Archive for April 1, 2016

” … so you’ve been broke, and you’ve been hurt, show me somebody who ain’t … I know I ain’t nobody’s bargain, but hell a little touch-up and a little paint, I ain’t lookin’ for praise or pity, I ain’t searching for a crutch, I just want someone to talk to, and a little of that human touch, just a lil’ of that human touch …” – Bruce Springsteen, ‘Human Touch


do you revisit those sultry summer nights,
sweet sweat pouring off your skin,
your hair fanning an eternal fire,
toasting deep within,
ever since I saw you, standing at our old train station,
wearing your red beret,
and paging through a book by Emma Goldman,
somethin’ ’bout the tragedy of women’s emancipation,
we stood there in the pouring rain,
wishing we could race down the cobblestones on a renegade lane,
to take us away, from the stasis, the bruises, and the pain,
we laughed, we cried,
we held onto each other,

yearning for freedom,

from the straightjackets they tried to wrap around everyone’s brain …

Well, that was all those years ago,
when love meant something more than a ten buck stage show,
now the guys at the watering-hole tell me that you’re a big deal today,
it looks like you’ve packed Emma Goldman, and all your other books away,
perhaps they remind you of our younger selves,
it’s a pity that you’ve grown so large that there’s no room left for me on your neatly lined shelves,
ah but I still remember the woman that you once were,
but now you’re  weighed down by your pearls and your faux-fur …

I wonder if you even think of me at all,
the boy who promised to be beside you,
f you ever were to stumble, or to fall,
or has your new gucci-clad crew,
stripped you of your soul,
as you laugh and drink and screw,
I wonder if you even remember my name,

or have you buried me along with all that you once were,
out of sanctimonious shame …

… I’m still here, where you left me, festering in this rotting old town,
unemployed since the years when those stock-tickers went plummeting down,
today as I stand in line for my warm bowl of soup,
the TV on the homeless shelter wall says it’s going to get worse,
cos’ even the banks have flown the coop,
well, I think of you often, as I lay my head on the cold ground,
tasting your soft lips as our tongues waltzed around,
but tonight I kiss my bottle of moonshine,

that keeps me company while the sophisticates wine and dine …
I know you’ve forgotten all about me,

cos’ you’ve got futures to trade,
blue-chip stocks to sell,

so sleep tight tonight, my darling, in that penthouse where you dwell,
I’m used-up now, there ain’t nothing more I can say or do,
I’ve run out of yarns to spin, I’ve exhausted all the stories I once could tell,
so all that I can offer, is a silent fare-thee-well


pic from google

         anaesthetised souls, willfully sterile minds,

prancing around,
searching, ever searching
        on the prowl,
reaching for, hungering after, thirstily

the mirage of material gratification.

[  vultures hover above the carcass, circling, swooping, picking at the rotting flesh, sating a primal hunger, a need, the course of nature, genetically wired to feed  ]

anaesthetised souls, willfully sterile consciences,
consume, devour, fantasy seducing need,

a greed that has to feed,            oblivious, in inebriated consumer-fueled waves,         filling the coffers of capital,

a consensual,
        imperceptible metamorphosis, from a collective conscience, into a blinded horde of slaves … … …

( with thanks to Maya for the poem below )


the emperor wears no clothes
he has no woes

the top six appears not to see that the emperor has broken the a n c

the lies were long exposed
the secretary general hectors and jokes

the people chatter and stare
bemused by this rotten state of affairs

where are the brave and strong,where are the truthsayers

who will refuse to play along?


wrote that to try and control my rage grrr writing silly rhymes might be safer than smashing the telly


afloat in a dream, bracing currents, tugged beneath the tide, still i swim, edgy rocks tearing flesh, in a flood of scarlet colouring the streams i sink into, still i swim, kicking against the grain, duelling demons, residing deep within, still i swim, pock-marked by fresh scars on healing skin, unable to breathe, hungering for air,  just above board, inches from thirsting lips, gasping for the light, just there, tantalising mind soul body to keep on keeping on, fighting the comforting urge to sink, sinking down below, settling on bedrock silent and content, yet still i clamour, clambering, stripped skin hanging from raw bone, still i shall not cease, i shall not give in to desolate darkness, still i shall swim, i shall seek, that place of less unease, still i swim, to find my space of peace … … …


'illusory art' by Maya

… … … he searched in places damp and dreary, he sought the truth, or an idea, a concept, of the whys of this conscious life, the kernel of picking the lock, peering inside the anarchic infinity, finally understanding, the whys, strands filaments strings, binding us, you and i, us all, together, somehow, as he searched for meaning in pain, pings in the dark deep night, he searched for the whys, smashing into dead-end lies, finding alleyways webbing outwards in Infinite embroidery, the future: alive (with hope)

%d bloggers like this: