Heavy is the work of the walking woods
That adjourn reality like a scene by my side
As the car rolls down the motorway proof
Of man’s ingenuity of life made by mankind.

Love was not asked if light was okay
When the country was painted with black and white
And lines did not ask Cocaine to be next
In the decadent description of language at work for the whites.

Yet wherever I went the sky would not leave me
And claustrophobia was manacles of past meekness
Such was the hospital of livelihood that was a beacon
To a man seeking nature with his own brown likeness.

Mirrors were adjusted without make up and lip gloss
In the pull down adjacent next to the vanity of safe travel
Trusting in the passers-by on routes to not so near:
Fears were descendent with the road rage looks
And Tom Toms to come for the faces and frowns like gravel.

On those hills was not a white horse speaking to me
Or chalk cliffs with spade and bucket for Phuket and Timbuktu
Instead was a newspaper with a book review.

Cold
Empty
Meaningless.
A death to a Trojan
And some Hatha Yogi whore.
What more can be done
To a nation?

The green was not marijuana
For a line between the earth and a heavenly sky
That had no advocate from the millions online.

Fine.
So be it.
Fire me.
Eat me.
Bite me.
too.

[Psyche]

The bikes moved quicker and the roads were tolled fairly quiet
And the sun never spoke well of tomorrow for the unemployed.
Such was the horror of life still turned around without The Fall
When the marriage to hell was now a new toys for girls and boys.

Ken and Barbie
Say hello to the Bobby
If you see the secret
Keep it between you and the Sikh-of-it.

Asking away was the meaning of the day when Islam was gay for the Crusades to have said.
What is well read when the files are being upload-ed to the Op-Ed and his booted and suit-ed?

[Such was the honour of a culture without China
What wined and dined for Qi on BBC-phew.]

Waste a land and the donkey with it will not be ready and predictable
But if you scan the battlefield you will know then the ass who is the middle line.

Wandering
Left overs
The unheard self
And the hope of one more …

Heavy is the road when I travelled on it in the past
With the momentary allowance of the fan who moved too quickly
Lying beside him is the light of the beggar who came to Calvary
With a cross to accept that no spear shall stay forever by his side.

Pace
Humour
Mine
The nicest honour is not always the best read.

Love was spent when the Gospels spoke simply
So Walden could save a journalist of what was not [Christine Brinkley].

Mind the body
And the spirit will follow
The suit for sedition to a packet of crisps
In the lunchtime hours of the our later mornings
And how labels for everything
Were Adam’s little warning.
Fear the evening of your life
And the temptation to be everybody’s strife,
For the court of the jester who has no testimony
Is the peremptory sterilisation of the joke upon me
Of the cold heart at the heart of the universe.
If one verse was upon me
Would it be celestial if you could frame me,
To dance a while in the emptiness of evenings
And the hassles free kit of a phone battery that will always live.
Are you greater than that, for the ounce of blood
That I need to get through the day with food?
Will you model for me the stairway to heaven
That attracts a commendation from the chance of new invention?
There are leaders who bleed radiators to hiss in my memory
About how there is time for the mortician to gain tax:
But nobody tacks their tact to the wall
For where we have come from
To drift from The Fall.
If it was always the same for the fort of man and mankind
Then who is the stealer of the blindfold that led man blind
To ask of me what I can give when I am empty
Who did listen to the rhythm of a bottle when the seas of silence went without me.
Masks and masquerades and the colours do not fade
Blythe are the scenes of the harrowing in-betweens,
Mystery of how it could be that you want to be in me
But I cannot see beyond these three things where the fourth matters to any of we.
If life was so complicated that you would listen to music
Then I am a tune that the clown in you uses.
So honour the hour for some decadent male force of soul
And we will make heaven our conversational foul and football goal.
It is such that I cannot seem, that my clothes are meant to not fall
On the floor for the first footstep of you in my hall.
I appreciate the dance hall and hell to all attitude of late
But it is not legal operation before time and a new century to hurry and get raped.
Fruit is picked so that the tester can know the fair
Of a market that is tested with some ignorance being there:
But melodies sing free of the chirpse and song of a dove
And how after you have eaten your fill, there will always (still) be love.
This is my faith in the market of a new Maker
And how Spirit fills the clouds with tokens for the taking
But is martial law is the outer most part of some shell
Then it will take roots and chakras to make the new age got getting go better very well.

