TIME TO BRING YOU BACK TO ME.

I will lay on the sand until it turns into glass
Waiting for you,
And stay until the threat of mankind has passed.

I will watch while the stars above fail to shine
Waiting for you,
Till the world has no sound left for me to define.

I will drown in the water that once was the sea
Waiting for you,
And sink to become a mere fossil of me.

I will freeze as the sun consumes its own fuel
Waiting for you,
And thaw in the heat of the cycle’s renewal.

I will float on the ether of all that’s bereft
Waiting for you,
And dance with the atoms of what there is left.

I will follow the imprint of God in the sky
Waiting for you,
And watch as he moulds a new Earth from his eye.

I will trace evolution as it flows once again
Waiting for you,
And hold every breath as it re-creates men.

I will pray it produces a worthier form
Waiting for you,
And smile when the beauty of Eve is re-born.

I will stay by the edge of this serpent-less world
Waiting for you,
And greet the arrival of your great herald.

I will wait for your age to grow into its prime,
Because for you
I have waited with love for all time.

TIME NEVER HAD ENOUGH.

We used to live at pace
To consolidate the cost
Of purchasing a place
That now is lost.

There once occurred a show
Commencing at the end,
With nowhere left to go
It began again.

It told official tales,
And proceeded quietly,
And always, always failed
To move me.

We used to show a face
That condemned the enemy
Who was anyone with a case
Of vanity;

There once upon a time
Was conscience in denial
Until the factory line
Stood idle.

It never had a choice,
The consigned never do,
The emaciated voice
Of institutes.

We used to be a lover,
We used to hate pretence,
But now there is no other
Defence.

TIDAL WAIF.

The gift becomes attractive due to the actions of the giver,
Whilst your retinas detach themselves as you’re pulled by the
River,
And the tenant in the cavity has left the job of living,
And advertised its space to let for something more forgiving.

Appetites are offered every time you unfold the paper,
But there’s nothing in-between the lines that could be used to
Favour
Any option that’s available to enable you to face her.
Anyway the water keeps on producing possibilities to replace
Her.

Encroaching on some territory where you do not belong
Will not induce the tide to offer you remittance for what’s done,
And threatening to throw yourself in front of anyone
Will not allow your voice to raise itself above the song.

The rules of combat are collected for their cruelty and refrains,
And moving back in time to them won’t make you more
Humane,
And whilst unlikely music tries to remove the daily pain
It may implicate the memory of your most recent game.

Now the river streams from northern lands and leads to estuaries,
And in the rolling of the foam you may recognize the seeds,
And capture them in landing nets and plant them by the trees
In hope of tending some re-growth beneath your muddied
Knees.

But standing in your shoes has always defined an attitude
Long after any newfound source has lent herself to you,
So try and find some comfort in the stench before the news
Of alcove dwellers hiding in the aforementioned shoes.

Shake them out and with them flush the fallen who’ve
Conspired
To anecdote themselves with mutual friends and well known
Diehards
Whom you once considered kindred and everlasting parts
Of your greater living area, before the endgame’s start.

Lovingly remembered and renounced upon the blackboards
Of all your old unrelentingly frequented shores.
Bet you anything that you have left to lose it’s gone before
You have the chance to come again and explain your course.

You know the crowd will always lay the blame on alcohol,
Regardless of the facts at hand or foot or dug from holes;
Pitted in the faces of the poxed who never get to know
How rich it is to reap the soil a previous landlord sowed.

So fuck ‘em and forget ‘em and keep a vigil in the night,
And become the only lighthouse that is not a building site,
And tend the growth that gathers in the early morning light
Then in the afternoon join words and make the words air tight.

THIRTYNOTHING.

Of late
I have fallen out
With two parties:
Myself, and
Everybody else.

Conservative
And labour,
Those against,
Those in favour,
The distasteful
And the savoured,
The weakened
And full flavoured.

Those at sea,
Those in harbour,
In houses
Or in cardboard,
The sword
And the scabbard,
The arrow
And the dartboard.

