Something Very Childish.

Between arrogance and paranoia
This paragon lies.
Every glimpse like an electric shock
This doesn't subside.
History repeats like a broken heart
Refusing to die.
And from different spots we watch the clock
Refusing to die.

A decade indentured to your senses
Then slowly drowned.
In dreams began responsibility
This Cathedral Town.
Chased by tigers and labradors alike
This facsimile.
And our brave new hopes fade like a facsimile
- Of a facsimile
-- Of a facsimile
--- Of a facsimile
---- Of a facsimile

Must stretch my legs -

Too long moving and too long still -

Recipe for cramp.

The End Of The End.

Destined is just the end,

The point at which you cease to bend.

With certainty I can speak

Of yourself as one who likes to seek...

... The End...

But really breaking points have long since passed

And tolerance levels long since surpassed.

Footprints fit to amend,

Maybe the end has met its end?

... The End... Of The End...

Deformed, contorted, peek over the side

To the depths where you alone can confide.

Dipping so low for the line

Like some sprinter running out of time.

... At The End... Of The End... Of The End...

The righteous and the famous,

Destined to be less than us, strangers.

Destined is just The End,

The point at which you cease to bend.

The End... Of The End... Of The End... Of The End.

H2

Tried to sell my soul,

Nobody wanted to buy.

Recycling then?

With Reference to Reverence.

Another devil dies a sainted death,

Mothers, lovers, renamed regret,

Worship the words that undermined.

Undercover sins, repentance reminds.

There is no good, no bad, just ugly.

And you're getting uglier weekly.

The earthly memories remain, fainting

And your corpse will be your oil painting.

And all you were will be replaced

by a benevolent close-up of your face.

Revered relief in innocent exits

Then pillaged away 'til life forgets it.

Insistence Upon A Setting.

A condom, calculator,

Paperback, box-set and Lynx bodyspray

All took a trip to a barren landscape

Devoid of colour or contrast,

Lacking in intrigue, despite the implied intricacies.

All the girls wanted to fuck it anyway.

It Was Never Really In Doubt.

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Can

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

You

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Tell

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

What

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

It

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Is

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Yet

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

?

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

I

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Suspect

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Nothing.

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent declines.

Another Beautiful Dud.

Behind the panes of this great glass demonstrator

Lies the trek between ten foot walls, adorned

with self-designed salad for the eyes-

so deluded and so unhealthy,

Yet so apparently necessary,

On the trek deserving all my scorn.

I pass a pompous welcome sign,

proudly displaying governmental credentials:

"This was taken, and all this granted.

And all you see that's residential

Comments on your existence"

Yet as my feet chase each other between the walls,

All I see in every instance,

Are rows and rows of pretty pictures-

Each the work of a pornographer,

Each with a prostrate philistine lost in adulation.

Just pictures:

Barren countryside,

Coppices, barns, strictures,

Barren women,

With breasts overflowing from the nothingness of how they were justified.

"Another Beautiful Dud."

(c. some irrelevant time)

Oil and thoughtlessness on canvas, surrounded by wood.

If this were art then the medium would be blood.

Further along come flashes of disembodied colour,

"Man, this lad must've suffered."

- Being paid for a botched white wash?

But still a prayer from a philistine,

As he worships at this voiceless shrine...

I pass on, approaching a rabid rush.

As I come to a brooding face,

I'm caught with the stare

of a long-cold monarch.

The colour of his flesh has faded toward blackness.

Immortality, I assume, was the reason,

Yet the atmosphere has committed treason,

The last of his legacy evaporated to the air.

"Vision"

(c. Now) my imagination on mental illness.

With half closed eyes -

The kings face becomes mine -

The colour bleeds from my cheeks -

And the corridor reeks -

Of nothing at all.

Here comes the fall.

My blood pools on the ground,

And seeps up the walls.

The beige and glass become my scarlet surrounds.

Fervently my paw dives into my pocket,

The content mauled,

Before it re-emerges, with incendiary intention,

And I become the mains socket.

From my fingers- come a flame,

From the flame- comes ablaze,

As all my blood just fuels a fire

And the ascendant time to expire,

With my flesh melting into the ground where I belong,

The breasts of the women boil their farewell song,

And the coppice burns as it surely must,

I find my only useful form:

As dust.

Apropos of Nothing.

Apropos of nothing, the heroes get their parade
Whilst the dead are met by the grave.

Ticked off and forgot,

With flecks of tape,

The final fatalities fall to the parting shots,

Marked by the failure to finish, and a failure to escape,

With anything but dignity.

Yet the victors malinger a sense of pride

and a philious rebirth-

From nothing it was magnified,

And precisely nothing is what it's worth.

Without grace,

Without awareness,

Arrogance infests success's resting place.

The moment of greatness has already flickered,

By the moment their face has even snickered.

When the marathon has been run

And the lap of honour has begun:

Every step is disconnected,

Every breath is disconnected,

and no achievement should be respected.

It's all recorded in this broken tape.

Those cheers of the billion,

They drown the sorrows of the million

That are left to the shade

Of a foreign pavilion

With their rusted crusade

And a single consolation: That there still might be time.

