Homes.

Your home is like your first love – you're sure they’re your only one.
And when you pack up and leave you’ll miss them to death
no matter how far you run.

In time you'll come to consider there are others out there for you
and while the search can be tiring, testing and telling
it's foolish to think that untrue.

And while the roads are endless, there are plenty of places to stop
and maybe when you do you can resubmerge your roots
yeah, you flower, you might open right up.

‘Cause soil is sundry and tailored, and though rainfall can cause you to wilt
some flowers will float on the water
and some plants, they grow down in the silt.

So don’t anchor yourself in one place and don’t let your roots shoot down too deep
unless you’re sure that you’re outgrowing everyone else
and I assure you that’s a misbelief.

Genovese Syndrome.

I saw a car crash not too long ago -
it lay upturned and burnt out, at the side of the road -
and most people driving by had slowed;
a stalling parade of spectators.

Safe in their shells they crept on by
with slackened jaws and peeled eyes,
wondering how many had died
and whether it’d be in the papers.

There's alien children drinking dirt
and an alien man with a bullet in his heart
and your love for them should be absolute
but you're fretting over your hair.

This life has left us broken or bent
and we ignore the reminders of the consequence
but know that we all make the conscious assessment
of how far we extend our cares.

The Purest Ecstacy.

Within a strictly private chamber
we entertain trite conversation,
assured that others speak critically of us
in other rooms
that lack the dancing drapes and lavish adornments.
I have overheard their misconceptions;
I do not care for their opinions.
In attendance are four guests and I,
but the centrepieces of this room;
this house; this street; this town
are the two women who sprawl themselves
invitingly upon purple cushions
and whisper, ‘play my games.’
These two are rare breeds.

One with skin as polished as frost,
crystal kaleidoscope eyes
locked fervently on my own:
Madame Desideria Madeleine Achard;
a mystery of exquisite tastes; between thirty and forty,
though it differs every time I inquire.
Her lip twitches into a smirk on one side,
until she cannot control herself
and beams a telling smile.
Too much of this temptress will ruin a man.
Though now she is on her pedestal, soon
I will consume her - crush her -
and forget altogether
why I forbade myself from indulging.

On the other side sits a contrasting luxury,
a budding flower, innocent
yet often misunderstood.
She calls herself simply Mary,
though I have heard she goes by other names.
We have met many times before,
in dim lighting or at gatherings
where her presence slows time.
The scent of her perfume sedates me
and awakens a rapture
that I feel only in her company.
She caresses my shoulders;
my mind; my spirit with sensitive touches
of her ashen flowing hands.

When I awake Desideria will be gone
and I will be glad of it,
and though Mary remains
her alluring facets will have burned away.
I will draw the curtains,
each hour hand and first digit will go unnoticed,
and we will appreciate her company
until well after she has gone;
until the last trace of her scent has dissolved.
I will hear often of Desideria’s frolics,
but I will avoid her confrontations
because I know what is good for me.
Mary, on the other hand,
is always welcome in my home.

I Don't Speak Newspeak.

I can get the bigger picture from the window seat of an aeroplane,
and I could fly around the world with all the ideas I’d entertain,
but it’s normal to feel pressure with the buildings rising tall
and forget what you can see is hardly anything at all.
The artificial lights obscure the stars,
but who’s trying to see that far?
When we’re judging our happiness on what other people earn
or listening to anchormen as they raise new concerns -
it’s poison and we’re hooked on it;
we’re settled; this is home.

I dreamed a slick man in a well-pressed suit who thought that he was free
but after years of bending his back and the truth he had an epiphany.
He removed his tie - it always seemed too tight around his neck -
then walked home and burrowed through heaps of cash to find his self respect.
He replaced his black ink pens
with sets of coloured crayons.
But I’m not doing myself favours with these promising pipe dreams
‘cause I had another where that miserable man was letting off some steam
in an alley with a young girl,
indifferent to her screams.

So I try to do my best but I don’t do all I can do.
Our one hope is that these rotten apples’ seeds yield finer fruit;
that each soldier sees his brother's face no matter where he points his gun
and the children abandon our trite pursuits in search of real freedom.
We should clear the path of our debris
to make their passage easy
‘cause right now the future isn’t looking so good for the kids
they’re cherry cheeked and doe eyed or living spoilt on benefits
and when half the world’s on fire
they will cheer and wave their flags.

It’s just a natural reaction; if I’m frightened I will run
and I’ll embrace the dangers that await over the horizon.
And perhaps no matter how far we go the borders will subside
but we’ll have lived without our fetters and be contented when we die.
So baby let’s go right away
‘cause I know that if we choose to stay
our futures will be typed out for us up on PC screens.
The countless flashing cursors cause me great unease,
and there’s no way of slowing it,
this cannon ball rolls on.