The incumbent
And the heir,
The wife,
The au pair,
The elevator
And the stairs,
The fallen wish
And risen prayer.

The penthouse
And the basement,
The revelation
And encasement,
The resurrection
And ascension,
Forgotten truths
And re-inventions.

And so on
And so on
The list grows:
As endless
And worthless
As words
In the
Whole white world.

THIRD LAW OF MOTION.

I was unable to give blood as they could not get at it,
So I offered them sweat but was told to forget it;
I asked how about then a bag full of tears,
But they answered that they were abundant this year.
So I forced a soft drink straw into a vein,
And a good friend stood by me to help with the pain,
But his three year old daughter blew into the straw
And because of the bends not a drop could be drawn.
So I gave up on the idea of self-sacrifice,
And procured an alter and slaughtering device,
Asked my friend to bring his family around for the night,
And the next day I donated much more than a pint.
It’s good to give blood ‘cause it’s for a good cause,
And progressives approve and provide their applause,
And I’m trying my hardest to come up with my quota,
But it will always be hard for a political floater.

So I went on a cancer prevention diet from fear,
And gained 100 pounds for the sake of my years,
You see it turns out that everything has its use,
In the end I was eating anything and its juice.
So I had to concede for the sake of my welfare,
And the not inconsiderable drain on my healthcare;
It’s not easy to heed all the things that we’re told,
And much harder to avoid eating into your soul.
I eventually lost my appetite for correction,
And relapsed in the fight to reform my digestion,
Though to avoid melanoma I hid from the sun,
But after a while I was as pure as a nun.
So forget all you hear from the fools in the big house,
With their spinning doctors dissecting the corpse
Of a mummified nation unwrapped in a room,
For the unknown fold know them and their end is soon.

THINGS WHAT WORKED DON’T WORK.

You’re always up to your arse hole
In electrical gear that’s broken,
And services easily ordered
That turn out to be nothing but token.

And everything purchased is faulty,
And returning it likely to test you,
Cause you’ve lost the receipt or the warranty,
So you say as they come to arrest you.

As the man at the store was a moron,
Or the woman or lady or bitch,
And their manager more than a moron,
And lucky he just got a stitch.

So you’re arrested again, and bound over,
But they’ve got too much on and forget
What you did so you’re sent down to order,
For offences you didn’t commit.

For let’s face it our services struggle
To apprehend what’s going on,
And when they attempt to re-shuffle
The whole system breaks down again.

And eventually you’re let go of,
For they have no idea who you are,
But you know so you make a big show of
Pretending repentance and more.

And there’s no way your going to stop buying,
For if you do the economy fails,
So I guess you’ll just have to keep trying
And next time you might even make bail.

THE WONDER OF USE.

If I smell like a
Whore mongering,
Dope smoking,
Booze fuelled fool,
It’s because I’ve spent
Too long with you.
If I swell like an
Over eaten,
Meat beaten,
Pill swallowed mule,
Then I’ll compliment
Your schedule.

If I stall like a
Service shy,
Deflated tyred,
Ignition soiled soul,
It’s to be assumed
My engine’s cold.
If I fall like a
Sleep deprived,
Sense denied,
Newly born foal,
It’s to do with
The depth of my hole.

If I weep like the
Lonely eyed,
Running blind,
Underage accused,
Then it’s certain
That I’ve cruised.
If I sleep like a
Man daunted,
Day haunted,
Overdosed abuse,
Then you know
I’ve blown a fuse.

If I wake like an
Empty shell,
Ringing bell,
Salted open sore,
Then I’m never going to
Do this anymore.
If I make like a
Repentant man,
Preparing plans,
Intent on being a bore,
Then correct me, ‘cause
To your boat I’m the oar.

THE TIMING OF THE NEW.

Does time go more quickly if you
Wear the watch on the other hand?
It’s not proven,
But I think I understand;
Time does go more slowly
Once you get to know me.

Because one night it dawned on me,
When I had to watch it all again,
Don’t you see?
There you were, my old friend,
And her movements were sure
To attract you to her.

