Out of place.

Nothing

is ever

out of place

in Brighton:

a man

walks

down the road

wheeling

a wheelbarrow.

And?

What of it?

A man wears 

a t-shirt

which reads:

'ASBO Retards'.

He has a little girl.

And?

What of it?

Someone

wears 

sandals

and

rainbow

bell bottoms;

another

wears

all denim,

or all leather,

or all

indescript.

I walk around,

not feeling out of place,

but feeling

out of space - 

my own space;

adrift;

this space - closing in,

or closing down.

But it's not, really:

it's

just a case

of

new landlord:

it's all renewed,

all shuffled:

a new lick 

of paint:

same shit,

different government.

I enjoy my days

and wait for

the USA

to squash

another

innocent country.

Waiting.

Waiting,

waiting,

waiting,

with choice

on either shoulder;

head

like a boiled egg.

It's been a long-ish day:

clouds go astray,

Sun pours down

its

warm

little babies.

Hours left.

A film?

Music?

More words?

Choice.

Waiting.

Choosing to wait.

Waiting for choice.

Something's happening.

No, it's not.

Something's coming -

or has it been forgot?

Eyes wandering.

Jeans are hot.

Am I done with loving?

No, I'm not.

I love Jesus.

I love Jesus -

yes, I do.

I love Jesus -

more than you.

I love Jesus - 

yes: it's true
 

(because

I'm 

a

religious fraud).

New day (haiku).

I woke up today,

breath smelling like a soiled

arsehole - a new day.

Child.

I met a child of God

yesterday

and it had

the saddest eyes:

turned away

by its maker;

it seemed surprised.

I met a child 

of the universe

who sang with sounds -

sang with the joys

of life

she'd found.

I met a child

digging dirt,

just raking it up:

he was counting worms,

and measuring them

with his thumb.

I met a child with no parents -

just

a solitary carer

and she

was doing fine,

although she 

gave off

the saddest feeling.

I met a child

whom

her parents had 

labelled

as 'Christian',

but she didn't care:

she was playing on her own,

unaware

that she was

secretly

distancing herself

from the others.

I met a child

who met me with furrowed brows

at my every expression:

these weird habits of mine

were like

firecrackers

in its face

and I laughed for hours

afterwards

at the candidness

of young minds.

Category.

The moment
you put something
into a category,
it slips away
and dies
in featurelessness.

So don't do it.
Don't do it:
let them figure it out.

They might cast it into the fire,
but at least they'll have done it -
and at least it'll
really burn.

Heart.

You pour your heart out.

You know why?

Because

it's easier

to digest

in liquid form.

You pour it out

and they eat it up.

You pour it out,

and the rest bleed quietly.

You feel such utter madness -

every situation

can't be contained.

You want the best,

hope for the best,

but expect the worst.

It takes time -

you tell yourself

this

over

and over

and over

again

until it

has taken time.

Just keep pouring it out:

it seems to come in

endless supply,

and it doesn't 

hurt.

Legacy.

I want a legacy

(and I'm not

talking

an old computer).

I want a stack of

CDs,

LPs,

8-tracks,

that go

over the top of my head.

I want you to analyse

everything

I've done

for decades

(and still come away

feeling none the wiser).

I want happiness

to grow in my place -

I did try.

(What can I say?)

Forget flowers -

although my bones

will make good fertilser,

hopefully the other things I 

leave behind

will grow on their own

(with the aid of

eager ears,

clear eyes,

enquiring minds,

passive tongues,

fiery wits,

immense love).

If I....

If I were dying of cancer

would you hold me?

Cry with me?

Run with me?

Jump with me?

Laugh with me?

Losing all my hair,

laughing at the futility of it all,

still appreciating your smile;

I want to feel your touch.

I want to reach out to you -

because people rarely do.

Your lips aren't the goal;

nor is your heart, really.

I've nothing to win;

nothing to do:

I just want your attention,

your ears,

your affection;

your every affectation.

If I were dying of cancer,

my bones like bonemeal,

skin sallow like dead pig skin,

would you stroke my balding head?

Would you do that for me?

(And not condescend me?)

Would you sit with me

in a meadow of sunflowers

and daffodils

and just grow in the sunshine?

And what if I

didn't have cancer -

would you

do that for me,

too?

Silent.

When people are silent

the crazy become crazier,

the loud become louder,

the mean become meaner,

the confused become more confused;

thoughts become tangled,

the isolated lose their way,

chickens start chewing hay,

someone breaks in two:

I feel the same as you.

