Evening.

The rotting vomit still on the alleyway doorstep,
From two days ago.

A chill wind,
Too cold to be without a coat,
Too warm to button it.

The gently setting sun,
Basting everything in an effervescent orange.

Starlings soar chaotically,
To the breathtakingly clear azure sky.

Trees and buildings,
And the very occasional cloud,
Glow warmly.

Lost in this momentary infinity of beauty,
I am gently reminded of how little my troubles really matter,
As my bus passes me by.

UXB Waiting.

Sniper in the darkened corner of the pub.
I caught a couple of pints.
Guilty like the condemned man,
At his last supper.
I watched the clock,
And the people pass.
Feeling like some unexploded bomb.
Refusing to make eye contact.
Worried that my observation,
Would be misinterpreted,
As police action,
Or social security spying.

The Longest Weekend Of My Life.

You don’t know how many balls you’re juggling,
Until you drop one and they all hit the floor.
It’s then that everything falls apart.

Five months ago,
There came upon me a darkness.
I didn’t know it,
I didn’t see it.

My voices became dark and cold.
I didn’t know it,
I didn’t see it.

I took the pills the doctor gave me.
I didn’t know them,
I didn’t see them.

And my voices stopped!

And all my life unravelled.

There came upon me a blankness,
I didn’t know it,
I didn’t see it.

Like a Samurai,
Empty handed I had leapt into the void.
And it had welcomed me,
And it had embraced me,
And it had swallowed me.

I walked and talked much like any other man.

I drank and smoked with friends.
But I didn’t know them,
I didn’t see them.

I made nothing with my hands,
I drew nothing with my eyes,
I wrote nothing with my heart.

I was void made flesh.

My heating failed,
And all I did was get cold.
My food ran out,
And all I did was get hungry.
My money ran out,
And all I did was get poor.

I drank in pubs on friend’s charity,
But I knew nothing,
And I saw nothing.

The spirit inside left me,
And just the effort to take the stairs to bed,
Became too much.

Scared to leave the house.
Scared the doctors pills run out.

I slept and lived on the sofa in the front room.

The sun came up,
The sun went down.
And I thought nothing,
And I saw nothing,

The ease with which the blackness blanketed me,
And I didn’t know it,
Brought my whole life,
And I didn’t see it,
To,
A,
Halt.

Letters remained unopened,
Because after all no news is good news.
The phone remained unanswered,
Talking to itself in the hall.
The door closed,
The curtains drawn shut,
I was complete.

In the cold and empty void I sat alone.

And in the darkness I heard a voice.

It was my voice.

And it asked me,
“What am I doing?”
And I thought,
“Nothing!”
And I saw,
“Nothing.”

“Why have I lain as a lamb to the slaughter?”

And I thought,
“No!”
“Worse has happened to me!”

A few weeks ago I stopped taking the doctors pills.
No disrespect to his profession.

A few days ago,
Like children back from a school trip,
The joyous cacophony,
And chaos of my voices returned.
And much pleased am I to hear their excited chatter.

Today I have written again.
And today I thank my friends for waiting,
Because I am back.

The New Song.

Loose papers fill my life,
And litter my home,
Like memories of long past lovers,
Discarded almost carelessly.
An odd moment of amusement,
Set aside for future scrutiny.

Calligraphy pens hint at skills long forgotten.
Always looking forward to the one moment of discovery,
When all of this will be changed,
Books and documents,
Bound and unbound,
Some even written by me,
Lie in anticipation,
Kept for a future possible posterity,
In the vain hope anyone will actually care.

Death of the Protest Song.

Happiness,
The name of a magazine,
Dedicated solely to shopping.
Says it all.

Consumers want to escape,
Not confront,
Protest and survive,
Consume and deny.

Buy the latest must have,
DVD PC Nintendo girl stroke boy oo er missus band blockbuster super THX Dolby surround sound number one extravaganza.
To feel good about yourself.

Whilst the soldiers of the west,
Stood guard at the front doors,
Of the oil fields.
For freedom and democracy.

The relics of Babylon,
Left by the backdoors,
Of the museums,
For profit and personal gain.
The good old capitalist way.

Buy the latest must have.
Black market over the under the counter genuine straight from the holy land stroke middle far east ancient master piece triptych sacred relic.
Broken up especially for you..

The price of the petrol in my car is cheaper,
The price of the burning ruined books,
In the libraries of the Arabia,
Is cheaper still.

Black Flag.

