Listening to Fela in 98,

Jounieh, Beirut…

Bombs, rocking Nairobi,

Tennis in the afternoon.

 

Beach in the morning

DR Congo yet to come,

Suicide in Kandahar

Massacre on The Russian Road

 

“my brain was squirming like a toad”

 

These are my alternative facts

my North Atlantic Treaty,

my flip-side Warsaw Pacts

in dreams where memories beat me…

 

Half a head, a scalp an arm

are strange kind of rain?

the storm was wild, then after calm

in the silent years before the pain…

 

The women came but later went,

the fun ran out on everything.

When all my bloody soul was spent,

I couldn’t hear the Blackbird sing..

 

 

It takes just two i’s

to join the dots,

not the language skills

of polyglots.

 

It takes no asking why

to turn the blind eye,

to not see all hell

fall from their sky.

 

It takes no raised voice

to let them starve,

no moral choice

on your behalf.

 

It takes no hand of peace

to keep the war,

that shall not cease

to keep them poor.

 

It takes no lended ear

to not hear their cries,

to ignore their fear

and dismiss their whys.

 

It takes just your brave-heart

to quiet the drum,

that beat the start

of their Kingdom Come.

 

It takes just two eyes

to join the dots

and see the lies

of idiots…

 

 

The dreaming Moon rolled over

to see the Sun arise,

pulling darkness to its shoulder

it slipped the shining skies…

 

the never-ending chase of days

of lightness and of dark,

the shadows and enlightened ways

on which our lives stand stark…

 

their beauty and their foreboding

carry fearful dread and hope,

each stretching hour eroding

our resilience to cope…

 

yet still our spirit lifts us clear

of each relentless fall,

to raise us far beyond our fear

that we be not so small…

 

So when that sleeping Moon does pull

and beg your soul to stay,

awake and shine as Sun that’s full

and drive the dark away.

 

 

Here comes the grime

here comes the grime,

 

have you seen our cities

lost in time…

 

between the flags

and the calls to prayer,

 

have you seen the grime

festering there.

 

Here comes the hate

here comes the hate,

 

have you seen the leaders

recklessly conflate…

 

Here comes the blood

here comes the blood,

 

have you seen their words

drowned by the flood…

 

have you seen their scriptures

churn the mud.

 

Here comes our end

here comes our end,

 

have you seen it coming

around the bend…

 

can you see how peace

comes with our blend…

 

But in the end, the end’s the end

no matter who is foe or friend…

 

I am my own country,

one of conflict and of peace…

 

my regions know no borders,

yet my borders seek to increase.

 

I am the source of my own sickness,

and the fountain of my health…

 

the treasury of my own accomplishment,

the beneficiary of my wealth.

 

My democracy is my conscience,

though my decisions wear the crown…

 

my constitution universal,

though not one word is written down.

 

My Subjects are my lifeblood,

although dependent on my mind…

 

in famine, drought or great flood,

it’s in me they seek to find

 

a way for their continuance

that they might hold their place,

 

and as one Sovereign Kingdom

occupy one Sovereign Space.

 

That every man has the right to his own mind, expression and environs, except that he recognises the same of every other.

 

A cool breath of morning mist lays itself across the water,

where pathways break the wooded edge, it probes the leafy tracks.

 

Green and dappled reds announce the warming rays,

rustling snouts and gentle song rise to fill the dawning cracks.

 

Beyond this unseen miracle we shuffle ourselves awake,

inviting news and noise, we break the fragility of nature’s spell.

 

Unforgiving, we chase away the beauty of our absence,

thoughtlessly we turn what seemed a heaven into something more like hell.

 

 

 

Over the shoulder of Turkey

down through the Caspian Sea,

South across Muscat and Aden

Westward toward Djibouti…

 

Then fold through the Red Sea to Cairo

across Sinai where Moses did lead,

then on to the back gates of Rafah

where Nomads eternally bleed…

 

Tie the knot off in Tehran

strangle the land till it’s dry,

leave there, what’s then left of Man

that all those who follow, know why.

 

 

 

 

 

When it was over

the guns were in our hands,

 

when it was over

our tanks were in their lands.

 

When it became history

the markets redrew our graphs,

 

when it became history

our media moguls wrote their epitaphs.

 

When war was still a raging

the dead inflamed our hate,

 

when war was still a raging

our mercy came too late…

 

 

 

Trying to write I lift a scab

to see my lifeforce flow,

for under the crust of all things dead

lie things we crave to know…

 

yet in such knowing are we fixed

or wounded all the more?

by careless angst we self-inflict

there is no reason for…

 

The water is Still and Sparkling

the AC is silent as dust,

tame media outlets remarking

which one of these suits can we trust?

 

The translators verbose and inventive

sit idly waiting on words,

a settlement holds no incentive

so enthused, they resolve to throw curbs.

 

Front lines are bloody and broken,

of talking, there’s none to be heard…

you’re dead or you’re merely a token

of losses already incurred.

 

They’ll talk while the bloods bleeding out,

and they’ll dine while the metal’s in flight

despite all of the peace that they spout,

they’ll steer clear from the fray of the fight.

 

 

Regard your hands with disgust.

