Dalston

O Dalston protagonists:
Middle-class social analysts;
which mirror do you look in today?
O sorry I thought you were au fait
with accessorised baggage,
as you design a new hackneyed adage.

Rememberance

The Sleep settles and all lie as fallen crooked statues,
halted in one moment - framed by the greater battle.
Is this what it all aspired to be: the meaning of which only the living can see:
in order to celebrate and mourn a noble cause?
Or is it just a self destructive impulse toward pointless wars?

Underground

The chaotic flow of a living water: down underground tunnels and deep shuttled passages.

Each different journey has each own self-designed gravity resulting in collective springs of periodic activity that spills out with an oyster's tone, a common familiar from each source to home.

A human river silent in purpose, through a network of conduits that carries a travelling circus.

Park lunch

I sit in the park and watch flies feasting on a shit
Brown honey of a variety I don't like one bit
A warm bad smell of a fetid foul flower
Beckons Beelezebub's serfs with its pungent powers
A hive of flies all different in size
With no question of objection in their act of digestion
The swarm nibbles on through the faecal carrion
Each one dancing like a rancid Bacchanalian
The crappy carcas already slain when deployed
An offering of sacrifce to be chewed and enjoyed
For the flies it is a banquet with robust flavours
For me it is a meal I would wish to waiver

Shoreditch Art

Art? Fart! A lot of guff on paper - posturing philosophy: a visual
cacophony perfumed each thought with such meaning,
but as such seeming to mean nothing.

An errant waft of creativity - miasma of its infinity.

Daily Slave

I watch from a bus as the world goes by:
So many lives, so many souls, so many sighs.
The morning drudgery - the silent rush -
The selfish crowd and the unspoken crush.
Where is it that we are really going?
Toward a better life without knowing -
Or toward a life carrying chains,
As we lose the colours in the rains?
Give us this day our daily slave,
And all those trinkets that we crave;
Forgive us now for our temptations,
In a hope that we will one day reach redemption.

Ode to Pisa

Phallic fallacy
You tower over me,
Acock; askew:
Your plumb line untrue.
Yet there you stand
On uncertain land,
Leaving your audience agog -
As you lurch deeper into the bog.