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Poetry: Gamblers love In Idle turnIdle turn those tri...

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I Was I Am

I was a born again Christian

A worn out thespian

A luvvy dovey a picture of your health

My thinking a wood axe

Head cold to your Imperial state

Measurer of your honey

Story retold a thousand closing gates

They said they’d break the mould

Irony a pivotal swing

Without no axis without no steel

Incognito inventors of the wheel

A fleeting glance you were my last dance

Held you in my trance

Still we’d swing motionless

To stiff suits to shoes rubbed the skin the backs of all those heels

Where I chanced a glance the purchase of your glare

Laid low sweltering in my dreams

Cursing at the fear of borrowed dignity

Killing time

Laughing into the face of those sundials

Calling all my mischief to shine on no particular barricade

The blinking of an eye

The wealth of our decline

Where I forge my lukewarm smile

Motionless tears to fretless dreams

A broken down lecture

Still warm diet of tribal charm

The mothers of milk

Perpetual bliss

I was a born again thespian

A worn out Christian

A luvvey dovey a picture of your health

My thinking a wood axe

Head cold to a monarchic state

Measurer of your pot of gold

Like justice repackaged resold

To a thousand shut and closing gates

Carving Up The Assets

To old for winter

not quite young enough for spring.

Tired bones entrenched and digging,

abilities black consumer.

Burnishing the last,

the candle dancer.

Those embers glowing red to black,

pulsing on air, sucking in

greedily wanting you more.

Choking barely alive the last of the grate

The money monkey’s swift eventual surface.

Ultimate demise, the thirst of desire, the last of the fire.

And for the sun to go down that diminishing light.

Dark of your time.

Then all those middle pigs and little snots came begging,

dropping trousers, lifting their skirts,

groping in those murky waters.

Now where’s the truth in that?

There’s truth in them there hills.

Don’t worry old man!

They fill in all the spaces,

they tie up your laces.

A zipped up grin, on a cracked up face,

and a painted on smile.

Now there lies truth in a casket of wood.

A thousand feet, for a field full of mud.

Industrial Extermination of the North

And in tempering the highest of the low

Great swell of humanity.

Who dons purple gown?

And in the murky waters supply barges, stinky parallel lines

Sometime in the past

“Is this where the bombs fell grandad?

I heard it said men gave their lives”.

Clocking in clocking out, dancing in sweat and beer

From grouse to panel, we’re all still beating

Hastening retreat

On standing too close you smell the blood, grease merciless,

 They’ve made mud pies.

Steady retreating hands.

Out of their grim, into their shells

Seeing no scribbled faces, clean sheets, Sunday best.

Sun kissed pawn brokers

“Is it true grandad what they say, was it like that!”

“They’ve nowt worth buying, begging never was. 

All cock, cunt, and lies”.

Soft listening eyes.

“Your not looking hard enough!”

“I can’t see”.

“Oh yes you can, open up your eyes.

Let the stench fill your nostrils.

You get used to it.”

Join us now we’re on the road to oblivion.

Sing along with Joe, Sing along.

They made no noise.

Lonely Scotland sings now.