Now don’t let your memory regress;
By the time she has moved,
You’ll accept,
That’s she’s leaving you too,
And there’s nothing you’ve learned
That will make her return.

So we sit around this table, and talk of
The times we had with her,
And short of
Lying, we will always forgive her.
And dissect all the months and the years,
Whilst she begins, once again, somewhere near.

THE SELF SERVING SHELF.

Marry a fool,
They won’t let you down,
They’ll look up to you forever
With the face of a clown.
Follow you home,
And tidy your trail,
And listen intently
As you tell your tale.

Or marry a flirt,
They will never be down,
They won’t bother you much,
They’ll be all over town.
Finally get home,
Leaving their trail,
And will glaze over quickly
When you start to rail.

Marry a virgin,
They’ve never been used,
But find everything painful,
And are easily abused.
Pliant to mould,
And simple to train,
They will let you be selfish,
Allow you to complain.

Or marry a parent,
They’re already bruised,
But are much too attentive,
And swift to refuse.
Frigid and cold,
Classically trained,
Have kids, who are selfish,
Above all your blame.

Marry a girl,
They’ll make you mature,
They’ll revue your condition,
And make you feel unsure.
Sober and hazy,
But correct in hygiene,
You’ll be made to feel dirty,
An ageing has been.

Or marry a woman,
You’ll make them youthful,
You can tell them your history,
And be almost truthful.
Drunken and crazy,
Incorrectly obscene,
They’ll let you feel dirty,
And forever sixteen.

Marry a boy,
You can do so overseas,
But you had better be able
To handle the sleaze.
Carefully wake up,
And consider this choice,
And remember the outrage
Surrounding young boys.

Or marry a man,
You can do so in Leeds,
This is far more acceptable,
And liberals are pleased.
Urgently wake up,
And look at this choice,
Are you all the way out
To play with those toys.

Marry them all,
But one at a time,
It’s not fair otherwise,
Apparently a crime.
Socially discreet
For a life on the town,
This is really too far
And too wide to be sound.

Or marry yourself,
You’ve known all along,
It is the only alternative,
And where you belong.
Quiet and sweet,
Not of street or of town,
And ultimately happier
With no one around.

THE PLAYER’S STORY.

Your screen time is about as long as this page,
So ready the stage
And the reading,

But beware that the size of the words is not fixed,
Their typeface is mixed
And misleading.

And a short word before a sentence commences,
And lengthy pretences
Imparted,

Interpretation is not the expected response,
So stop it at once
Before starting.

The language is established, and the grammar correct,
Although some of the text
Is old fashioned,

And whilst learning of lines and timing is essential,
So is the prevention
Of passion.

Though the pealing of age and the urgence of feet
Are captured complete
In the words,

Some remarks are reserved, because of the pace,
And whispered in case
They’re misheard.

But a point here or there could use emphasis,
Or it may well be missed
By the turning,

And the story conclude with out any end,
Or part to pretend
You’ve been learning.

THE ONLY OTHER IN THE WORLD.

When I was a kid I used to send myself to sleep
Thinking about any woman in the world,
Any one would do.

Now I am older I fall asleep remembering
Every woman I ever slept with,
Every memory is used.

Somewhere in-between I fell asleep
With the only other in the world,
And that was you.

THE MISANTHROPIC PRINCIPLE.

If God wants my job he can have it.
I’m sick of protecting these rabbits.
They’re cuter than whales,
And lizards and snails,
But are developing disturbing bad habits.

It’s all down to the spaces they’re filling,
And the areas to which they are spilling;
They are beginning to be
Found living at sea,
And indigenous life forms they’re killing.

You see when they were originally made
There was no way for them to upgrade,
But for some reason now
They’re evolving know how
Of wisdom initially forbade.

So I’ve lost all control of migrations,
And the subsequent ill implications,
And will now refrain
From raising again
Easter bunnies and all their relations.

And you can tell the Lord of my decision,
And he can call to discuss my position,
And if he can stop
Them bastards that hop
Then he’s welcome to their supervision.