The Process of Learning.

I’m not as quaint as Joanna
or as loud as when the bomb went off.
That’s the shovel in my hands;
that’s acknowledgement I’ve said enough
before I have spoken.

I’m not the voice from the gutter
or the minister, but when I see others
with their hands in their pockets,
kickin’ and whistlin’ some carefree tune…
I often wonder what songs they sing.

But these verses aren’t pictures of me -
I’ve no idea what the words to that song would be.
It’s admittance that I need to speak,
and speak loudly, not mumble as I have been.

So I plead, turn off your TV
and drag yourself outside to steal some peace.
You might choke on what you breathe.
You might realise you’re not complete
and move on.

There’s a dog digging for a bone
and elsewhere there’s treats of a grander size,
it’s everything his owner’s let him know
and in those piles of dirt is where he’ll find his prize.

* A work in progress. Not entirely happy with this.

Tumbleweed Town.

I don’t recall the sight of a floating butterfly,
or treading the steep decline of a rolling hillside;
too long from the rising whisper of an approaching tide.
I doubt anything will grow through the cracks in these roads
and I await a stronger wind to help these buildings corrode.
The bags beneath my eyes surfaced some time ago
and this place is no home of mine.

Well there might be some beauty, like a last wilting rose,
hidden deep somewhere in the barbed hedge rows,
but the thorns of the bushes are tearing my clothes
and I don’t want to remain should my rags disappear.
I’d be crestfallen if I fell to my first frontier
when I’ve so many devices and relentless ideas.
Still this place will never be a home of mine.

Untitled as yet...

I saw children burying a dove in the sand
when the alarms sounded.
There was an air of nervousness
before the stampede started.
We were swept through streets on the tide
until we found ourselves inside;
between four walls of concrete.
It was a reflex retreat.

The safety of this fortress
has seldom been tested.
They say the key to staying sane’s
to always stay well rested.
So down here people sleep and sleep
and I get tired counting these sheep.
The tremors keep me awake
and musing on our mistakes.

I wish they’d rock me senseless
‘til there’s no call for distress,
so we could sleep like lions together
and we’d certain never worry
about the fears we left behind.

We were told to kneel and to pray
for all our famous fighters;
promised there’ll soon be a day
when we need not fear terrors.
And we would emerge to find the sun
no longer shone on everyone,
but kept its gift of vigour
for us in every hour.

But now those who were informed -
they don’t seem so sure.
They’ve realised that there’s no way
they will spend their next big pay cheque
in the world they left behind.

The clock up on the wall
has paused at five to midnight.
Nobody answers our slight calls
and our eyes don’t shine so bright.
While fists pound upon the doors -
some hollow pleas, to be ignored -
we’ll dream of grass under our feet
but recall only concrete.

The Great Wall of England.

So this is where they hide,
truly dead before they’re old,
on each side of the divide.

Spending green on gold.
Seven plagues upon us all -
truly dead before they’re old.

The other side of the wall
Someone’s scrawled ‘fuck u’ in paint.
Another plague upon us all.

They file an official complaint:
blame it on the wretched youth,
‘cause someone’s scrawled ‘fuck u’ in paint;

say, “I don’t mean to sound aloof
but this country’s gone down hill.
I blame it on the wretched youth.”

It’s ‘cause of synthetic ideals
and Thatcher’s common brand
that this country’s gone down hill.

The terracotta tanned,
and Thatcher’s own brand.
So this is where they hide -
on each side of the divide.

Sonnet : Color Cleansing.

A tsunami killed some niggers today
in some country I ain’t heard of before,
so I’ll do my bit – tonight I’ll pray
that no real disaster assails our shores.

It would be horrific to see
innocent people suffering,
but I’m sure the Lord will hear my plea
and spare me, my God-loving kin

and our beautiful righteous homeland.
Way I see it those niggers must have
done something wrong to cause Him to respond,
and drown them all with an incredible wave.

I hear the death toll’s still quite small;
I think my God should probably drown them all.

The Parade Through Abu Sifa.

The muffled chorus
of a village at war –
rapid drums beating
to a wailing choir.
This threnody lasting
with the passing of hours.

The refrain approaches
like a funeral dirge.
Papa squeezes us tight.
The door begins to lurch
and collapses,
and into our home they surge.

The trigger depresses.
One two three.
The roaring of a tyrant;
the sound of misery.
Papa turns into a rag doll
and his gaze falls on me.

Four five six –
his stare digresses
and his last sight is
mother sprawling as her dress
is torn apart by bullets.
My younger sister rests

cradled in my arms.
My eyes are squeezed shut.
Seven eight nine.
Three rumbling shots
break my mortal shield
and burrow into my gut.