The roads are blocked from here to there,
drivers are gridlocked with despair,
traffic pollution’s everywhere,
ask the coroner, ask the mayor,
fellow commuters, could sometimes share,
use yellow buses, if fares are fair,
one thing’s for certain, please be aware,
Greater Manchester needs clean air.
The ballast of our Thursday afternoon
in the countryside lays distilled in your face.
Yawning like a cow in pasture eating sweet grass
your words flatten the moment.
Having no capacity of knowing
what you might see in an endless sky
you have seemingly died from boredom.
Your small dreams have squandered the butterfly’s wings
pathetically flapping ‘us’ into a Prantic trance,
We lay like sleeping rabbits under an erroneous sun
that does not rise above the numbness
of your wintering heart.
Gridlocked like a dog’s nose to the ground
on the scent of somewhere on a wall of many stains,
you hunt the missing birds sitting
on rainbows just out of reach,
then bait your hook to lure in the cold silver fish
reflected in diluted ponds of your resentment.
I wait…for a word never to be spoken while
you set your watch tightly
winding clock hands that spin in circles within your eyes
on a face of numbers that never leaves
its constant bemusement of wilted flowers.
I want to live and die at the same time,
In this asylum, I am nothing but a dime.
I pray for the grotesque fame,
None, but the Master wants to get me out of playing this game.
In this asylum, I live a lie,
The river Life is nothing but a gridlocked tie.
I want to be alive until I don't want to survive,
This phase is not my only witless dive.
Is this asylum true, or just a gruesome illusion?
I want to bring back my vision.
I don't want to live in this ponderous loneliness,
I don't want to die until I wilfully confess.
This asylum is full of savage desires,
I want to submerge myself in my obligations.
The river doesn't want to join the ocean of dark necessities,
The meander is coming closer to my pertinacity.
True wisdom lies in my shadow,
Until it stays in my favour.
For centuries, I have penned the tales of this asylum,
I am nothing but a mere equilibrium.
I used to move as fast as cars
runways built in space and mars.
I would dart as far as I could trace
the words moving off the chart
Every other sound that rhymes
Feels like argh, I paint a corner squiggle
argh, I’m bankrupt, gridlocked power struggle
argh no way out of a jigsaw puzzle
Stopped and bound, inside my head
as round as this machine could bleed
My life into moving tree -
BANG! Bark and Fire Stark!
I awake inside a maze
Forest lost to the barren dark
Mixing things that didn’t mix
Stories I couldn't fix,
I felt a apart
I couldn’t even paint an argh
no where left but something leapt
Silent meaning had effect
Movement kept me on a stretch
where rhymes were just erect -
waving signs above my head,
hard and fixed, solid bricks
I really wanted sounds and tricks,
clever tips and catchy bits
songs that keep me in a fix
Kungfu, water, flowing bliss
Then words fell off the page again
I was back it didn’t matter
rhymes could be like fish batter
but narrative was fatter!
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bastard." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged old ‘Blackberry’.
O the god-damn humanity."
We look for an off-ramp,?
into or out of something.?
Without wheels?
we drive through our own chaos?
searching for other searchers.?
We guide each other?
over self-made ditches,?
If one falls we all fall,?
a heap of bodies becomes?
a tangle of nowhere.?
Entrances and exits?
look the same,?
nevertheless, off-ramps?
lead to choices.?
Here the road has lost it's way?
minds gridlocked and stalling.?
Left and right, North or South?
we're rewriting old maps?
looking for where?
X marks our position?
on a focus long out of focus.
Hello Hello my fair weathered friend
Your CO2 has risen again
Like a wave of negative omissions
Keeping us gridlocked in confusing seasons
We need a great escape before it is too late
A plot to plan some positive action
Working with Natural Energies, ozone friendly technologies
Help reduce our Earth's Catastrophies
40 years left for our Amazon , completed de forestation
The motor of the jungle beats to a warring drum , transporting real dollars for a greedy sum
The only roots left will be a direct payment of iniquity .
Burning out the indigenous tribes, destroying more innocent lives
Hello Hello my fair weather friend
Your CO2 has risen again
Katsina, she gave us a warning, there is a storm of change and it is brewing
The North pole Iceburgs are crying , running out of time , a river in our Seas washing away sandcastles on our vulnerable shoreline
We need to get this right
Wake Up Now and see the light
We need to get this back to rights
Begin to love our planet insights
We need to get this right
Unite together our compassion for saving life .