If love was a lady to the Dhol
Would the Presence of eponymous sweep the Albert Hall
To democratise the language
For a Class of 2000 to turn around and say
Sorry for all that Jesus made when he had it all His way?

Money is great if you sell it to Canterbury
And wrestle with the scientists for all the atheism that is free:
Then magic is the unknown and an Indian can brought
And chapatis are bigger than brothers when Chopra is an outlaw.

Ship me this, ship me that: But my I.P. ethics just went splat
There could be Armageddon, there could be Ramayana
But in the eve of Revelations there is no good radio station
For the profit of a Prophet-able turntable…
“… and all the brothers that don’t say Yo anymore.”

Psyche.
Get on your bike
Did you know they cuss rhyme?
While smoking weed to get pads to do time.
Clinton Cards are calling you for the one man show shoes
Awaiting you in the Emporor’s New Groove & some new proof
“… That He prayed.”

Brave
Run like the forest warrioress
And let Elizabeth know best what to put to the test
For those Colonial ships and tried and tested plays
Before King James got the nuances laid
For all those Iambic Pentameters that now know Peter
And forgot about the Land of Rohan where Gandalf knows snows and Sadhana…
“… and all that Putana.”

Opulate
Wait a minute mate?!
That’s not a word!
Try The Absurd you theatrical clown
And we will delete the origin of all that is brown…
“… And then there were Mayans”

Such is the rhythm of ringing the wrong bells five times
At Christmas time in 2020 when the Space Race knows crimes.
You were there at Cape Canaveral when the apes where shifting
Before the sex was dance hall and the tapes were shifting
For Presidential bids and some blessings of a rear ending
Of cluttered culture and the Dark Web in the halls of a bad mix and blending.
They were not: That is hot stuff to the cloth’ed model on the right…
“… And it was her right to be tight.”

To be or not to be, that is free
Only after centuries of discrepancy
And how The Bard was fought and won for
So the Bible could legitimise swords and the rude words
Before Guru-Ji’s contemporary see through with Sanjaya’s crew…
“… And that is the Dhrastratha in you”

Come down and you will find time is (not) kind
To the O.T. type of blood that is Roswell and a find
For how Xenu stole them blind of five gold rings
For the Lord and his own Ronin word on the matter…
“… And that would be Event Horizon in the 1990s”.

good luck to you
2

I bought a toothbrush
And I was paste
I wore some flannel
And my life became a waste.
There was nobody there
In the thee-ness of my soul,
There was certain direction
When all I wanted was another hole.
Life was virginity and women were the only haste,
There was never so much happening
As when I had no wallflower and paste
To tarnish my day with neutered glee
That everything I had won and owned never went to thee.
Worshipped, owned, possessed like a ghostly remains
There is a future ahead of that witch wizard that is trembling with refrains.
Masters have tumbled and might has known sword and aplomb
Rubies are not jewels before ye and the sound of dropped cum.
Honours are the remembrance of responsibility talks
And leaves fall from Shakespeare in heaven
About my youth, her hand held days and the hope of good walks.
What is it about a good wank, you cannot yet handle the door knob after with dirty hands to say?
That Equity is British Law written in dirt about novices who did not play,
Fairly and honestly with due regard for loan and Jewery before the Jury in at the table:
When Rama watched Lakshmana talk stably about Cain’s love for Abel.
Did it come to this, when you met your master fair for debate and honest rhyme?
Or is there still time to catch the eye lit with servile remembrance of a not TV Empire?
How Emporium of you
Entwine me with the word “Black”
Teach me Abishek Bachchan
And do not roll back the years for social media fears and turntables of educated disgrace,
Race, Writing and Difference
Gibberish makes more sense
Than your joinery on the door
Next to my clothes still on the floor.
I have not left my man
For all those Drones and flights in Pakistan,
But would you quality street me streaks in my hair for dinner in Dulhouse
If I ripped your ribbed condom with a dusty equality and soiled blouse.
In order to unwind the saree
There is a wind up first, Sir (and legacy Jones Day Gouldens – Mr Rishi)
So that lay surprise from you shows up just in time to be very dishy
For me to eat my rice, curries and peas.