But he’ll have a hard time with restraining
The levels of stock they’re maintaining;
Over ground and below,
Overseas and at home,
And everywhere else that’s remaining.

And you know what he’ll find in the morning,
When he rises to let the new dawn in;
Bucks and their mates,
At his Pearly Gates,
Fucking each other and spawning.

THE MESSIER.

I’m suffering from post tension,
And sounds of feral laughter;
An ominous portent
Of disaster.

I used to abuse ignorance,
My pictures turning crimson,
Alarming in abundance,
And winsome.

And people who walked across my path
Became indignant wretches
By exchanging photographs
For sketches.

And some time favours came my way,
Forever entertaining,
And with occasional decay
Came learning.

Without access to three star fare
I had to search the larder,
But was still unable to prepare
A pardon.

And cordially we stretched along,
But still diluted quickly;
Some disgusting liquor beyond
The sickly.

Printed daily for the selling,
Whored and improvised,
Weakly told for your retelling
In front of Emperors’ eyes.

THE MAN WITH THE 100 MILE LONG ARMS.

The man with the 100 mile long arms,
Look what he can do,
Reach up a pluck a satellite
Out of the sky for you.

He once held hands with Mr. Reynolds,
Across the Irish Sea,
Caught fish atop the Eiffel tower,
And took them home for tea.

The man with the 100 mile long arms
Went swimming with the best,
He once set of for America
And arrived before he left.

Only yesterday he linked his arms
With twenty thousand souls,
And ordered some arm many suits,
That cost a rainbow’s gold.

The man with the 100 mile long arms
Does untold things for peace,
Like shaking hands in many lands,
Except those out of reach.

But the man with the longest arms around
Went cart wheeling through the air,
Unfortunately, he died,
He could not breathe up there…

THE LAST BROAD CAST.

I was first in my class
At coming last,
Though sometimes one arrived even later:
A girl at the back
In a Halloween mask;
My uncommon denominator.

She was smaller than most,
And like the first post,
You never knew what she would yield.
And she never closed doors
And said this was because
She was brought up, as a kid, in a field.

They divided lost time
Between hers and mine,
But I was the one people noticed,
And long after each one
Of the crowded had gone
I felt lonelier than the remotest.

But I never cursed her
As she was never there,
Being increasingly later each day;
Though once she arrived
You could tell by her eyes
Not to ask what had got in her way.

She had no real charm
And her features were armed
With the weapons of times arsenal,
But as years flew
Her defences withdrew
And her angles were finely annulled.

And I fell for her then
As we happened upon
A mutual dislike of confinement;
In freedom and space
We preferred our own pace
With an appreciation of what lost time meant.

So we found ourselves a match,
And an antique stopped watch,
And a dwelling to root in and thrive;
We removed all its doors,
And ceilings and floors,
And lived life as if we’d just arrived.

THE LAST ALTRUISTIC ACT.

I have no mark to leave
Upon the surface of the Earth,
And would not want to do so even if I had.
I can no more remember
How to service any worth,
And would not dare pursue so even if I could.

I shall not covet life before
The certain face of death,
And will not suffer anyone who tells me that I must.
I am no more prepared to bear
The current taste of breath,
And will not aspire on beyond the scattering of dust.

We are not made to linger on
The canvass of the world,
And will not get to know the artist of the sun.
We can but hope our time
Does not cause anguish to the old,
And eventually rests its light upon the young.

I can still feel the air
Upon the surface of my skin,
But can no longer tell upon which part.
I have no wish to listen to
The service now begin,
But ironically I long for it to start.

I will no longer care for all
The certain facts of life,
But will honour all the feigning of disguise.
I shall not be able to endure
The current pace of grief,
And hopefully they’ll see this in my eyes.

THE DAY OF THE FLAVOUR.

Flaying will flavour the idle,
And the course of the supplicants cycles;
As the honey and treacle disciples
Provoke haste in the weekly arrivals,
Who provide tastes that are neutral,
Debates that are futile,
And ingredients likely to die from.