Running with the black flag,
Brick through McDonalds window.
That’ll show the IMF.
“I’ll do anything to get on TV me!”
I don’t care if my fifteen minutes is the news at ten.
And back home in time for free range macrobiotic rice for tea.

Dead Man Walking.

The Air pungent with the promise of the forecasted heat wave,
The CHAV count will be high again today,
Surfing the perfume wakes of beautiful women.
I arrive at work.
Only to descry the day they removed aspirin from the first aid box,
Just because a few people were allergic,
How am I now to deal with this mother of all hangovers.

Another Monday Problem.

Following the other salmon workers,
In their daily struggle,
As they swim towards their spawning,
Or is it fawning?
Yawning grounds,
For the day.

Dog owners constitute their dogs.
Eagerly awaiting each deposit with little plastic bag full of shit.
And I wonder what do the dogs think of it all.

Tomorrows glamour stars sit around discussing past,
Present,
And future boyfriends,
And what so-and-so did last weekend.
Did she really.
Nooooo!

Awaiting yesterdays hero’s,
As they rise from last nights excesses,
In the piss smelling shop doorways,
To continue the days business,
With an upturned cup,
Or cap,
For coins to stop the cravings.

It’s then that I remember what it was that I forgot.
Hurry home.
To be met by that effervescent morning light,
In a house full of gentle warmth and toast smells.
And it becomes difficult to leave again.

Love Poem.

What use the limpid pools.
Flowers and sickening love birds,
No,
Sycophantic rubbish!

More like…..

My soul is a dark and despicable thing this night.

I look into her eyes,
And she rips the still beating heart out of my chest,
With an almost careless disregarded smile,
More addictive then crack cocaine,
That illuminates the universe,
She tosses it to one side.

I descend into a pitch black pit of self loathing,
And self recrimination,
Never to be able to concentrate ever again.

Wishing only for another oh so brief moment.
To see that smile again,
To bathe in it’s beauty and light.

Paranoid Two Step.

I live in a numinous,
Magical universe.
Not so much alternative reality,
More a slightly different perspective.

Looking back,
From the other side of the nervous breakdown.
Like an acid trip,
Taken too much,
Too soon,
Too often,
And never returned from across the line,
Without popping a single pill.

My mind is continually on,
Listening,
Recording,
Puzzling.
Manipulating.

Pieces of notices metamorphosise,
Into hybrid mutant children.
The Lizard on the ground turns to wood,
In the corner of an eye.
The shape of someone’s hair,
Reminds me of you again.

There are balloons in the dog shit on the pavement.
Is there someone going round,
Putting balloons in dog shit on purpose?
Or was the shit in the balloon and it burst?
Do they sell balloons with dog shit in them?
Put the balloons down and step away from the dog shit with your hands up.

The hole in the road is covered.
My foot step echoes as I cross.
And from beneath,
The words,
“Keep the noise down mate!”
There are people living under the road in my street.
Billy goat gruff!

Nam-myoho-renge-kyo,
Evangelical Buddhists chant!
Not just an oxymoron,
But an antithesis,
Evangelical Buddhists.

The girl at the door says,
“It was under the fish stool”
And it starts again.
Does the fish have a stool?
Is the stool fish shaped?
Is it in the tank?
Or under it?
Is the stool covered with fish?
Did the fish make the stool?
Put the fish down and step away from the stool Simon!

I watch the patterns making,
And unmaking themselves.
I think of a film,
And there it is on the television.
I think of a person,
And they get off the bus.
Why don’t I win the lottery when I want?
So long alone in the darkened garden waiting,
When is the mother ship coming to take me home?

Signature.

Your birthday,
Still listed,
In my diary.

The handprint you made,
That your mother kept,
From when you were six.

The scratch of a pen,
Raw ink,
On paper.

Your handwriting,
Found in my books,
After the fact.

The smell of your perfume,
Still on the jumper,
I lent you that day.

The dent on the pillow,
Besides me,
In the now empty bed.

Your favourite CD,
Accidentally played,
Still in the stereo.

Lipstick on the glass,
Unfinished,
Your wine.

The vivid red,
Your blood,
Still in the hall.

The white of the chalk,
Outlining your body,
At the bottom of the stairs.

That look still on your face,
As they zip up the bag,
And finally take you away.

Breathe.

Look outside.
Bird flies,
Fish swims,
Water flows.
What does it really matter?
What does anything really matter?
Breathe.

Samurai.

