They told me I wanted to do one
So I lie and lean to the left
There is sorrow within me
Passion knows knowledge before it knows sleep
Poetry is a lesser pop song
Merit is demanding meaning in Islamic rhyme
And music in Bombay sounds fine,
Like finery in the old oil refineries of winers who dine
With elongated women who play with perchance
To off the rhythmical find
And punked up ink to the blinds
Rising like a Paki stack –
Up and always up: Never a fuck up!

Fuck up, mother fucker! And I will see you in the dump truck
Collecting rubbish like the good Fucked Up Dr says
Martin Luther King day!
It says your handy men are gay and you won’t play
On the streets and the sea shores
Where candy is crushed in the bottled mouths of mums
Mummying more than your Mata crew
Too rude to lie in lines with havoc on Drew
About his salary and fat carcass sitting lost
On the vultures’ solution to his camel feast
And how to translate his humour to an Arabic queen.

So I chose two and poetry wrote the internet
They let and the house was full of regret
Lonely furniture, hopeful bedside cabinet
A place to Kindle some bookish delight
A place to feel some horror book fright
A place for me and a place for you
A place away from the actor’s [so called] Acting Human Zoo.

Switch the Stanislavsky off
Let me hear your voice with hands around your balls : COUGH!
Cough like Roger Mc Gough and all those beaten poets
Who stood by Liverpool so that John Barnes would know it.
Left, right and then a goal –
Tell my soul that the Black Man is sold.

I am out for this shit on the web
Away from the Glen and all those Merry Arthurian Men.
Marionne, Marian and Atoinette – let me never regret
While my pen is still whet:
From one more fight between me and the Jews
For who never recommended O.T. tribalism between my brother, I and the (King and //…) you.