Do you remember?

Do you remember
going
on the
National Express?

It all
smelt
so fusty

and there were
biscuit crumbs
all
over the floor.

Do you remember
when the cow
disturbed
your picnic?

You
were
only tiny,
and there were
only ever smiles
glazed on faces;

but
behind
closed doors
there were bruises.

No matter
how yellow
the future appears
there will always be
black marks
behind your eyes.

Do you remember
your podgy little arms
and your
eczema-caked face?

You smiled
even though
you
didn't
understand
the pain;

you smiled
because
it came naturally.

Murder.

Right!

I've 

had enough:

I've decided

to

kill someone...

now,

where

did I

leave my debit card?

Wherever I lay my head.

I don't belong

to any country,

any county,

any land,

any flag,

any peoples:

anyone;

any culture,

any continent,

any idea,

any time,

any person,

any constraints,

any religion,

any creed,

any set,

any mind

(although

my emotions

oft

possess me

like

a computer programme

that runs

a single set

of routines).

I don't support

a football club;

nor do I

belong to the stars

or any

planet

or natural

satellite

that might claim me;

and I

sure as heck

don't belong to

any university.

(My home

is

wherever I lay my head.)

Estate agents.

I saw an
estate agent's
sign

that read:

'the best estate agents
in all 
of East Sussex'.

Underneath it
there were
four stars.

'What
a bunch
of 
dumb shit,'

I thought 
to myself.

A lost world.

There are

probably 

some chords

that have

never been played

before

(at least

not

in certain positions).

That's why

every

instrument

is a lost world

unto itself;

so build

your world,

write your story:

play it well.

Day after an election.

The
day
after an election,

our town
is
like a ghost town:

none of us
voted
with our hearts.

(We
now reap
the rotten grain.)

Church.

There's this

giant church

where I live,

and I 

couldn't think 

of the

name of it

this morning,

so I asked

a lady 

on the street:

St Bartholomew's.

'It's meant

to be

the biggest in 

all Europe,'

she told me.

'And it's

meant

to represent

the

exact

dimensions

of the Ark.'

'What a load

of bullshit,'

I replied.

She didn't laugh;

she didn't frown:

she looked

indifferent -

face caked

with shock.

'Have a nice day,'

I said.

Ten years.

Our
stupidity
will eventually
kill us.

We've got 10 years left
to
solve the problem:

four degrees,
and we're fucking done

(it could already be
too late).

When we had
the chance to change
we turned away
and 
put our spines
to one side

so that our children
could spit
on our graves.

Our own stupidty will kill us:
religion, and superstition
and ignorance.

Sometimes,
I just want it all 
to end;

but what
fucking fools
would we be
not to act now?

Our better natures
call us out of our holes
and remind us
that

it's never too late
to drag
these fools
kicking and screaming,
with our words
and our compassion,
into a new dawn.

New.

I wonder what

she thinks about;

I wonder 

whether

she thinks of me.

You see, 

it's 

just so new.

I'm picturing

the house

before

I've even mixed 

the sand with the cement.

I couldn't care less:

brash feelings

conflicting with my desires

(really,

nothing else right now

matters to me;

I always dive in

with my eyes closed:

I just hope

the water isn't frozen).

Chump.

You were
never stupid
and
you were
never a chump

but you
were stacked
like
a stack
of
mishapen
pancakes:

you looked
like you'd
received
severe
brain trauma
as a child,

but you
were smart -
you had
common sense,
at least.

And now,
I haven't seen you in years
and I don't
know
what you are.

Whatever you are,
I have fond
memories of you

but I just
want you to know:

if I saw you
in the street
a small
part of me
would
contemplate
the pretense

of not
saying 'hello'.

Comment.

With relish,
he deleted the comment,
not knowing
about worlds of hurt

lingering
just outside
of view.

My preserve
meant
nothing to him:

all he saw
was scorn,
and not much else.

As his finger
hovered above
the left-click pad

he wondered
whether
he was doing
the right thing.

'Nah!'
he thought.

Delete,
delete,
delete!

Ha-ha-ha-hahahahaharharharhahahahaha!

He went through each one
methodically
and
at the end
he felt,

well...
nothing at all,
really -

just
another day
in the life
of
some
faceless wannabe.

(Contradiction
and criticism
mean nothing
to some people:

all
they want
is
instant
gratification

and a stroke
that lasts
for several minutes.)

Child of nature.

I'm a child of nature:

I shit on
your pavements,
throw away
food

for to add
some humus
to your city landscape.

A man (for John Lennon).

There's
a man
in the shade:

he doesn't
even
know my name
(or the colour
of my heart).

In a moment
my life is over;
number's up:

face down
on the pavement,
writhing
in an
ephemeral shell.

Goodbye,
creul people:
the world
was always kind
(and peaceful),
and I was in love.

I was in love.

Afterword:

Dedicated
to John Lennon,
and all the others
who've fought
so bravely
on the cultural front-lines.

You shouldn't be afraid of clouds.

A cumulonimbus is
a
heaving monster:

latent heat throwing water,
ice pellets,
and ice houses
about

like its toys.

The cloud bottom
is
positively charged:
electrons
are stripped away
from ice chunks -

the lightning charge
actually
rises
from the ground
into
the towering monster -

anvil
sparking
like Thor's hammer on flint;
an angry Zeus -
I forget the myths.

I know
one thing,
though:

you shouldn't be afraid of clouds.

You.

I like your eyes,

I like the way

you

hold yourself;

your voice -

accent so airy;

your smile.

Your pale,

goose-flesh

skin.

I even 

like your figure

(although I

really 

should've

put that one first).

I kiss your nose,

your brow,

your forehead;

it's  just

a pity

this love

is

imaginary.