Once I was a spiritual warrior,
I trained in arts both martial and mystical,
I was fast,
And fit,
And supple.
But I was young then,
And life hadn’t happened to me,
Yet!

Once I was a spiritual warrior,
I knew my bushido from my bullshit,
I could balance,
And run,
And fight.
But I was naive then,
And life hadn’t fallen on me,
Yet!

Once I was a spiritual warrior,
I held court and philosophised,
I laughed,
And sang,
And danced,
But I was happy then,
And life hadn’t let me down,
Yet!

Once I was a spiritual warrior,
But now I sit with my pint of Guinness,
Silent,
Alone,
Introspective.
When did I forget to live life one breath at a time?
Once I was a spiritual warrior.

Last Night I Walked.

Last night I walked.
There was blood on the pavement,
And tension in the air.
Screaming sirens passing by.
The smell of fresh vomit outside St Mary's.
Two women screaming murder in the park.
A group of young men threaten me with their silence.
And all I did was walk on by,
Like some spook in the night.

Children.

Like a child too often beaten,
He sits wanting to reach out and be held,
But so fears the pain of the repercussions.
Where do all the lonely people go?
Home.

Like a child too often beaten,
She suppresses the feelings that are growing,
Not wanting to hurt that badly any more.
Where do all the lonely people run?
Away.

Like children too often beaten,
In each other's arms still scared,
Each not wanting to hurt or be hurt by one another.
Where are the lonely children now?
Together.

Bus Haiku.

Sun readers all around,
With me composing haiku,
Well it made me smile.

And In The Darkness Find Me.

From dark,
To dark,
To dark,
Light burning in pools about each street lamp.
Crossed as must to reach the caress of the shadow.
An ill cobbled nail,
Sparks rhythmically as I walk,
Tap,
Tap,
Tap,
On the pavement.
Broken glass,
Diamond sparkling,
Strewn carelessly across the road.
Mute witness to previous nights mayhem.

First you will hear me.
Cloak billowing,
Ghost like,
Flitting from darkness to darkness.
Between the streetlights.
Ever conscious,
Ever watching.
Perched in the blackened alley ways.
Waiting.
Safe in the all consuming obsidian night.
Hunting for something to prey on,
Something oh so breakable.

No devils bond,
No Faustian deal,
No simple trade of soul for me.
My demons call to me,
In day,
In every waking hour,
In night,
In every dream,
Driving me to what I must do.
Again.

Amongst the rats and other vermin,
Sit I,
Who in Babylon,
Was bathed in warm virgins blood,
And worshiped as a god.

Finally the light I seek,
Beauty like a beacon shines,
Illuminating the world anew.
You are mine.
On the voices urge me.

The heady smell of your perfume,
On the thin night air.
The trace of your step,
The curve of your body,
You burn like an inferno.
Like my need for you.

I grab,
You scream.
But no-one comes running,
Anymore.
No-one heeds the plaintive cry,
In the night.

Your struggle amuses me,
In its in-effect-ual-ity.
“Don’t hurt me!”
You plead.
“But my dear,
What would be the point?”

My talons as sharp as surgeons knives.
My joy,
At the fear in your eyes.
The realisation,
The futility,

My claw,
Your neck,
One clean precise cut,
Severs artery,
Vein,
And windpipe.
Blood pumping wildly,
Warmly,
The taste on my lips.
Your final scream,
Drowning in your throat.

“Now to work!”
The voices say.

The ease with which your stomach splits.
Bowls steaming in the sudden cold.
The trophies of the kill,
Your womb,
Your nose,
Your ears,
Fit so easily,
Into my little doctors bag.

“Slash her face!”
They say.
“Make her pay for her beauty.”
Beautiful no more,
You lie,
In gore,
And blood,
And excrement.

My job done,
Once more into the night,
Into the dark,
From dark,
To dark,
To dark,
Light burning in pools about each street lamp.
Crossed as must to reach the caress of the shadow.
An ill cobbled nail,
Sparks rhythmically as I walk,
Tap,
Tap,
Tap.

“They made me do it!”

The Wishing Song.

I wish I were ugly,
Ugly people have much lower expectations,
Happy with their ugly boyfriend or girlfriend,
You rarely see an ugly person alone.

I wish I were stupid,
Stupid people have less to worry about,
Unquestioning about their lot,
Money in pocket,
Beer in hand,
I’m alright.

I wish I were less articulate.
People with few words,
Always have something to say,
And no care who hears it.

