Who's For Another Half Then

Who's for another half then?

As a chewing gum festered tooth
Snips through another of our chemical friends.
We've got DJ god knows who pumping toons
To the mind set of a group round a chemical bend.

Who's for another half then?
As we all think. Shall we?
There are those who volunteer for the mission
And those who fuck off for a pee.

As the night wanders into another dawn chorus of
"What the fuck was that you pulled?"
Some slink off to vehicles full of chewing gum wrappers
And now half empty skulls.

So who's for another half then?
As the main caner does the rounds.
Ah fuck it man, I will.
And Oi turn up tha sounds.

Another half and the scene
Gets more bizarre
Pupils dilate, head sinks back
And brain functions
Are away off with the stars.

So who had another half then.
Man they did the trick.
As I stare across the room and think
These chemical analysts really get on my wick.

Kind of trippy with a loved up edge.
Spine tingling overtures
With a hint of boxed hedge.
Listen man just enjoy
Let the magic work
As another paranoid chewing gum emerges
From ma shirt

So where art thou ambition?

Now, let me sample the corners of my mind
See where the winds blow hard
Casting off the shadows from the years
That are behind.

Regret and unfulfilled ambition bite real deep
And around each corner
With a wry smile and knowing wink
Those shadows are glad to meet.

The wudda’s shudda’s cudda’s
Are plentiful in supply
As aspirations are distant
And the cup has run dry.

The Piss Monster

How Sleep Thee

How sleep thee brother?

How does your slumber go?

Does your conscience prick

Each time you close your eyes?

Can you live with the filth you pedal

The deceit, the destruction and despise.

A bag o brown man

Ten pound a go

How sleep you brother

Knowing they stole Christmas presents

In the snow.

How sleep thee brother?

When you see souls waste

When you see the addiction

Grow apace.

And when worlds collide

And another son or daughter crashes

Do you even take the time to

To read the days despatches.

Jimmy 42 loved by all……….

Saturday Night Guilt

Like fruit most precious.
Our chemical connection
Is that most coveted
 

Most secret
Most wonderful
Most adventurous

A Most Wonderful adventure
Ecstatic.

For Some,
It's the music.
That you enhance
To bring such joy.
As from over yonder horizon
We see your ship ahoy.

And to modern day cathedrals
We march with fruit in hand
But none of us angelic
With our stash of contraband.

So who now do we idolize.
These four hour God's?
The chemical or the DJ.
Or the beats and big bass throb?

Return Of the Jedi On Platform 3

I sit on platform 3 reading John Cooper Clarke

Eyes squint, brow creased

Why these stations so fekin’ dark!

Minds me full of Chicken Town

A works by poet said

Though cynics have always scorned my choices

As uncouth and poorly read.

As hands wander lazily around an ancient

Well worn station clock

I return to Mr Clarke again

Yet my mind hears the clock’s

Tic Toc Tic Toc

And the more I read Kung Fu International

The clock’s interruptions increasingly drop

As trains are always beyond time and reason

En route to your tiny stop.

And admitting defeat to the clock’s infectious persona

I tour platforms 1 thru four

As pigeons descend to assert their rule

Like the tide upon the shore

Every bill board is scrutinised

For bland nothing information

As the clock chirps up and again I condemn

It to hell and a great damnation

And with rhythmic hum I hear the clunks

Of steel on steel afar

Blue salvation lights ablaze

A solitary, two cars.

And the clock sighs and goes back to rest

As eyes no longer strain

Willing, wishing its hands would move

Pulling in this long awaited train.

And boarding I give back a glance

Until next time old clock

And time it says is always mine

And time will never stop!!!

Chain Gang Commuter

I want my piece of paradise

I want to touch the stars

I want a life beyond the race

Beyond the norm and holding bars.

Take a trip on some unknown highway

With a dusty cafe.

Where the brush it can roll for miles

Where a crackling radio plays

I want to see beyond the day

Beyond this grey I see

To Vision many a dream I have

O Lord

Hear this commuter’s plea.

Sit and drink a sunset

Lavished in hues of gold

Embracing the horizons

The mighty dreamer’s stronghold

Placing all hopes in fancy

Spreading wings out wide

Lay back upon diamond shores

And being massaged by the tide.

But alas I will wallow as I do

As junction 4 appears

Traffic backs up and I hold back

Frustration and the tears…..

F**cking Buses

Ah man ….

Driving rains wash the strain from my face.

And paint my persona with a grimaced struggle

Grey with the weight of my battle against life in

Such ever decreasing circles.

Ah Man ….

Post men and post boxes post ever more depression

And ever increase the levels of this dead pan grey

That, like huge grey clouds that ever invade me, skip round me,

Misguide and beguile me, draw me ever further to the edge.

Ah Man ….

Surely that inner light I was blessed with could repel such invasions

Batter back at such a heavy load

And blurt out a “Fuck Off” to it all.

Drawing on profanity to aid in my defence against what they call

This modern life

Ah Man ….

I just want to lay my head to rest

And take a back seat from my unattainable goals

Take sleep and repeat “Fuck Off” to it all

But now man ….

I battle against driving rains that paint and repaint this grimace

On this troubled and tired face.

And curse again against time tables and unreliable public transport

That once scoffed at in pride provides such punishment in my demise…

Ahhh Man … Fucking Buses Man...

Need For Speed Viruses

Punto’s Corsa’s Saxo’s too

In red and yellow and metallic fucking blue

Exhaust

Stereo

Suspension

Wheels

A cheap paint job with a look of orange peel.

Your sub bass annoyances

Knock me out of phase

MC noisy bastard is all you ever play.

Reving your puny engine so your exhaust pops

But do us all a favour and bastard stop.

You’re no Schumacher, you’re just called Dave

And to your need for speed persona

Your just a fucking slave

We all see you coming with your

Plastic and your grills

Those stupid neon lights

Lighting up those rusting sills

You’re saving up for Christmas

For the expected driving ban

But do us all a favour

And don’t move on to a

Big White Van!!!!

Tiredness

And am bereft of a reprise

And so my chemical activities

Bring on my demise

And knock upon the door

Of surreal ideals

Of trysts with a paranoid fringe

My fait is now sealed.

Slow down, crawl down

Lay this hammered head to rest

Once again I challenged

And once again I failed the test.

Am older now.

And still why do I search?

Find it necessary to visit

My past life’s tempting church.

And counting once again

The digits on a vigilant alarm clock

I question my morals

And an inability to stop.

My Little Haven of Green

Taking off work boots

Heavy with the perfume

Of the day’s cut grass

With a patterned rubber door mat

Applying one final insult

To tired feet

Hobbling over wooden floors

To patio doors

That welcome me through

To my hand’s loved work

Like a myriad of tiny suns

Marigolds scream for my attention

Whilst the Maple Tree sighs, busy avoiding the sun

And grass, cooling with its greatly tended green

Gives gentle caress to my blistered feet

Whilst I still curse those bloody work boots

And that barbed wire, rubber door mat.

Wandering my way across

My humble expanse

To a much laboured over dry stone seat

I sit .

And reach out for a freshly poured beer.

The Maple whispers over

“Sure was hot today.”

And aching feet throb in agreement

Whilst the Begonias join the Marigold's

Demand for water and attention.

Program 5

As a young man (probably around aged 19) I worked in a shoe factory in a department full of women. One of the women there always had heavy makeup and tell tale bruises. Whilst I could never write in the 1st hand of such happenings - this poem is dedicated to all those women who are the victims of weak and un worthy men.