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The Straight and Narrow

I’ve been chatting away

With a schiz-o-phre-nic

On a bench in my head 

Over drinks that stunt speech like gummed glue.

He said to never go down

That road I frequent

Or else be the devil’s pet, on a leash, quite Pavlovian. 

"Stay on the straight and narrow, with your Flymo hedgetrimmers,

And God will hence reward you”

(With Teflon washing-up cloths).

"They’re after me": the aristocracy, the Jihadists, the reich.

I’m just waiting for the bullet from the SAS

because I patented those big hands you wave at baseball. 

We buy some Gold Leaf and a couple more cans,

And sit at the bus stop because it starts to rain. 

I ask for his Popsydipsychaloprams,

he takes down my number to get him Cocaine.

Though we exchange digits, handshakes, “I could kill you’s”,

We both know that we’re getting

the straight and narrow path,

Instead of the wolf’s.

I keep going down at night to the bench to see if he’s there, but he’s not,

And he leaves voicemails from ‘unknown’ now.



Inside The Betting Shop

Mark leaves his bike at the door and flicks his filter-less Drum rollie before placing 10 pence reverse forecasts, after looking at all the forms.

A man I’ve never met collects 200 for his fag-break, before watching it all randomly swallowed up by the machine.

Jeff gets stressed when the computers crash and his bets are off late, even though I tell him I can amend it.

Greek Chris parks a Bentley on the pavement and tells me it’s OK to smoke because his GP said so.

Pinky bets big and tips. Always talking business on his phone. I used to babysit his children, but I’m a stranger to him now.

Simon comes in with G, sometimes because I asked them to, sometimes for their own quick fixes.

Chris and Nicky do the Irish and share everything they get. He must have ADHD calling all the elderly punters ‘son’ and trying his luck with me.

Clive spins his slip onto the counter always with a genuine smile. He lent me a book called Steppenwolfe actually. If you come inside, I’ll lend it to you.

Dave complains about the bleeding machines, about the competition winner not being one of the locals, about his granddaughter’s meningitis,but when he leaves, I know where he goes,

To the ATM and straight back again, 

And the kids off the street say they’ve forgot their I.D again so I say “one last spin” and they’re happy with that and they leave with no hassle having hustled enough cash for their fags in the cafuffle.

Seemingly balanced men pace, waiting for the commentary to say something that resonates, or for Chris with his ADHD to scream out a banker.

They all scribble on scraps and race to the counter to lay cash on the horse their Messiah foresaw.

I sit here with my feet up, noticing the humour in my men’s mistakes.

Am I the wise man then behind the glass, remaining relaxed, taking in cash,

Or am I the worst of the lot?



Fire with Fire

Orion bright, Sirius burning,

She lay sunken in her hammock.

"If she is an illusion, she is a beautiful illusion" put the Lady of Marseille.

Astrology in the centre of my eye,

Both feet in my ocean,

She goes down early,

Behind the little black hill, out of view.

She’s waxing, wooing her lovers to bed, but I am not pulled.

On the beach the stray dog stays,

Because he knows she’ll leave taking his breath if he’ll let her.

I drink with her smiling,

And sing does the man in my heart with the string of my mind swaying her way occasionally.

The kites in the sky tighten their lines,

But she, she sinks, still smiling,

leaving just the howling of Sirius and I combining,

And Christ knows we’ll be here in the morning burning.

The Final Abode

In to the white blanket I fall,

Made of the same goats’ wool

That was kin of the horse who, draped in heirlooms,

Was sacrificed.

With singers, the poet feeds off the tree of sweet fruit,

Where the birds perch like wise men who eat honey in their nests.

The herdsman knows where the cow embryo’s hidden,

Below what’s above, above what’s below,

When speech comes from that farthest reach of sky,

where the yellow birds from the waters fly up on their dark path,

one can ask for things that the worshipper wishes for.

The inviolable cow goes to space, from and to the blanket white, 

Leaving her calf low to eat grass and drink pure water forever in the World’s wheels of order.

Unborn, the boneless poet knows the thousand syllables of the final abode,

With his pot of milk on the fire, full of the ambrosia of immortality.

All that is from him comes, all breath from his breast, all delights that like rain overflow.

Rushing, he is fixed in the midst of resting places.

Only those that know it sit together here.

Upon the slaughtering of the horse,

Leave all limbs undamaged, according to the rules,

Then as many limbs as are set out, so many balls of rice I will offer to the fire.

Now our chariot-mate can achieve sovereign power.

Then, in the middle realm of space,

measuring ancient domains never before measured,

sailing as if through high water to all horizons,

one will be established as an offspring of the twenty-seven constellations to whom this hymn is attributed.

Destroy Become Destroy

iWalk, London’s unconshush

Magic. Glee. Asleep.

iFrack the whole lot up

By sleeping with the Devil,

Or lying next to her, in congruence.

Short-changed, and shipshape, iSmoke a load of sawdust.

iChoke on hymns on the winds in the storm-rush.

My current enormous.

My mass greater by any stretch

Of the audience representing itself.

The eradication of fornication

Adjacent to all barriers of narrative.

Darkness my amethyst,

Pure as iManifold.

Soaring iCatapult

Drawing you in all the right ways

Or, sit here, straight-edged,

Learning that you’re mine





I say, look up to the light,

It stops you from crying,

It all drips back inside for a lie-in.

