Randomised Generic Sincerity

“Thank you,” said the man, and
“You have a real nice day.”
How kind that he should care for me
In his little, special way.
It could so easily sound so throw away,
Maybe even a little trite
So easily it could make you feel you
Could thump the little shite.
I prefer to think he wanted me,
To have a day enjoyed
No Freud or Jung or others (unsung)
Just day, of shit devoid.



Does the devil encourage
Questioning faith?
Or faith crumble
Neath he who prays,
Pleads, beseeches
God to intervene,
Send us one more Nazarene.
Or is it proliferation fog
With gods aplenty
I tried counting, once
And stopped at twenty
So which door for me
The day I die
When doors abound
To fill the eye
And each comely door,
Impervious to key
Can never open
Nor closed be.
It seems surely
The question is done
Like a snowman
Melting in the midday sun
But on it rages
Like bitter war
Betwixt deities words
And scientist’s law
In the end it’s just
A choice you make
Read another book?
Or eat their cake?

Thatcher’s War

thus it went
from pit to pit
man to man
Britain’s scar
from Thatcher’s war
on working men.
her ideology feast,
from most to least,
from working mines
to unemployment lines.

in Orgreave’s fields
her army of blue,
morality askew,
none too brutal to suit up
and stick in the boot,
but “in the name of law”,
sent to subtend
working men,
fighting to defend
family and friend,
Community too,
from Thatcher’s war
on the working class.

the quiet pithead
silently mourning
lost men,
old men,
languorous towns,
and remaindered coal.


You wear your shackles well
Your prosperity like cheap perfume
The difference is hard to smell
For a darkened shit-fed mushroom

It’s a fairground three card trick
And the money card is in the middle
But you’ve fallen for Tory shtick
Like accepting the “truth” of a riddle

We’re falling at a different speed
But we’re all falling to pray at their feet
Like wounds that refuse to bleed
They delude you with high flung deceit

You feel like a peacock in plume
But you’re carrion beneath circling skies
A morsel wearing cheap perfume
Neo-chattel marching to your demise.


I am the thought that you shouldn’t speak
I am the glint in your eye
I crush the reason that would steer you away
I careen you to lead you awry.

I feed your dark core and corrupt your control
I reduce the extremity line
I throw open the doors of the morality zoo
I obscure the clamour to decline.

If your want becomes need I can readily lead
To ruin and coming undone
If your need begets hell I can easily tell
The end of depend has begun.

So drink, and allow me to live in your stead
I will be King of despair
You will be serf to your lack of self worth
You’re done, it’s over, you’re there.

Divining Hope

Can you hear the voices
From all your yesterdays
Berating you your choices
Lamenting your malaise
Or do you see the beacon
Lighting your tomorrows
Allowing you to keep on
Whatever life bestows

Will you add a plaintive word
To the disappointed shroud
Your heart descend deterred
Descending to your cloud
Or can you find your own nirvana
With your face turned to the sun
In the collection of your karma
Until the supernal day is done

The Grind

Take care of the days as they pass you by
Like gentle waves on your shore
Becoming the afterglow of a life less lived
Like shadows of the days before
The grinding path collides with the shoe
Life passing you by beneath
Another mile of the same old journey
Driven by the same old belief.

Change your step to change your direction
Resent the waste of your verve
Deny the passing of unloved, unlived days
Living less than a life you deserve
When the uneven path fits your ungainly gait
Felicity in stride and pace
You’ll be travelling to a different somewhere
Living life within your new space.