When people are silent

we lose common ground,

the found turn unfound,

the dead rise,

the living die;

the demons stir,

the birds fall out of the sky,

the clouds

come 

down

from great heights

to rest on our shoulders

and drive us into our holes.

So why don't you tell me how you feel?

You're not the only one, surely.

When you speak your thoughts

the world listens

(you are perfect).

Slow down.

Slow down.
Do you even know where you are?

I need to get this done;
I don't know why.

It's just on, and on, and on:
a hammer against a wall.
It never stops:
it never will.

I used to feel love.
Now I don't feel love at all.
It's all a rush:
I don't know where I am.

Targets, deadlines,
home again:
music, dinner,
calm,
silence,
loneliness,

furnishings,
organisation;
the cat's
dinner.

I saw you at
the bus stop
the other day
and I couldn't help
but smile:

you were smiling to yourself
and I felt
like bursting inside.

You have no idea
how beautiful you are
and how much
I want to preserve
this feeling.

But it goes;
it all goes

(and I want it
to all go
to you.) 

One day.

I fell in love with a feeling that 

I haven't courted for so long. 

It feels good to have it back, 

and be under its spell. 

I'll see you when the Moon is a friend, 

and the sky welcomes all your enquiries. 

The sky is streaked with cirrus clouds 

that 

seem to be 

drawn 

to the Moon, 

and others come in splotches. 

Wherever you go, I'll always be there: 

the breeze that stirs your skin; 

something quiet within - 

a voice that you console when
all
is upon you. 

One day, you'll be free. 

One day, you'll be. 

One day....

We manage you, so you don't have to.

Look over there

(is that a hand

in your pocket?)

Look over there

(is that a hand

in your pocket?)

We will do

what we

want

any time.

Is that a crime?

You elected us.

Is that a crime?

Uh-oh!

Uh-oh!

Here's a distraction.

Don't you all

want

a piece

of the action?

That's what you told me.

(That's what I told

you to say.)

Jump when I say.

Freeze when I say.

You'll get what you want

and we'll vent your voice

to certain forums,

and you'll

all

be living

with such decorum;

all alone

in quiet rooms,

blue

with glare:

we'll be there

in the corner: 

a pair of eyes;

it's no surprise -

you put us there.

Is that a hand in your pocket?

Do you think

your Constitution

will stop it?

We'll get what we want

any time.

The Supreme Court

put us here

(is that a crime?)

Yes:

but you'll

never know.

You

will 

fall

through 

holes

in the system.

Friend.

If you like
I could be
the heterosexual equivalent
of a gay friend -

we could share things
and talk;
only
I'd secretly
admire your breasts
and lust
after your bare shoulders.

(This is 
the most joyous
I've felt
in a few weeks.)

Smile.

Recently,
an old man
passed away

not knowing
that this side
is the better.

Maybe this is heaven;
maybe this is hell;
maybe this is nowhere at all -
that's just well.

With
the little time
I have left
I'm gonna have
some fucking fun.

Plastic surgery.

Underneath your plastic veneer

you're still an ugly cunt:

I wouldn't touch you

even if I had the syph.

Your nose is perfect

and your teeth are white

and your breasts are taut

and your stomach is flat;

but your soul is alien

and your arsehole 

is still

slut country.

Ugly people

masquerading

as lookers

are

despicable creatures

and I think I had sex

with a couple of them

the other night.

Advertising.

Try this:
you don't need it;
but we need you.

You really want it,
don't you?
You really do.
If you're
not holding
some tacky shit,
don't you
just feel blue?

Try it on for size
and lose all sense
of who you are
or what your past meant
or where your life is heading
or just where it is
you've been;

fill your life with garbage -
sleep
in this
plastic dream.

Go celebrate
with your girlfriends:
go buy some new confection;

go shave your legs
or apply some cream -
go
flex
your predilection.

The Earth is all for you;
don't you see?
Go claim it all right now.

I wish you'd
jump
into the sea.

(That
sure would
make the world
lighter.)

A poem for the poor.

Give me
your poor,
your needy,
your tired,
and your windblown,

and I will
ignore them

and
put them 
in the ground.

(If you think
ghettos are bad,
you ought to see
what happened
to the Natives.)

Nice.

It's nice

to get away

for five minutes

just

to look

at the clouds:

they're so

airy

and 

they don't judge

or

ask for any favours.

Looking at them,

you realise

you've just got to

push on

and stop

making bones

where there's 

only flesh.

As you sit there

you realise

the point

you wanted to convey

has slipped away;

so you

just

sit there.