Muladhara wheel of Brahma the beginning
Sahasara-Bindu soma receptors celebratory
Anahata sees energies in divine union igniting
Making the seeming complex look elementary
Kundalini energy divine both free and gridlocked
In an energy upsurge vertically looping our form
Mind upon beholding this divine miracle shocked
Seeing sacred geometry within the benign storm
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bugger." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged blackberry.
The god-damn humanity."
The Harley Davidson and me
Hover bikes of the future
Really not for me
Give me wheels upon the ground
I want my Harley D
My veins all feel the power
When the engine starts to yell
Cos now I am an Angel
An Angel here from hell
Gridlocked on the highway
But that don’t bother me
I just rev the mighty engine
And ride my Harley D
The humdrum life is not my way
Nor the semi-detached abode
I’ll stop a day in a little town
Then I’ll hit the road
I was born to be a badass
My life so wild and free
I can catch the very wind
When I ride my Harley D
I’m an independent spirit
As I ride my motorbike
The sun’s the days companion
The stars my roof at night
what though there be a garden of flowers
the essense of the whole distilled to but a drop
the humble bee alights
frozen in time and purpose
sucking the nectar of its created heaven
in the now in the here
gridlocked
windswept windsurfing wallabies warbling whales wailing................................................................................
A pink fish travelling with a tea towel is neither in a rush or dirty. Gridlocked gorillas getting grapes gracefully glide. Seafront mystery in windswept hair carrying a carrot, a jar of mustard, and ten grains of multicoloured rocks. A tambourine on a sponge cake can be beating but not beaten. And a lamb cawl is not a call nor a front crawl so place the gate and door at a sixty degree angle. Many custard cups play hockey with wildebeests in tutus. In a fingerless glove place nine toes, and in a pocket watch place a turning tubular pin. The frost from a llamas horn is neither stagnant or perfumed, it is merely a tidal wave of porridge. Hahaha magniloquent magnolia magnitude making monkfish moussaka. Hahaha equality equals equipment eveningwear xxxxxxx hospitalities Z z Z z Z
Rabbits at junctions are often akin to moons at traffic lights. A light lunch is preferable to a whisky scone when taking a picnic to a lake. But playlists can play so font argue with a flamed fortress of fig. Tailoring a suit for a nine foot bead and dazzling s crowd with a one millimetre tiara is not a sound judgment for a counting ball. 1 2 3 then. Radio that on a one kilometre hand held microphone. Hahahahaha the skipping rope is jumping in a hula hoop today. Lovely. It is not the way of the feathered cloud to land in a field fuelled upside-down but a gridlocked four dimensional satanic bowler hat can swim many acres in a spotted swimsuit. Good. Underpasses underwater underground undertake uniquely unequal unisons. And a proxy is neither productive nor normal. Statutory static authorisational code bringing wine to a ball room. Fantastic news for the pillar. Geranium gathering giblets. And a pie. Wow. Xxxxx destitution demon demonstrated dogmatic dramas digging. Xxxxxx counter intelligence and no matter. Xxxxx miscommunication Z
Twenty-six stories high,
I look down to illuminated veins, blinking red and then white;
The city is alive, breathing through concrete lungs.
Up to the ninth floor.
Two glass bottles on the ledge sit empty;
The painted walls hold my secrets.
On the fifth flat.
People flowing in and out,
Yet a place for rest.
Down to two.
Long halls lined with lockers,
Laughter, lectures, and languages.
The city.
Packed gridlocked lanes with blaring horns.
The heart of the city, both human and machine, beats constantly.
chromed attics
patrolled by magnified dragonfly schematics
quivering silvers, rippled submarines
enlightened black magic
black dawn hawk borne of ashes
manifested in tragedy then smashes
smithereens flit to unison
babe on the nipple fades blue, leaves an only son
falls on the roots, sap his tipple
overboard on the beech seeking tetragrammaton.
instant pan-global sepia scope
your skull is an hourglass
and sand teems down the slopes
visions of Egypt are gridlocked
so you sneeze just to cope
but the issues weep at you, your emotions elope
with tryptaminical spellboundancy
immediate hope.
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