P.M.Q’s

The House of Commons

A chamber for the boorish and unwise,

A diner for the infantile and desperate,

A congregation of ego and fear.

One thinks they hold victory

Their voice picked up by the camera,

A sad and oafish cry of ‘loser’s weepers’

Or, occasionally, nothing more

Than a beastly grunt or theatre howl.

Snide smiles and cravings for power,

Each believing they have the answers.

They all lie within the tight fist of the people

Who hold a power that they could only dream of.

Cabin

I want to be the guy in the white shirt

Black tie, spewing nonsense bullshit

From my Cabin somewhere in the woods,

From a transistor radio with a screw loose.

I would set free insults both obscure and wild,

And watch the birds close the sun for the day.

My fans would be rabid, I wouldn’t trust them.

I would discuss history, executions, and martyrs,

Folk songs too. I’d play my own home recordings

From my solid white tape. I would spy on Jupiter,

Watch its rings and learn of its medicines.

My long shotgun (‘Rusty’) will rest at peace by the door.

The moon will be my spotlight and I will be happy.

A Ramble

I left behind the smoking wreckage,

Walked away from that old fire.

Oh I caught my whale alright

That was a product of my sight,

I can fake the chills in the night

Though I have never been there.

I can feel the sand on a shore

That I have never been too,

And conjure up a false emotion

Strong like a blue star.

I had a hit, or two, and sadness comes

When you realise you are not the only one.

That is not the case, however you may believe,

We are all whippets on the track

Chasing the political game

Wrapped in torchlight, melted candles

Restaurants with smiles and fake smiles,

A shiny car, belief in your fingers,

Simple breezes in thinning hair.

I am not one of their associates

I am not a corporation

But I am not an outsider like Odysseus,

I am not an open and tumultuous wave,

I will never be a Spaniard resting at midday.

Yet I can come close

In a summation approximately 12 lines long,

A parable, God I need a parable,

A world captured, it is Gabriel.

Prose 1

Climbing over fences, taking chances to see a sunset that is pleasurable to the eye. It’s been a long day but for the faintest reason I can’t remember any of it. I had ice cream, vanilla, crazy. Wow what an hour I can see buffalo in the corner of my eye and that lazy tune that has been in my head since Tuesday will just not go away. I want it to let up so I can feel a different vibe but that beat keeps rising. It’s some Indian thing. After I see the world I think I should get some rice for my dinner… I’m hungry and I want to feel like I own a lot of things, so there you go rice it is. I meander to the little bohemian quarter where the chilli and rice restaurant stays open late. Fashionable couples in gowns and shoes discuss grandma and super market prices. Hmmmm. A lovely French painting hangs on the wall I must ask the waiter who the painter was, if he was sad or happy or full of strong ale. I like to think He had a lot of roses in his garden. The waiter waited upon me and I got some £8 rice. Well it costs a lot to have the nicest things. I have a hole in my jazz influenced shoe. It was cheap, I brought it for next to anything. The rice was nice, it really took the weight off my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to swim through the stars and sleep in my own bed.

Leaders

There are those that claw to power,

Eyes fixed on the tempting star

Alight with infinite majesty

And always out of reach.

Those few with harsh blood

Who sacrifice their world

To capture what cannot be caught,

And keep what needs to be free.

They, themselves, are caged

And are too proud to sing.

Those clothed by the earth

Remain to watch the fire burn.

City Walk

I can walk sentimental streets

Without being ashamed of my smile,

Yes, I can walk with pride

At my being, at my being alive.

The marriage of the breeze with

The perfumes of flowers growing

In between concrete scars

And the gasoline from passing cars

Lingers thoughtlessly in the air.

Still I look down at my steps

Going forward, never missing a beat.

I am in the city now, and it is full,

It never feels constrictive or contrived

No matter how many ads plague the skyline

They are just part of the feature.

My sentimental street is another river to the sea,

A free and open society.

 

*Feedback would be cool!

Music

Would you improvise with me?

It could be a simple symphony,

A cacophony of stars in melted blue,

Swirling winds and moonlight too,

Shades of night, a pallet in our hands

Complex melodies like falling grains of sand,

Thick like smoke, will you hold this tune?

That weaves around the lonely room,

Fingers deep in a cascade of champagne

Waterfall, bright, diamond cold rain.

Would your piano play classical?

Or would it fall into the fantastical,

On its knees into a dream that we both feel

One we could keep but never make real,

Is that not what music is for?

An ephemeral, erotic, opening of the dawn,

Why the feminine notes float I do not know

But I know they cause no ripples to grow

And spread over your silver trading rivers,

Ships, golden as a waltz, send shivers

Down the wire spines that move as we move

In this inferno, this ballroom of truth.

I hold the notion that it is quiet now,

Listen with me, silently, it is quiet now.