The infusion of oils in the ointment
Induce pheromones unusually present,
And are made to wait out in the basement,
Whilst the marinade affects where the taste went;
The windows were blacked out,
The innocence in doubt,
And the excitement confirmed by the scent.

The intoxication stirred in with the mixture,
And the long held belief in the fixture,
Had the desired effect on the texture
Once applied to the tongue lying next to you,
That was flailing around
Its mouth’s hunting ground,
Awaiting the sweet’s interjection.

Time has on its side the ambition
To swallow the world’s erudition,
And regurgitate any omission
That does not satisfy its condition,
And once loaves have all risen
We are left with the vision
Of our supper’s last take on tradition.

THAT WORLD WEARY VIEW.

Every time I render unto something new
It reinforces my own pedantic view
That words oft spoken times before
Linger on beyond the reading of the score.
A necessity to obviate the past;
Looking backwards from a future version glass,
And aspiring to all I’ve never entered into
Has been dispelled by this vain past winter.
Or maybe ocean or northern light sky colours,
Inscribed and ambivalent on feather pillows,
Or possibly quite clear in what they’re saying
Enabling the disk to be replaying.
It is really any number of invention,
Attained and multiplied by the intention,
To be turning over all the leaves of autumn
Contained within the covers of who thought them.
Inspired or enriched by most established men,
Then broken into pieces of enlightenment,
Thumbing a nose, a lifted finger to the air,
And being right in saying any grievous thing I dare
Intend to write.

TESTIMONY.

Trying not to trace the elements back to the beginning
Creates the illusion that happiness is about to kick in,
But that’s not to say the sun sets beyond your horizon,
Or that the remaining warmth keeps out the cold and
Seals the meat within.

Standing over the stove before you rinse away your sleep,
And landing in the alcoves of the dreams you keep, augurs well;
For all I ever offered you, and all you need for certain,
Is knowing that consideration of a tale is all I have to tell.

Speculation is effected, and the very next day begins again;
Ten more men consigned to the memory of a stained glass
Mirror,
Akin to walking in the frozen deep snow of forgotten ground;
To come upon the saddest known sight to contemplate before
Forever.

And if everything we have been taught is biased and political,
And nothing ever thought about the fate of our convictions,
How then is it possible to learn the art of waking up
Without throwing up everything for eviction.

Now all the aforementioned - monitored and administered -
Bring out the tensions that our senses have forgotten,
And we sigh a million lifetimes worth of overdue responses,
Because the sinking system comes out of something that
Is slow remembered and long ago gone rotten.

TALK BEEF TO ME.

I woke up about three am
And my bed was empty.
I went downstairs
And saw a light shining
Under the kitchen door.
I opened it, and in front
Of the fridge, enthralled,
A huddled figure over the ledge,
Doing nothing for her health.
I didn’t even have to look to
Notice the empty packets on the floor,
The rustling of cellophane did it, as she dived in for more.

She says “To get myself off, I don’t need sex,
Just show me the fridge and I’ll start on the next
Packet of bacon, or sausage skin;
Talk beef to me baby
Again.”

Well we were walking
Down the street
Past the butcher’s place,
And she went into a trance,
And danced on in.
She started stroking the lamb,
And sides of pork,
And licking everything,
You should have seen the butcher man.
Then she ripped off her clothes
And jumped into the window tray.
She was dipping and squirming and turning,
And looking at home.
Then she started sticking, and
Had an orgasm on a rump stake,
For Christ’s sake.

She says “To turn me on, don’t touch me there,
Take me to the meat man’s place and let me smell the air.
Liver, raw and crackling skin,
Talk beef to me
Again.”

Well I woke up this morning,
And my leg was burning,
On fire.
I looked at my thigh,
And saw a hole
Where some skin used to be,
I looked further down,
And she was starting on my knee.

She’s a raw meat freak, who says “Talk meat delights
In my ear, and then let me nibble yours”
I try to deny her these things, but I love her,
And maybe I’ve got problems, because now when I
Want to turn her on, I spread meat paste on my skin,
And talk beef to her,
Again.