Idle, they are the tools of wicked thought…

 

Your mind wanders the contours of things forbidden,

misused, it writes a script for dormant horrors…

 

the seed and the active ingredient repel,

whilst psychopathic imagination permits all…

 

the membrane of restraint is gossamer thin…

a butterfly wing betwixt heaven and hell

between war and peace

 

that moment between the idea and the act,

before a life or the world entire might change…

 

In those quiet spaces of strength or surrender

lives are shaped or destroyed

that know not each other.

 

 

 

 

I come awake, sunlight banishing the night,

clawing at curtains it smears the shabby walls…

the debris of yesterday best forgotten offends my sight,

relentless optimism cares not where on it falls.

 

The fog of memory lifts, dreams combust in vampiric flame.

I am adrift, ripped too early from interstellar torpor.

It’s not that heavenly bodies could be held to any blame

when sometimes they interrupt, but “please no fucking more”

 

The street won’t relent for birdsong or for breeze,

tongues and footfall percuss unconcerned with my demise…

I curse the brutal concrete and give worship to the trees

denying gods my forfeit who let such horrors rise.

 

Repel the prying rays, permit the darkness stay,

that I might curl one more dream around a world asleep…

to slumber through the noise and the ravages of day,

and not to wake in this one, more damage here to reap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See the crows with bloody beaks

that pluck the tongues

through which truth speaks

 

See the men with bloody tongues

that strikes out truth

were e’re it comes

 

See the scribes with words writ wrong

who care not where

their ink comes from

 

See the eyes that welcome blight

that fills their soul

yet steals their sight

 

See all this yet carry on?

you’ll have no voice

when all is gone.

 

On this our darkest night,

aurora stains the mountains red,

the impatient blade of morning

bleeds the starlight pale.

No staunch defence

could stem such blackness bled,

nor bar the shaft of golden day,

that all of life should fail.

 

And once so sure, our hearts entwined

beat the very same,

that spinning in their union

no imposter could unbind.

Yet still the blade of cursed time

split the veil and came

that all which once would always be

was lost to never find.

 

Rocks will break the oceans top

and spill great sailors to their graves,

where hulls of ships become mere crop,

becalmed, at rest in coastal caves…

 

echoes of the timbers split

the wash and swell unseen by men,

blown by winds where lovers sit

whose hearts may never love again.

 

All men are wrecks upon some shore

their journey’s spent, their cargo lost.

For time and tides will wait no more

each voyage sunk beneath its cost.

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t the morning that came,

nor the night that slipped from the sky,

but somewhere

between dreams

and my waking,

some other dimension

passed by.

 

It wasn’t an absence or presence,

nor the things with the traces of you,

but somewhere

between light

and moons crescent,

a ghost of you came

shining through.

 

It must have been something you left,

some intangible force of the heart,

which could never be snuffed

or bereft,

that no

earthly bound force

keep apart.

 

It must have been something you gave me,

a secret or code buried deep,

that somehow

could reach out

and touch me,

in a world where our love

doesn’t sleep.

 

They laughed at you,

your accent, your hair, your skin…

your knowledge of nothing

that they believed in.

 

Your best friend, a Jew

then Vikram the Sikh,

the Haggis, the Kosher,

the words you couldn’t speak.

 

Your smile now victorious,

when you pass by the School,

the Temples, the Shop’s,

the Cruel Swimming Pool.

 

The Church your dad built

they burned and defaced,

that they pissed on and cursed,

their own culture disgraced.

 

Now money buys friendship

no matter your creed,

if you’re off the front line

and signed up to the greed.

 

The roots are returning

they’re breaking old ground,

the torches are burning

new enemies found.

 

It’s those who have not,

“A Vermin complete”

the ones now forgot

down there on the Street…

 

who’ll rise up one morning

too full from their hate,

who’ll kill without warning

who’ll tear down the gates…

 

whose colours will blend

whose stories converge,

from that bitter end

new worlds will emerge.

 

Yet it’s all an illusion

there is nothing new,

we kill for amusement

and something to do.

 

He takes a sack of crumpled shirts,

a puzzle

and a gun.

He leaves with wigs and mini skirts

and “Chuzzlewit”

for fun.

 

He’s in a Queue at “Waitrose”,

transformed,

an amazon,

all selfish hair and Dickens prose,

prior signs

of him, all gone.

 

The High Street hums with laundries,

wringing out

their blood-stained cash,

all shiny fronts and tawdry,

there’s pus

beneath the rash.

 

From pedestals of entitlement,

beflagged

and microphoned,

they profess their own enlightenment

with eyes

as cold as stone.

 

A cross becomes a Hakenkreuz,

a blessing

a salute,

the masses in their halls rejoice,

their march

a stamping boot.

 

One thing becomes another,

it sheds

alluring skin,

its prey too late

discovers,

the reality within.

And the pit is full of bodies,

disguises stripped

and gone,

all hope of change,

our folly,

they built their lies upon.

 

 

 

 

A face as smooth as glass

that time has fallen from,

tracks of tears have passed

the weight of years moved on.

 

Hands purpura petalled

fold like angels wings,

hair as gentle snowflakes

a midnight clear might bring…

 

a robin on a window ledge

a flower full in bloom,

the sacred vow of loves long pledge,

a summer gone too soon.

 

And yet the song we hear is light

it lifts the leaden heart,

for dark with all its fearful night

can ne’er two lovers part.