Joke.

Everything
in the pursuit
of more.

It's a fucking joke,
man:
men, women,
and babies.

200,000 years.
6.8 million years;
4.5 billion;
13.7 billion.
It's got to be a fucking joke.

It's all
in the hands
of some
incompetent maker
that
never existed.

You gotta 
laugh it off:
it is
a very beautiful joke,
after all

(or maybe
that's just
Nick Drake in my ear).

This is
the only time
we'll ever ride this joke,
and it sure is
fucked-up
(but it's beautiful as hell).

It's funny
how
the only thing I want
in this life
is the only thing
my body
tells me I really need

(no, wait:
it isn't).

Bag.

I saw
your bag was gone
and I thought
you'd
run off;

but
in fact
you'd
popped
to the loo.

It turns out
that I'd run off -
such
pointless venom
has become
humour
self-directed.

(Oh,
it's
a funny
state of affairs!)

Cocky.

Your swagger
is all
in your pants:

for lack
of understanding
that
you're a dick.

Daddy's firm
might sustain you
but the world
will
swallow you up.

My wife and kids:
photos
in wallet.

I took
all the right turnings
but
never
saw the signs:

it turns out
that
all roads
lead to nowhere

and the
road less travelled
leads to
wherever you want it to go.

I wonder what's on....

Burn your televisions.
The joke
has gone
far enough:

it's
peeky
background noise
with
pointed teeth
and a
contorted jaw.

GMTV,
breakfast news,
renovation programmes....

Do you
really
want this shit?

Did you
ever ask for it,
or did somone
just
slip it in?

Here:
hold this.
See you later,
old friend;

I'm going
to the bank,
then I'm
off to Malibu;
but
I'll be back.

Wake up,
please.
Please,
wake up:

we've all been
crying for days,
but
none of us
knows it.

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.)