rarely provoke my attention these sober days,
I could spend a lifetime contemplating my own silence,
Deathlike but alive.


Traitor’s Gate

I recoil at my old self, he who sat in pubs for hours,
The island xenophobe for whom Python was a moral code,
I now scrape at new soil, brown and famed for its fertility,
And take in gulps of fresh air, 
Not the muggy sour kind from a fetid isle,
But the cool air of alpine glacier,
And the warm fury of the mistral.

The forest seeps into my veins, this Francophilia,
A virus so volatile that I my country sickens me now,
I am immune to its charms and I wonder how,
 I lived so long in such a wretched place,
Here pampered with plenty, 
Wine spills out from by the side of the waters.

At election time, your politics delight and confuse me,
Like forest mushrooms, 
Some are wild some are suspect and likely toxic.

Nurtured in a sceptic womb on this sceptred isle,
My wet nurse had alcohol flowing in her breasts,
The toxic cocktail of myths of greatness 
Dribbled on rose lips,
We filed our sails with gusty chanting,
We ruled the waves and God was an Englishman,
Back when such a thing could still be defined,
Now we see Withernsea where the sea soon will be,
As it clings precariously to the land
As the waves snap at its old heels,
And will one day devour the land,
White cliffs beaming broadly at visitors from abroad,
But slowly rotted by the sea, poor diet and bad dentists,

The flimsy heart that beats a tune,
My tongue has become stiff, it dies in my mouth,
Words which I once wielded freely,
That would pour like a vomit of erudition,
Now die in the poisoned sea.



She pities

She buzzes perpetually around me,
Like a fly that picks on the sick,
I can’t defend myself against her brutal love, 
Or her simpering attention, the sycophantic idolatry
That so sadly stains the sweetness of desire.
Her kisses choke me and coax my tongue into speaking lies.
Pinioned to a breast reluctantly comfortable,
By an arm-lock embrace.
All thoughts of escape deflate and die, then think,
Escape to where?
How dizzy I feel, how my stomach turns,
With every day of domesticated demi-drama,
How dull my life has become, how the self
Si now a lifeboat in which I strike out alone
Into drab predictable tempest.
Oh storm of life take me, wild wind,
Turbulent tempest show me your fury,
Pitch me out into mountainous waves
Wild foam lash at me,
I want to know drowning the falling down,
And to know no bottom.


Rattling under Paris

When the whispering green wind,
Winds spluttering through poisoned streets,
Blowing purging the stale city,
Of its rankest vapours,
Filling filth corrupted lungs,
With God’s sweet breath,
The elixir sweetened with bird song,
And churned in a leafy,
Greenly furred dale,
Then when the air is fit for breathing,
Do our hearts quieten?
Hailing to a calmer rhythm,
And our lives seem limitless,
But linger oh a minute more,
In this sweating city,
And be steamed lobster like,
By an infusion intrusion of human essences,
And find yourself perspiring someone else,
And know that in the metro we all are one, 
All encompassing bad smell.

Whether or not you like the taste of the fat man’s guts,
Is wholly arbitrary since you have no say in the matter,
As he’s just snuck one out for your tasting delight.

Yet there are subtler poisons that bare back,
The limp breeze,
Of these shame stained streets,
A burning fog that blinds manners from the man,
Leaves him to stumble high on haughty disdain,
Bumping blindly to crush all with equal vigour,
That is why they all hate you.
Because you hate each other.

Notes on above:

People who live in a capital city show the bare and exposed national characteristics, living so closely to one another they have lost the ability and desire to hide their more objectionable idiosyncrasies. Day to day a dozen or so pairs of feet continually try to trip you, and at night these same feet thump about above your head while you’re trying to sleep, or scurry below you like rats ready to bite, it is fortunate for Paris that we live in a three dimensional world, height has made this city what it is. This is taken to monstrous extremes by the awful monoliths that surround the city  of light, the ghettos for the Africans and the rest. These dreadful buildings hem Paris in on all sides, except Versailles, the King’s escape, with steel glass and shame, proclaiming to all visitors coming into the city, “The beauty of Paris but at what a price!”.

In this way Paris is still very much a mediaeval feudal city, with its clearly demarcated boundaries of intra muros and extra muros, those living within the walls benefiting from its protection, those living without, well, best to turn a blind eye… It is this exclusivity which is tearing France apart.

The Earth trembling vortex of human bodies that shakes the ground in the metropolitan catacombs, stampeding self importantly to butcher or be butchered, never before have swine been prized so highly. I console myself with the dark and bitter thought that these wretched animals will probably never manage to free themselves and will be herded off to the abattoir five days a week until their very hide is tough and leathery and scarred with lines of resentment and fatigue, and when the even greater burden of an idle pasturage is enforced on them, they’ll have the joy to egg on their own squealing little piggies onto the same fate, until, no longer good for labour or littering, they are finally and mercifully butchered for good.



Bored as a Poor Dog

So tired o’ running aroun’,
Feel like a dog on a lead,
Yeah so tired o’ runnin’ roun’,
Feel just like a dog on a lead,

I’m so damn tired, jes wanna lay down, n’go back underground,

Sick o’ dog tricks,
Sit, jump beg an’ crawl,
Damn sick o’ doing dog tricks,
Like sit, jump beg n, crawl,
One o’ these day’s gonna slip that lead,
Say goodbye to you all.