please(d) the table was set

Seldom is the heart so massive as the shop is expansive
Often is the paradigm shifted for the male to be expressive
Common is the tongue upon the ice maiden to reveal the highest truth
Least is the result if you do not speak to me before acting.

You see, there were men of great fortune who knew the seas and karma
And they stepped forward to fathom the nauticals with great height
And confidence with each step that brought dangers in night-time for the drama
About the allowance from the cosmos for man to talk and not find respite.

There have not had the flow of the women to speak back
About the stammering man who has purchased the wings and planes,
So settle down and write awhile from the position of market hack
To see the left and right centralise your anonymity like a complaining whale.

This is not for me, and that is for them – what common sense!
How does that equal the youthful trials and tribulations of pounds and pence?
Yet grief is a donation from universal assistance for those who admire
That which is perpetual like the motion of art, beauty and a good ration of that which won’t tire.

[Long is the wind, Sir. Get with the new program.
The masters are those who can eat ham.
Quick are they to terror and plot the limit
Of those who would success and get with it.]

So that which started with a complaint to the hands and heart
Is not the fruition of sexual arrogance or continual counterpart;
But I have not the damask glory of some venerable blindness
To deny my muse the sophistry of advanced human kindness.

For, in years, I am travelled of a different kind of tremendous alert
That questioned the hurt and hurt and devastation on the earth.
Mirrors are hallowed when the shape of reflection is superficial
Destiny is denied me a wife for the witchcraft that left me vacant for one too many rituals.

Thus before these pages are some spent in other books
As verses complicate the simple sallow shallowness of aloneness

Seldom is the heart so massive as the shop is expansive
Often is the paradigm shifted for the male to be expressive
Common is the tongue upon the ice maiden to reveal the highest truth
Least is the result if you do not speak to me before acting.

You see, there were men of great fortune who knew the seas and karma
And they stepped forward to fathom the nauticals with great height
And confidence with each step that brought dangers in night-time for the drama
About the allowance from the cosmos for man to talk and not find respite.

There have not had the flow of the women to speak back
About the stammering man who has purchased the wings and planes,
So settle down and write awhile from the position of market hack
To see the left and right centralise your anonymity like a complaining whale.

This is not for me, and that is for them – what common sense!
How does that equal the youthful trials and tribulations of pounds and pence?
Yet grief is a donation from universal assistance for those who admire
That which is perpetual like the motion of art, beauty and a good ration of that which won’t tire.

[Long is the wind, Sir. Get with the new program.
The masters are those who can eat ham.
Quick are they to terror and plot the limit
Of those who would success and get with it.]

So that which started with a complaint to the hands and heart
Is not the fruition of sexual arrogance or continual counterpart;
But I have not the damask glory of some venerable blindness
To deny my muse the sophistry of advanced human kindness.

For, in years, I am travelled of a different kind of tremendous alert
That questioned the hurt and hurt and devastation on the earth.
Mirrors are hallowed when the shape of reflection is superficial
Destiny is denied me a wife for the witchcraft that left me vacant for one too many rituals.

Thus before these pages are some spent in other books
As verses complicate the simple sallow shallowness of aloneness with discrepant looks,
Ask for books, books, books….. Boo!
What is a wart when the medic knows who are you?