Look out for the bikes,

They’re not for you winoes.

Go back to your jive stage and vinyls.

Drip back inside, you’re a lion.

Keep it together,

Is what you would say

On frost-cut nights,

Singing to fullmoon woods benign.

Blind eye drip back inside

You’re a lion. 

Stop relying on me 

You require silence and time

To retire from the mind-games 

They leave no room for the mind-aims.

I’m soul-king, 

Acclimatized to night is why 

I’m provided such delight

Walking on the moonroads,

Sifting through my tombs

So uplifted from its gloom-toll


Now that I 

Court you near

Hold me tight 

Ear to ear.

Never let

Rhythm go

Love is caught 

On answerphone.

Love you babe.


Or dropp’d

In marr’d gins.

Every time

my poach’ry

Read’da fines, Print-out me.

I ride outknightly

Cycling monkst

other bikes

On Fahrenheit

Rising late

From our lie-in hearts.

Walking on the main roads.

Sifting through the famous.

Blowing rolled notes.

Michelin man unravelled

Is the way my lines spoked.


My poltergeist approached.

My body roasts away

The vultures have a toast.

My mind part of the clay.

Voluptuous adults.

I say, 

I’ve got a Dot Cotton cravat for you.

She lives just down the road you know?

Everything’s aligned so nicely.

A corridor that’s infinite

For one who’s burning intimate.

Travelling at mmorespeed

Haven’t you got internet?

If in doubt or debt, then select intellect.

Grand opening of a simple egg.

Haven’t you had kinky sex?

And lay mould-making like gingerbread.

Instead, I project transcend and see.

How have you beans lately my darling?

I don’t think I am ever meant to flea

So suddenly like dementia

I didn’t mention ya

At the conventions though

When we were breaking up

It was mentally.





The most beautiful part of me,

The farthest reach of my creation.

You run parallel, boy and girl.

Made up from the same: sound and sand.

But urinations far from him girl.  


A photo jammed in his projector,

But he doesn’t wish to get it fixed yet,

and because that one photo’s all he has left to recollecture.

"All girls are yours," I tell him,

But he tucks the hologram in his drawers

Ready to show light again, tomorrow.


A star in a part of me of which there is also life to report.

Another jewel manifest in this cosmic plane I rule.

I’ve shown him photos, of other parts of you, woman,

But they never seem to do.

A whole night with Capricorn or Pisces doesn’t seem to phase him

He has just the one ideal of you.


Cut the lights

From the projector,

And he returns to his diocese, 

I’m seeing him surrender to his zero-gravity diaries.

"No more life," he says, "no more inquiries."

But he is a wind-proof flame, my dear. . 

He can wait forever.



Knitting Patents

'S hard sharpenning the bard.

A task I was lent in my barstudy..

'S hard wiping off blood, 

Fat and lard.

It’s the task I was sent and I’ll pen any man in the gents that prevents me

Just as love went I’ll be here with my sword.

Hear with my pen that’s as sharp as my word.

Cutting off S’s like I’ll never sin again. I’ll just go in again like I never slurred. 

If you din’t get the message i’m king of the verse, 

not thinking o’her anymore. 

erring th’encoring I’m stirring.

You want more an it’s fine cos it’s pouring like wine

The freshest of types not boring like wifey

Worrying bout how she can climb out a net of gold gauzes.

Well I got a knifey, just tell me the cause.

I’ll sort the mess of all hypes with my clause on the desk

I’ve been rockin the buoys of idiocies surfin,

My voice the board that I weave down the wave with.

Surfing forces

To the calm shores of pureness.

I’ll be there with a new girl and a couple a Durex. 

I still won’t know if it’s sure knit.


I’m happy sleeping

In the red love we made

The red wine you spilled

I’m happy keeping

Us, where you left your rings

Just a bit on the side.

I’m happy weeping

For the lies we created

And the stages we stay on

I’m happy reaping

The rewards,

All the achievements

I’m happy sweeping

Up for safekeeping.

I’m happy bleeping 

Out the White Noise

My own words the frequency

I’m happy speaking. 

The red love we made

I’m happy deep in.



(a toast)

The film was cut.

There’s no sense left but

You are out there, waiting to be moved.

Life’s a cruise.

I’ll propose (a toast) to you there

Where the white sands bare..

Are spammed with pubes.

I wait an age in bloom tanned from the son.

I’m not him. Not ham. Not home.

I sing hymns in the jam

Or the bottom of a tin.

I write things on pins for no one to comprehend.

You’re all a scam anyway.

I like ink and hints.

I don’t like to think because I’m a chink

In the armour of Blink 182’s

new winking shoes.

Akarma farmer.

I don’t pimp,


I don’t like Wimpy, much.

I don’t have a kitchen sink, what iguana???!!!

Life is cancer limitation.

You are all now vindicated.

Disjoint the illusion.

Be a parody of a person. 

We are all just angels fallen,

But only because we chose to.

The director cut me out the film

For so long I thought it wasn’t reel.

Bewitched by my self,

I lost you,

For I could not admit

that you’d a molten-soul.

I was in shit that didn’t matter at all

Trying… to score…a goal.

You bring me beautiful burnt bread

In your flustered morning potter.

Love is for the hungry.

Crumbs all on your nightdress.