I wish I had talked to you,
When our eyes met across the room,
And you didn’t look away.
Instead of being tongue tied,
And bound by my fear.

I wish I wasn’t alone,
On this cold night bus,
Full of other strangers.

Slow Bus To Portsmouth.

Riding with a bus load of rejects,
From some artless slasher flick,
Where do all the freaks go?
During daylight,
And how can so many of them afford to ride this bus?
With me.
No one talking.
Overcome by the smell of the drunks piss.
When do I get home?
Please,
When do I get home?

Untitled Bus Poem.

A girl,
Too loud,
Talks of incest on her phone.
Another,
In a hat,
With a baby.
Stops a young boy,
As he enters the bus,
Surprised,
He sits and talks,
And I begin to wonder,
Is that the child’s father?

Waiting.

Occasionally,
The synchronisation of the lights,
Conspires to clear the traffic,
And I am entirely alone.
The rain like a fine mist,
Settles on the beams of the street lights.
Then the cars return.

In Memorium.

It was rather sweet of Simon to leave us the contents of the house,
Not really having anyone else to leave it to,
Who would want it.
Or should that read,
Who would want it?

The funeral was lovely.
We all muttered suitable Pagan liturgies,
That he’d written especially for the occasion.
Placed his body in the longboat,
And set it adrift to the sound of horns,
Ablaze,
Just as he’d requested.
It caused rather some chaos in the Solent,
What with the Isle of White ferry catching alight like that.
But he would have wanted it that way.

The National Trust snapped up the house straight away,
It being a monument of national importance of course.
The British Museum has been in touch about his bottle collection for re-cycling sometime,
Believing there may be a couple of items of interest there.

His collage of exploded PC parts,
And his Retro junk computers,
We sold for the gold content,
And made almost twenty five pence.

The box of condoms he bought in 1988,
But never used because the relationship ended,
Is up for auction at Sotheby’s next week.
We have great hopes for that.

As be quested we appended his last published works with his death haiku;
“Bugger me that hurts,
Oh shit I think this is it,
Nothing better to…..”

His extensive collection of seventies bus tickets (from his school years),
We donated to the national transport museum.
The British medical foundation believe there may be an undiscovered cure for cancer,
In the fungi on the pile of used teabags from his kitchen.
So they got those.

His published works you’ll know,
His legion of unfinished work one of his brothers has taken,
To re-construct in the style of the Silmarillion,
Only more influenced by acid and paranoia.

And finally his collection of empty cardboard boxes,
The Tate bought as a piece of installation art,
For twenty million quid,
Which was nice!

Sad Santa’s Hat.

It happened just after Christmas.
I’d walked.
It’d rained.
It’d rained heavily.
In fact it’d rained so heavily I had puddles for pockets.

I was wet.
I could have been more wet!
If I’d taken a swim,
When I’d gotten to Southsea,
With all my clothes on.

Not for me the group of friends with which to see the film.
Not for me the warm cloistered drink in the bar.
It rained so hard that even “Singing in the rain”,
No longer amused.

It was cold,
It was dark.
I was alone.
Strange people watched me pass.
Strange people lurked in doorways.

I was wet.
I was cold.
I was tired.
I was not amused.
I was going home.

It was about that moment,
In the rain,
In the dark,
That I noticed him.
The man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

No other affectation.
A bag of chips.
Shelter from the rain under the Tricorns ramps,
Stood.
The man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

I don’t remember making eye contact.
I made no sign,
Nor nod,
Nor any recognisable symbol of recognition,
To the man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

So imagine my surprise,
Whilst crossing the road,
That he upped and followed,
And I realised I was utterly alone,
With the man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

I increased my pace,
Across Safeway’s car park,
Pursued by thoughts of rape,
or murder, or worse,
At the hands of the man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

Still quicker up the road.
The crossing mercifully clear.
I look back,
Only to catch a glimpse of the grinning face,
Of the man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

The only other person,
A lame incoherent man,
Tried to proposition me,
And all I can think,
Behind me is the man in the stupid Santa’s hat.

Past Dickens’s place,
And all the little alley ways,
Where they’d find my body,
Bruised and bleeding from every orifice,
And just that stupid Santa’s hat.

A swift turn,
A duck,
A dive,
I’m back amongst people.
Finally brave enough to look back.

He’s gone.

Parallel Busses.

Sometimes I catch the fast bus.
Sometimes I catch the slow.
Sometimes I see one bus from the other,
On another road.
And sometimes I wonder,
Am I on both buses at the same time?