The style of poem is so set that years are not invested
In a class of controlled experiment for merriment to mean digested
And towers of learning and ignorant dancing and feasting wheat and harvest callous
Sell words for the order of imitation when the nation is about loss and illness.

Time for CoVid 19
And some know what I mean –
There is some scene
For this witch doctor to have been:
Then add to me some broth
So I can calculate the cost
Of counting too quickly
Ascension and demonisation too thickly.

Mentions are for the weak and thus I fall before the death and time
To fashion some independent publishing before the jungle of the scene of my crime,
Where man has evolved to talk back to the hackneyed carriage of sensation
That today’s woman is not so evolved as feminist, to be lost in derision.

Leave it to me, take it from me, give it to her, let it be, Sir…
There is only one end at the beginning of the day:
Morning will follow night after some sleep has had some say.
And when mother’s milk is suckled by the premonition of success
There is always tomorrow for the examiner to face correct address.
Money is to desire what water is to the lakes of pleasing
So that I am on my knees with dutiful poetic easing:
And married is the unity of Universe with squalor in English
With the convenience store of an advert to my kitchen sink drama for some desert dish.
So farewell, is this quality, for some Eastern ended retirement
To what was meant with the opening act and what middle age in the West might have meant,
Had I have been wealthy and the noose of the hangman been loosened
To choose the carathoming of The Fates more poorly than commercial buffoon.
Measure is for the mathematician and the Yogi has little time left
Before his Master is walked from the Middle Way to sell what is left:
He is not spared repetition from clutches of goal and ice-hockey rink
So join with him in sales to let his family know what you think.
Fathers, mother, cousins and friends alike with your shares
Come to the online district to spend some pounds to stay aware,
For what is here today is consciousness tomorrow in what is forgotten
But the blood that breathes for the hollow is not open for wounds that are hotter
Than a sun that would die if the Super Nova begun…
… Depart and see what the Arts were to change the climate so verse was unsteady
And clowns were so hurried to dress rashly and not get ready
In the afternoon of Mother Earth’s delight to find the rarest talents
Prepared for aspects of the Self dancing with English and the best Falun Gong @ Sing your song, before the time is done
And the Church waits for you to be number one
In form and fallowed field for the love of money
So that some priestly squire finds your executed deeds hallowed and funny.
Walk backwards on the grass
Celebrate second class
Listen to the error of broken hearts
For the thoughts that won’t come back.
But do not walk away, from the sacred time of day
And the loss of legions of friends that make time make time make amends.

For as clear as water can tell science to sons and daughters
Loss is the tragedy beyond pain that makes Dukka call out for slaughter.
And marriage is bread and butter to those who know the romance
Of avoiding a ring and a partner for another dead song and dance.

Announce my arrival
Settle my taxi fare
Plane my dance routine
Laugh at my afterlife care.
The floor is never so clean
As when it’s dirty with your kind
After you’re done drinking the last one
It’s my afront and your behind.
Wiggling through the pandemonium
Is the crowd of Imperial distress
Waiting for Sunday’s newspapers
And the Book Reviews that are best.
Then there is the still man
Shut out after decades of loss
When growing up happened to their disliking
And falling out was not about ‘who’s the boss?’
The lights do not ask for third place
As they spin like the heads on ecstasy and wine
And the fathoming of safe sex is conditioned
By the bubble bath of Champagne and a good time.
If you see the one you don’t like
Grab the rugby lad to coerce your good looks
Then the Monday morning at work in the law firm
Can riddle your conscience without those hooks.
Place them down like a tie to innocence
And an infinity spent upon the obeyed hours
When the alternative was a bald eagle or some priestly distress
With a minicab, a career and all fours.
Animals are heavy when the roof is the sky
For the daylight they cannot talk about for their eyesight:
So travel better after the beat and the drum and some randy nights
For the emeralds on show for the right guy.