A CRYTALIZING FOOD CRISIS.

She’s obviously been awake for three days

Or so,

And is light headed,

As she suggested

I should have a turkey and butterfly

Sandwich,

Because,

Even though she’s on a vegan

Stroke

No decent food

Diet,

Everybody knows you don’t mix

Your fowl

With your insects,

Regardless of the quality of bread

And sundry items.

Then she called via the video connection

And proceeded to

Feed me

A tantalising glimpse

Of skin,

So that when I asked to see more

She showed me the floor

And told me

To fill in the blanks for myself,

And I thanked her

But told her that her health

Was probably suffering due

To a lack nutrients,

And she should stop supplementing

Her selective plant matter

With lepidopteron toppings.

MY SOLE SYSTEM.

There is a hole upon the moon

Where my shape came from,

And vapour on the far side of Venus

Has been in my lungs.  

Several indentations on the surface of Mercury

Made the dimple in my chin,

And the colour of my skin

Is partly from Mars.

The grades of my face are arranged

Along the lines of Jupiter’s beauty  

And the pattern of Saturn’s rings

Lingers around my eyes.

And Neptune improves my moods,

Whilst Uranus is famous for salubrious movements,

And the future of Pluto

Is as uncertain as mine.    

And for every rock and satellite

Whose appetite is catered for out there

I have a hair that’s slowly going grey

And straying further from my head,

While the rest of me,

And the remainder of that,

Is from the heart of a long gone star

That parted with its matter haphazardly

And made atoms that sat upon each other

Until they built my body

Which ladled and strained enough for a brain

To recognise the blessing of the sky.   

A HIGHER WAY.

When I left school,

30 years ago today,

I left school for good.

I left learning by rote behind,

For those who might have use of it,

Whose sight would improve with it,

Whose minds were immune to anything else.

I left the tight strictures of teaching alone,

Along with claustrophobic classrooms,

Governmental educational tampering

And the pampered and hampered

Who in equal measure

Made a pleasurable experience

Unbearable and who carefully

Wandered through their years in school

With their heads down as they knew

That grades didn’t matter

As Daddy had a job waiting regardless,

And this was the only message

That has ever stayed with me

From institutional grooming

In this country:

It’s who not what you know,

And if, like me,

You didn’t know anybody,

And your family wasn’t connected,

Then you had better

Get the hell out

As quickly as possible,

And get good

At studying  

Your own road.  

HEAT STROKE.

So the sun’s

Been out

And made folks drink,

And turn pink,

Or lousy browns,

And supplies

Have run dry

That normally nobody

Would lobby for,

Like barbeque

Fuel

And food

That a hound would

Refuse,

Although,

As expected,

Alcohol is cheap

And in short provision,

As everybody’s mission

Appears to be

To get as wasted

As possible,

And as is typical

In England,

People only

Partly succeed,

As they have to

Negotiate a path

Past

Third degree burns

From petrol usage,

And abusive

Guests

Who booze

Till they bruise each other,

And wouldn’t you just know it,

As it looks set

To get going,

They give snow

Tomorrow.

THE LAST SATURDAY OF MAY.

An eventful day

Is ending

As it began,

With a baby in bed

And the sun down.

And there’s a delightful fragrance

Of nature in the springtime air,

As well as the smell

Of the sun running through the house,

And moon-tips glistening,

And I listened to him

Ask for the toilet today,

And for the first time it seemed

Like it would all be okay,

As everyone said that it would;

Although I’ve piled

The usual amount of pressure on my head,

From rigid timetables

To being able to capture snaps

And write about crap,

And I slipped on an advertising board

In the superstore

And ripped a flap of skin

From the palm of my hand

And was left standing embarrassed,

But none the less

I’ve been blessed by my lover,

My son and my sister,

And who could really

Wish for more.

FRIDAY NIGHT WRITE UP.

It’s like all the bits that were left from a previous meal,

Jumbled up in a ceramic dish

And left in the oven overnight,

And when you find them it’s like they were just too much

For their intended dishes,

But too good to be trashed,

And although they may not last in individual head-lands

As long as the songs

They were cut from

They’ll flesh out less handsome letters into better pieces

Than they could have been,

And find a use after all.

And then there are snippets of overheard conversations

That alone would be worthless

But together can be treasured,

Like the story of Britain’s influence far outweighing its size

Over the course of it’s

Two thousand year voyage,

Or my lover getting caught in over powering Chicago heat

Once all the morning clouds

Had left along her route,

And then she said she’s not really such a naughty girl,

She just plays one on t.v.

For me and my appetite,

And I’ve just reiterated such on Skype right now as I type

These random thoughts

For you fuse together.    

YOUR SINGULAR VISION.

The English will fair play themselves

Out of existence if they’re not careful,

For not only do we allow others to gather

In numbers uncounted,

But we discourage our own from gaining

Any home field advantage,

And no sooner do we succumb to the

Numbing promises of incumbent governments

Than we allow them to place

Decision making polices in the hands of others,

And not just any third party mind,

But a continental one who still hasn’t forgiven us

For the driven rifts of the past decade,

As well as winning several wars last century.

So remember your Shakespeare when

Faced with the fearful steerage of fools,

And cry “God for Harry, England and St.George”

And while you’re at it force the fattest  

In the land to stand by the commitments

They hit us with when canvassing our votes,

Or rattle a few throats as you go about the business

Of dismissing the witless,

And make known your thoughts are not

The whims of some dandy’s fancy;

Make sure you’re heard above the worthless

Drivel of isms that are thrown at you,

And stick to your guns and the path

You’ve expunged everyone else from.

YOU'VE REALLY HAD A WONDERFUL LIFE.

Candles are lit more often than you want them

These days, and used differently

Than intended,

Although mentioned less,

And we’re left to cast long doubtful shadows

Over the things we haven’t done,

As we wonder

Who stumbled upon them, 

Because we can’t understand these concepts,

Even when they’re explained to us

In plain terms

By uncommon scholars,

And so in memoriam do we remember them

And let the wick mix with the wax

Until we’re back

Inside the real world’s hide,

And it’s only then that realisation makes those

Other yearned for nations alien

Compared to the

Accumulated beauty of your life

And the precious people you are responsible for,

Who may well long for more

Options themselves,

But have your authority to cherish.

FOR MY AMERICA.

God dragged a finger

Through the chalk

Of Joplin’s blackboard

And once the dust settled

It would never be the same again;

Down streets that I stood

And in structures where I sat

And on faces passed

No further light

Will fall or comfort.   

But what is drawn

Can be remade;

What is written

Read again,

And there’s our strength once more;

For even as lives are lost,

And buildings spill their contents;

Even as whole roads

Are stripped of clothing

Nothing can prevent new growth;

No sign or actuality

Can still the brave spirit

From concentrating itself

Into something stronger

Than its contents,

And please know

That this great twist of fate

That touched all of you,

Also turned its heel in me,

And I will never forget you.