And indeed there will be time.

There will be time. There will be time.

But will there be my time?

Haste to haste with attending lords,

After the cups and the gatorade,

After the trophies, the crossed swords,

After every story is dressed as pre-ordained,

Will it be worth the suffering?

When the firework's flicker was pre-ordained?

And despite the fight, will it be worth the struggling

When my ashes are pre-ordained?

There's no choice but to button up the hatches,

And hide the flesh,

In funeral dress,

And march towards a certain demise,

As this triumphant moment and this triumphant memory is certain to die.

We'll endeavour to be better

For no reason whatsoever,

Since exertion is all that's left to give

And all this blood just wants to live

And find a distant cousin's covering it's owner's hands.

My angle may be obtuse

Or may be acute,

But the shape I trace is still an oval.

The shape I trace is still an ellipse...

And the conditions of my boundary will always be fixed...

The champions' triumph is always over.

And the conditions of my boundary were always fixed...

Always falling short.

"Why won't you get a job?".

A man approaches dressed in the finest thousand pound Saville Row suit crafted from the finest detritus from the floor of a sheep's hair-dressers.

He asks me in a cut glass faux middle class accent of accessibility, focus grouped and demographically treated to maximise polling station returns: "So, what do you do?"

I utter a response typed in a dis-charmingly understated Apethetica Sans Surprise font to the nada.

The cunt in sheep's clothing's demeanour transforms from bland and platitudinous to malevolent and sincere loathing. "Are you actively seeking work?"

"Unless you work for the job centre, no." His cheeks redden to the colour of rage tinted with chronic alcohol and chemical peel dependence.

"Why not?" he asks with a photogenic degree of finishing school of contempt emanating from his fat-coated larynx and press-officer.

I survey the landscape and am overwhelmed by a nameless dread to be elaborated upon as I see every man, woman and youth thoughtlessly career hysterically towards a better day and their graves.

I see the finest minds working 9 to 5 in the neon contrived-light of an open-plan, close-minded office, nameless, line-by-line, staring at blank screens plotting their comfortable deaths.

And I see politicians and Prime Ministers wearing suits like the suit in my path, with money and power outnumbering the price of their sense but not with a quantity surpassing their degree in bullshit and hereditary privilege from Oxbridge.

And I see CEO's with time ten-thousand times more valuable per second than the people who clean their shit from their Ivory toilet seat and their inboxes, but with breaths as much a waste of nothing oxide.

And I see accusations printed in size sixty million, fit for the front of the Daily Mail, divide and rule- captioned with hate, baseless, labelling minnows of being leeches in a world where success is through the exploitation of another and inducing their loss; And where all currency was bought as it should be sold; And where savers are only saving themselves as they self-righteously sit on their stagnant sixty-k somewhere off the shore.

And I see those willing to do a job that would employ my mind in a chronic state of degradation, with their faces etched in desperation eclipsing mine with a fine line between them and profound deprivation.

And I elaborate, with biblical petulance and reciprocal contempt:

"You aren't the boss of me, who's the boss of you? The one with the brown-nosed extra added value per hour at the cost of his own self worth, respect and competency.

"The one who society and a cosmic dice-roll have decreed as having a life worth more than yours and mine, as is written in ink on a terminally bound, blood-signed contract: Your superior?

"The one who accused the fraudulent beneficiary of 60 pounds a week a thief; The beneficiary of a tax-free, soft-play, gratitudinous kick back from the City of London?

"The one who's stole his self satisfied legacy, that he will have to decay to see, from us- as he encourages us all, whilst dying, to craft a better future to enjoy with a corpse in grade-C1 socially-conditioned servitude?

"The one who orders us all, through the prodigious skill of white wash, to give our lives for a job we would not die for?

"The one who, with a dramatic puff of illogic whilst smoking a cigarette bought from a Phillipino duty-free, and with completely unconvincing conviction; calls himself 'right'?"

The cunt in sheep's clothing responds, after a pause to wheeze in a lung full of air, by parroting the party line, with a voice befitting his dress.

Medication.

This tried detested medication,

So close to discontention.

I'm rubbish to ape some refuse human.

This, simply what nature selects;

How tragic are these deaths?

Considered gifts to evolution.

Recycled like every revolution.

Silence-suicide-sterility.

Choose pills, choose chat. No choice: not to choose.

All the symptoms smell the same.

Decomposure- In company, in pain,

As I deserve to be,

Beginning to end.

Information.

This tried and tested intervention;

the close of this contention.

I refuse to ape some rubbish human.

Simply what nature selects,

How tragic are these breaths?

Considered gifts of evolution,

Recycled like every revolution.

Silence - Solitude - Sterility,

Choose pills, choose life, no choice not to choose,

All the symptoms smell the same,

The composure, in company, in pain.

As I deserve to be,

Beginning to end.

Uno Tracto Intención.

Kidney clutching fetid fetus,

Pitied in disdain, takes the piss.

Please Take the Piss.

Internal ache. I gathered corone corvus.

Livid and libidinous - Chokes - Resist.

Please don't resist.

