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.

Beef Tree

Merry Christmas 1819 mad George the 3rd,

Jabbering nonsense for 58 hours

Thick foam gathering on his lips like eggnog

Then from the King a new noise was heard,

Something like the whining and howling of a dog.

 

No your highness, 

That tree you are shaking hands with

Is not the King of Prussia.

“No?” said the baffled king squinting, 

“Who is it then?”

 

The poetic steward started hinting:

"Your highness, put your hand down, 

Let go of the tree,

For it is not a king, 

Just a part of nature's beauty."

But it was lost on the King, 

Who greeted a rose bush instead.

 

And he spoke to his daughter, 

Despite her being dead

And with paternal pride and joy 

At something wonderful,

He told her all about her own funeral.

 

He then buried a steak in the grounds of the castle,

An ingenious plan to feed the poor

Waiting for it to grow into a beef tree; 

He was surprised no one else 

Had thought of it before.

It took the mind of a King to see things clearly.

 

When he took his wazoo for a little tinkle

The stream of piss came out purple

And one day Queen Victoria’s father 

Was spunked out,

Victoria had a secret to send the world 

To ruin and rout

A weakness, from the Cain bloodline

The little inconvenience of poor genetics

And strangely malevolent design

Bewitches the wit of the foolish and vain

 Presidents pontiffs, and Furhers 

Who just don’t get it

Blind figures who can’t see their next move

Or who’s moving the pieces,

Dirty fingers smeared with greasy faeces

With her issue haemophilia 

Ravaged the thrones of Europe

Prince Alfonso and Gonzalo’s blood flow 

Wouldn’t stop with a tissue

 

Tsar Nicholas II married Alix, her granddaughter,

Sickly son future Tsar under the blood curse

Tsarina’s left-hand path at the crossroads,

Led to Rasputin an agent of Communist slaughter

 

Porphyria, lapses into recessive haemophilia, Waiting to rage,

The royal Vampire Antichrist, 

Set to take the stage.

The sun burns blistering lesions,

Psychosis, talking to the dead…

The secret elite bloodliners: 

Totally out of their fucking heads.

 

Blood in the bath at the London hotel

It’s just Lady Gaga having a laugh, 

Don't tell me you believe in hell?

‘Bloody Mary’ the witch sings her song,

Satanic panic nowt to see here, now move along.

 

Jackson liked Pepsi, George Michael loved Cock

But Keisha’s blood drinking 

Is the new taste on the block

But supping with the devil you don’t last long

Just dig up DMX and ask him if I’m wrong.

 

Have you heard the story from history?

About that weird woman from Hungary

Countess Elizabeth Bathory

Hundreds of young women 

Disappeared from the neighbourhood.

But it’s really no mystery:

Heme levels restored with the ingestion 

Of fresh blood. 

 

Her blistered skin and psychosis 

Alleviated with the choice 

Of the vampire generation.

Sausage fingers loves wife murder 

Because he’s got that Vampire blood

He’s Dracula’s great great grandson 

But I don’t think he’s really much good.

Now he’s our psycho Vampire king, 

Through the Kraut Mary of Teck

Zose Kraycee Cherman königlich, 

Der blut ist sehr schlecht.

 

Stress activated adrenal imbalance, 

The truth behind the lore,

But, Toto, 

I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. 

 

Hoffer hypothesis: 

Stress provokes adrenalin release,

Prolonged and sustained oxidises to adrenochrome.

Psychoactive schizophrenia compound, 

The end of peace

And tapping your ruby slippers 

Won’t get you home.

 

But those trapped in the heart of the underworld,

Should know there’s a way to get free

Niacin prevents the oxidation of adrenalin

A stake in the heart of the beef tree.

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 l

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, 

I 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.


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.

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 headcases
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 headcases
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


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.


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 

It's 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.


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 know 

I’ll never be you.

Who or what are you?
Want to be secure in your career?
Sleep without fear?
.
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.


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.


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 just a chancer 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.

                    
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.


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 had died,
So now a lifeboat in which I strike out alone
Into the tempest,
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.


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,

I talk to myself,
But I can’t think straight.

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.