Eurostar 2

In France in 100 yrs you’ll wake up alongside England,
In the same ancient bed,
And see the folly of our drug policies and you’ll laugh,
My passport is here,
Don’t look in my bag,
I have some unusual mushrooms which I found,
And I can’t afford train wine,
I bring my own,
I reach deeply and drink,
And wonder where it will take me,
To France.

Will its odour give me away at the dole office desk,
Who will realise that work is the last thing I’m looking for,
Picking at my lip for the taste of blood,
Remind me of the opposition,
Winter’s coming,
God: winter,
England’s no place to be caught by it,
By January I shall be a cold corpse,
Distance gains us perspective.


They Found God

Guess what! They found god!
Took 'im down the station!
Gonna tell the nation!

Put him to use in the community and in the the world.

They found his secluded whereabouts,
A quiet west country village
Or thereabouts.

Can't stand the city
doesn't feel at home
Strung out by grief and pity
Feels too alone

Said he never did want to be a celebrity,
Doesn't even own a TV!

He's too old for this game
Walks with a limp and a cane,
Used to wrestle demons in his youth,
Before people turned their back on truth..

Wants to know what went wrong
Is starting to regret that the 'free-will' decision
Seem now we won't last long
The human model is up for revision,

You remind him of ants
They're always having wars,
But ants that write poetry
And open doors..

Personally I reckon it's just a smoke screen..
This God's just another has-been,
Another fat cat who won't take the flak
For screwing thing's up: just give 'im the sack!
                                       
Cos' quite recently the devil was seen.

There was Satan all smiling and bright,
Announcing his chat show appearance tonight.

A candid interview with the prince of darkness
The romps, the booze, the genocide, it's all quite harmless..

He is rising, the bright morning star
The smart media money say's he'll go far

He promises a bit of a scare and more of the same
He won't get bogged down on who's to blame

So do what you will and abandon dull care
But better watch out it's the devil's world out there..


Black and White is Grey.

How quickly the summer sun creeps south
Incubating us too briefly and ill prepared for the cold
Seemingly sinful lush green trees
Which once dared to fruit
Now beg forgiveness
And renounce past pleasures
With outstretched cold cracked limbs
Even the wind, once an accomplice
Used to play and tease the proud green body,
Has turned to a bitter viscous gust
Which sway and waylays
Those poor anchors in the forest

A winter dawns and bares down bright
Tests the root kills the shoots with its bite
And shows us black and white is grey



East London in Winter

A wild grey vortex pours from the sky
It tests the best of our vests
Caressing gently then kicking and tearing
Sends flower pots and tiles clattering
Whispering a warning about the drowning of towns.

My morning this afternoon
Sourly I marched trudging through midwinter woes,
Eyes as blinds letting in a little sneak of light
How does this high street,
With shops and coats and cars,
All coloured like distilled rainbows,
Theoretically so bright,
Appear to me amidst throbbing light of day
So barren dull and grey?

I’ve a suspicion that I see only what’s inside,
That my eyes pervert my sight like a two way mirror,
Preventing me from seeing what’s on the other side of my vision
Am I gazing into a ditch in which to clearly see myself reflected?
Or do noxious realities rise from the rankness
To poison and pollute and thus am I dejected?
Life clings on in this, the least hospitable place on Earth.



What's That Noise?

Walking home late,
Far too late,
My head’s full of booze
And I can’t think straight

I talk to myself

Hi I’m back

Where’ve you been this time?
Now this time I really can’t tell you.
Except that...

I escaped from the old house,
I crept out at night, twitching like a mouse,
I left behind everything I couldn’t focus on,
I very nearly went without me, my eyes felt blind and my head, Span.

Some moments before I had killed my integrity,
And for a moment I had died,
And my dead sense of self sunk me down into the grave.

I was dead.
When I looked into the mirror I was shocked by what I saw, 
That face, that funny looking face was that me? 
It didn’t look like me.
I left the house and almost immediately 
Bumped into a roving doctor,
 He had a walkie talkie and asked me where Liverpool street was,
I gave him the vaguest of incorrect instructions, 
But it seemed to satisfy him but he left with a quizzical eye.
I didn’t realize before that London was patrolled 
So completely at night, by healthcare professionals,
Looking for people to lock-up.

The patriotic red white and blue security vans,
Rumble endlessly through the city, 
cleaning up the streets under the cover of darkness. 
I had only two words left, 
One a word of self destruction and the other the word love. 
Love kept me safe all night as I hid in a square,
And sang my love to myself and God. 
My head was buzzing with death thoughts,
So I knocked the back of my head into semi-consciousness,
 And went to sleep.

As I walked to King’s Cross at dawn’s call,
 I felt like a man walking to his death. 
I was expected here and followed everywhere. 
I sang my love in my head and kept the sun shining,
 I knew if darkness came I would be lost forever. 


Take a drink from the magic cup things’ll never be the same
 Help is on its way 
Sit tight, don’t fight, lose your mind while the world goes insane
Help is on its way
They open up the asylum to the camera crews today
Help is on its way
When you ran so far you tired the earth but never got away
Help is on its way
I never met an honest man who didn’t like a drink
Help is on its way
So many opinions still don’t know what to think?
Help is on its way
When the world catches you and brings you to your knees,
Help is on its way
Your brothers and sisters will drown you, sharing their disease,
Are you still you or someone else?
Help is on its way,
Keep smiling when your ego melts.
And they try to put you away.


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