Sex infects as a latrine nauseates, suffocates.

Insitigates a usual tension. Another glandular crush.

Please don't crush.

The spreading sores, eager to please, irritates.

Writhe the time away in faint ignorance. Don't Worry. Just flush.

Please just flush.

But you never wanted anybody sadder than yourself and pleased everyone but you so you could fulfill your own egotistical urge to be held in esteem rather than be held at all and the organs burn as they play a tune of their own accord whilst slumped with no backbone you purposelessly press all the wrong keys and hit the wrong button and yourself up the bracket and up the arse-end of empathy and generosity is giving yourself away because you don't want to give yourself away but you must be seen to give yourself away and that's generosity that's yours insincerely,

Your bladder,

Your spleen,

Your back (stabbed),

Your kidney (stoned),

Your cock,

Your disappointment.

Doctored.

GP Self-centred trinity:

The father, the son, the holy ghost.

They say 'practice makes perfect,'

Prefects perfect generality.

The wounded wolf who cried out sheep,

Warded by shards of elusive sleep,

Shivering, de-furred, veins exposed -

Petty self-portrait, selfish composed.

Salvation is submission,

To a god I don't understand.

The bruises remain on battered hands,

Prescription reeks of crucifixion.

Love parasites plague liberty:

The cure, the ally of the ailment.

They say 'it's how to save a life,'

Lusting a twisted nobility.

The alpha and the omega-3,

Base dyscalclia stained livery.

Post-doctorate salvation,

Twelve step Asimov assimilation.

Some say I'm as well:

I'm a 'physician' too,

Symptomatic deep-thinking,

Yet Bruises on hands still remain,

Morning: the death of another day.

Resurrecting obliterates meaning.

Wronging rites the force-fed death-bed conversion,

And the man in the wheelchair's the arrogant one?

Portrait.

A life and mind reduced to dramatic lines,

And a heart of black camouflaged in the backdrop.

A thirst for freedom.

A thirst for forever.

A thirst for love.

Berserker.

Let the army approach-
I’ll stand alone.
They clutch their bastard swords,
Bound to their Baron’s throne,
But I have my axe and wulfen clothes,
And I have my cause.

Blinded by delusion –
Keeps me alive.
Alone I face the hordes,
And swing my axe and scythe,
To stall for reform before the fight,
With no dream of reward.

Fuelled by feudal angst –
Compassioned hate.

Beyond the sick-house wards,

Bring the blood, clean their slate,
The only cure: To eviscerate,
These slaves to ‘evil lords.

My fate lies here, I know-
On this bridge, slain.
Holding a lonely ford,
I’m mortally insane,
The solo soldier armed with disdain,
And hope of hope restored.

Something Clichéd About Summer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more sticky and more desperate.

Violent winds shake the acrid smell of hay,

And summer's o'er-stayed by the second date.

My eyes have to squint to behold your face,

And its not the shine divine of your span;

Nor a simple stare to liven the chase,

I'm just scared of the glare from your fake-tan.

Summer must pass swifter than all seasons,

Or parch each tree to a sterile splinter.

In you swing with no escape, no reason,

With more death than spring, more pain than winter.

So long as you cling, clam, suffocate me,

So long the drought extends because of thee.

Fauxtograph.

All precious tones don't have to glitter,

But those pixels mix a pretty picture.

Close my eyes and count to twenty-three,

Dark deafens screams of an artist empty.

Escape from this fools gold fantasy,

Faithful, disappointing, drowning belief.

Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-hurry.

Bleak Nerves.

A brush with death, so the devil's lies sold.

Close? Too far? The demon's in the distance.

As my blood abandons this sinking ship,

Over razor rocks stood like broken teeth,

This vessels soul owner ceases to be me-

The sails are snapped and skeleton shorn,

In the end the Wood belongs to the sea.

Hot air shakes me at the death of the storm,

And a bitter taste remains, laced with pain.

Freedom's flown, leaving me and me alone,

A slave to fortune, to you, to the sea.

Setting out sanguine and ending the same,

Each journey's made with intrepidation.

This mortal toil is path independent,

Whatever your route, same destination.

An inch is a mile when life is apart,

Each heartbeat drops at destiny's mercy.

Everyday's another dance with decay,

And each scrape is just another embrace.

So 'A brush with death?' flap my limey gums.

'I'm dead in the end, was dead all along.'

Dem-acrostic.

First they came for the culture,

Unelected, blue feathered vultures,

Condeming us to dock and dole,

Keen on the regime of reversing roles.

Third person Tory genocide,

Hypocritic oath - How rich?! - They decide:

"It's tough times for everybody

(Save the caviar please Jeeves, more classic hegemony)"

Castrating the few avenues,

Of complaint, we're left with no truth to choose,

Now where do I get radicalised?

Down beneath the 'Big Society' sign?

Exceptions reverse the rules, or try,

Mowed down by tanks towing the party line.

Now disaffection's the plague, the flood,

Above all, beside all, there will be blood.

Third person Tory genocide,

Ignored by the ignorant, patronised.

Only power exists to prolong itself, to protect those few.

Now the poor have come for you.