Bootleg Beatnik


Molly’s in the basement
underneath the cement,
I’m on the pavement
thinking about enslavement,
the man with a rope
hammer out, furloughed
says he wants his job back
coughing through a dry hack,
watch out kid
it’s not something you did,
but they’ll be laying you the blame
when they’re doing it again,
you better duck behind the firewall
get yourself a clean name
trade in all your currency
Beat the enemy with a new game.

Get tested, get free
Car Parks now the Surgery,
wait weeks, wait years
Government still grinding gears,
well read, well schooled,
educated, well fooled,
watch out kids don’t fall for it again
they’ll clap you through the Streets
while they obliterate your names
cross here, cross there,
putting crosses everywhere,
no peace, no truth,
all their lies are people-proof,
pick up cleaver, pick up gun,
tear down the rising of their Sun,
wear shades, wear masks,
No answers for that politely asked.

© Wolfgar 2020



Does a body need a passport when it crosses borders?
Who vouches for the grimaced face if one is still attached?

A loadmaster or an administrative clerk?
A paper shuffler, a Northern line strap hanger in training shoes?

The piece of meat that once was a living thing, where will it come to rest?
The birds pecked it while it smouldered, recently detached.

I recall staring vacantly at the matted mess wondering whose flesh it was,
It didn’t matter anymore as both minds had ceased to function.

I will never know what part of you that carcass was….
I hope that it got home and someone lays flowers where it lies.

© Wolfgar 2020



Getting a ship into a bottle is easier than getting a man out of one,

Trapped in a town,
In a house,
In a room,
In a mind,

Bobbing like a cork, a crows nest among the swell.
He see’s land then not, so puts his head back under for another shot.

The Sober Sextant defies blurred eyes,
Measuring fixed points of reality in liquid-like skies.

In the noise of the gale there’s the sound of a War
but the wind in the sail helps deaden its roar,

So it’s further and deeper out into the foam
his voice screaming madly the echo his home.

Until at its centre the voyage is done
and in the eye of the storm a battle is won.

© Wolfgar 2020

Constructing an exit


Everything in its precise place

this house feels like a guilty plea
just waiting for a hammer to fall

we shall be taken from here to a place of isolation
suspended in time by a perfectly woven noose of self destruction

All our misdemeanours shall bear witness
in a parade of failure and pitiful bitterness

An internet search will throw up the number
116 123,

“The Book of Job”
too late now the bended Knee

Farewell then it must be, it must be,
death the pendulum that turns the cogs

though even our passing
Won’t stop the clocks.

© Wolfgar 2020