(But

then

a siren

causes you to stir:

you look at the birds

and see

that you'd

better start heading back.)

The last generation.

I'd
like to be
a poet
who goes
to wine parties
and soirees

to sup
champagne,
mingle
with authors,
and eat
caviar;

but I know
I'll never
meet Johnny Carson
or kiss
Capote's feet:

I am
of
the last generation

and I'll
probably
end up
dead
in a ditch
before
I've even made it
half-way through.

Sentimental.

I met
a homeless man
today:

he had
a small
alsatian dog
called 'Petit Fleur';

I'm feeling
sentimental
and don't
want to
state his name

(although
I don't have
anything bad
to say about him).

He wore
a wicker hat:
fresh
and cheap
fibres -

like a copy
of some
Native American
tourist piece.

His name
is Clive:
he was
friendly
and enquiring

and
I hope
to see him again.

Beer bottle

I found a
discarded beer bottle
this morning:

the fucker
probably
necked it in one
and left it

for some
poor nobody
to pick up -

some
poor nobody
who deserves
to be in his place.

Supervisor.

Every time
my supervisor
would watch me

I would
do 
something
stupid,

like throw a box
hard
on the ground

or say something
that would
get me
in deep trouble:

I'd call
someone
an arsehole

or 
throw
a fucking
sulk.

'I'm sorry,'
I'd say,
'but it
comes
with
the job description'.

Change.

You can't 

change the world:

you can't even change

the times;

you can barely change

any minds

and it's even hard

to change oneself

(but it's

okay to try).

Sad.

Sometimes,

I think I'm sad

but 

then I realise

that

the saddest thing

is that 

I'm not sadder

than

everyone else:

even in 

my most

self-assured

moments,

I know

that

my heart

is true

and that,

every second,

I bleed

without ever dying.

Art (#2).

I punched
my woman
in the face
'cause I thought
it was art;

I slit my wrists
and wiped
my blood
all over town
'cause it seemed
fun
to live on the edge -

the edge
of the blade,
at least.

I made
a fool
of myself
and fucked with
everyone's heads.

It
got me
nowhere

but I 
sure as Hell
had a good time

(although
I ended up
going to bed
lonely
but drunk).

Blend.

I was
so tired
earlier

that I
almost
invented
a new blend:

'hush'

(I didn't know
whether
I was
in
a hurry
or a rush).

But I sure
was
God-damn
tired.

(Sometimes
people have
moments
that make them
think
they should just
step out
into the road!)

Gay Pride.

Flags
and banners,
and flowers,
and pretty,
pink arseholes,

in warm,
August air,

parading
around
the streets
of Brighton.

There's
nothing
to be proud of
with regard
to being gay -

it's not a skill,
or an accolade,
or something
more desirable
than being straight,
or bi,
or pansexual
(or even a chaste):

I think
they should
re-brand it
'Gay Happiness Day';

that way,
I'd feel
more inclined
to join 
in the celebrations.

The plight of blacks.

Lincoln

and H. G. Wells

were racists

and bigots

and Thomas Jefferson

held slaves.

Working conditions

under slavery

were actually

better

than 

under employment

up north:

better pay,

fairer treatment,

better

living quarters -

most

liberated blacks

actually 

stayed behind

(I'm not

advocating

slavery -

every man

has the right

to be 

treated

like

an expendable end).

Only certain

people 

would

employ

the niggers;

and their

pay

was paltry;

they couldn't argue:

'twas either

work

or starvation.

You 

think

it ended

with

Civil Rights?

My friend,

you

don't 

even

know

the half of it.

(None of us
is a slave
to any man
any longer,
but we all
remain
slaves
to the wage.)

“I will say then that I am not, nor ever have been in favor of bringing about in anyway the social and political equality of the white and black races – that I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, nor to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will forever forbid the two races living together on terms of social and political equality. And inasmuch as they cannot so live, while they do remain together there must be the position of superior and inferior, and I as much as any other man am in favor of having the superior position assigned to the white race. I say upon this occasion I do not perceive that because the white man is to have the superior position the negro should be denied everything” - Abraham Lincoln.

Grandma.

Just before you

croaked,

you gurgled:

eyes wide,

with whites

white

and pupils tight

you looked like

something

out of this world:

a ghost

experiencing

itself.

Your face was contorted,

and your stomach was distended,

and your legs were puffy

like something
unsavoury -

I feel dispeptic

just recollecting it.

When you passed,

I held

my father

and pointed at the clouds.

'Look, dad,

it's her up there: 

can you see her?'

From 

that moment on

I knew

I'd 

never

see you again.