Cheap Street

We all rest on cheap street,

Some convulse in wasted anger

Red eyes shot at the rain,

Those that succeed do so in silence.

The brave seek the jungle,

And move like they were born

To the scorn of the ones

Who refuse to believe the street exists.

Red wine rain on New Year’s day,

The first bell and the street turns crimson.

Catch what you can, they last.

Back Streets

The streets are cold, wet, and unforgiving.

The suffering eyes of no named men

Stare up at the passive walker listening

To the rhythm of his footsteps.

One working girl works the married man

Behind the trash and the wire fence

Between the crumbling slums.

The moon seems as frail as a Robin’s bone,

If the walker caught it, it would break

And crumble and be taken in the passing

Trail of unclean air.

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.

The Pope

Aye two bonny men in the humble sun

Sat, sunken suits crumpled with remnants of rum.

Called out the pope on all good deeds

And swore to expose his evil seed.

Then the copper cracking youthful skulls

Cursed the yelping squawking gulls,

Then came across the bonny men lying in the street

An’ tried to drag them to their drunken feet.

“What’s this about the pope?” he asks with Italian infliction

A flame of the inferno in his post-Dante diction

A curse in the cadence and spite in the tone.

They said “We are travellers so far from home,

We bathed in the ether offered by your drink

And by midnight we started to think:

The strangest theories we’d never known

About the goings on over the skies of Rome!”

The Copper was befuddled, confused, an’ red

Strange conspiracies began to fill his head,

“You drunken men blaspheme against the Pope?”

They said “No” but then again “we hope,

For what we hear is unspeakable and wild

About what the pope would do to a child.”

The copper drew back, spewed bile and fell

But what they believed they forgot to tell,

“Silly fucker feinted before he knew our cause,

We are here to prove the Pope is Santa Clause!”