Howl Twice .. .


We met this side of dawn
neat satchels on our backs
to search and find Zanadu
people knew as East Ewell
in what was known then as
‘the stockbroker belt’ of the
sprawl that was Lond-on

No one planned which way
that together we should go
each step along the path
was democratically decided
we were a union of brothers
for one momentous day we
spent away from our fathers


when did we take a wrong turn
when did the path lead us from the track
for the sorrow that now we must unlearn
for what we ever thought was fact
or that we thought was ever true
like capitalism
is the fairest monetary system
like capitalism is fair and just at all
like capitalism shares wealth and opportunity with the masses
  with both the haves and the have-nots
whereas capitalism means more than ever
  that those who have more for themselves
  for their children and their children’s children
  will always have more
and those who have less… and their children
  will generally always have less
  that an intellectual mind like Karl Marx was considered evil
  or that there was ever such a thing as communism
  when Marx was only a philosopher
  who wrote a philosophy
  much like Charles Darwin had been a naturalist,
  a geologist and a biologist who wrote a proposition
  it too was originally branded evil
  yet now most everyone accepts it is true
  that democracy it has been decreed
  by those unseen powers that be 
  provides the accepted key
  to determine the fairest form of government and order
  yet democracy is a fucking hypocrite
  a fucking liar and is often corrupted
  by those who stand to make the most gain
  democracy continually administers out pain
  to the weakest of our numbers
by that same rule of thumb that states
  the strongest will survive
  the fittest are the ruling class
  by capitalism’s order
  the weak get transient lift or push
  from democracy’s shoulder
  that writers like Allen Ginsberg have been dredged
  their words have been murdered
  of what they tried to say
  theirs was not considered poetic or decent
  who spoke for one week
  within the pantheon of the hugest time
  because their words did not rhyme enough
  or ring just once the Philadelphia bell
  that mankind’s religions often hide
      the true heart of God
  within its schisms, its annexes and prejudicial order
  whereas true religion and undefiled
  says we should visit the fatherless
    and widows in their affliction
  and keep oneself unspotted from ‘world corruption’
  of capitalism’s disease
  of democracy’s hypocrisy
  of religion’s deceit

When we met the Bluewater
our journey done, we looked
at what 4 boys had become
travellers in space and time
who had fought fear of danger
traversed technologies might
beside roots of nature

We drew maps like geologists
pioneers who plot their route
explorers who traverse trails
carried our supplies in sacks
spoke of where we travelled
when we arrived we were
but 8 years old
when did we take a wrong turn?
when did the path lead us from the track?
for how far civilisation has taken us
for civilisation is not civilised at all
 . .. it has forgotten the joy
  of being young



Author’s Note: Alan Ginsberg’s poetic write – Howl – still provokes thought, analysis and controversy – surely, the focus of the poet.
I suppose this piece is kind of my vain tribute but there is not a word in it that does not make me want to HOWL – howl TWICE and then keep on howling !!!

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Who wears best this shawl of uncertainty
  whose mind is trained of fears furrow
to bow at noon – the bells of the Angelus
  when blackened clouds of hell descend
around the fair shoulders of the puissant
  burnished shields adorn their defence
within realms of hope and trial, honour gracious
  worn heavy-knit her skin battles fields of care
for tis’ only soldiers that do not wonder 
  who were the authors of their answered prayer

and the Bicker women
  not cultural stereotypes or
  horror film characatures
  taken from some ancient, dusty books
  not plastic, elastic bimbos
the Bicker women 
  local born and bred 
born to Bicker
  who live long in Bicker 
  lives until the ‘she’ is dead
  her splayed black dress 
  her woolen scarf 
  wrapped around her head
  she speaks few words 
  yet kneels to pray
Bicker woman 
  of highest feminine degree
  who went to school at age of five 
  with childhood peers, all years
  her teacher aged 
  much talked of life
Yet no one teaches Bicker woman
  how to be an honest wife
  it is inbred, assumed by sight
  the law of wolves and nature
  understanding, words unsaid

Conscripts travel to their debt
  fair soldiers of regret they line 
the fields of shame, those fit, healthy
  will remain after nights of sordid pain
have robbed their mothers of their love
  none revive yet memory keeps all alive 

and there the Bicker woman
  dressed in morbid black
  her body no less fragile
  her beauty rests beneath her shroud
  of shapely legs and cuni
  her chest adorned of breasts 
she is not an animal to scorn
  or mount within the farmers field
Bicker woman
  made of sterner stuff
  not given to the vagaries of snuff
  or perfumed trinkets
Bicker woman
  the least and last to bicker
  or to gossip or to blather 
  she has no time for sentimentality
  or lust of thought
  she is happy with her lot

The guardian angels who return
  carry their dead and wounded
Jerusalem hath fallen for today
  there are animals now in trail 
who carry broken boys to their
  mothers for burial or for death

but then the Bicker women
  collecting souls from the glen
  where lie generals spent forces
  dead and dying in the heather
tragedy haunts the Bicker women
  their smiles as gentle as their dead


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Periwinkle meets Indigo and they have children .. .


Orion with Dimmer Betelgeuse (Dec 21, 2019)


There is a gap in the cloud today
    where the ink has run and stained the sky
the most perfect blue where rain falls through
    draws my eye from landmarks of confusion

In the calmest brumal evening
  when starlights blaze the cold night-sky
bullet holes expose their marvellous light
  there that colour blue appears again

If it is another moon deception
  born out by bounce of luna-light
then returning birds who fly by night
  their scenic journey they have earned

It is skies who create most seasons
  by whatsoever treason lived alone
they sprinkle thoughts upon us
  among us, we teeming ants

Something then by morning shows
  upon the nature trail, a garden snail
a bee pollinating by her periwinkle
  a fair gash of them in haunting blue

Alienesque, symbiotic, call it just sad
  are we always to be the voyeurs
who could not ever explain emotion
  nor meaning of that peculiar colour



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The Heart of the BEAT POET Is free you do not tell the BEAT POET what to write .. .

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of the Somme, Vimy Ridge and modern times .. .


Out where the two dykes cross
you could be in the desert
of Atacama as far as remoteness
we surprised a black-eared hare

He scuttled from his hiding place
disappeared at pace glancing
remotely over his shoulder as if one
outlying sniper unbedded from a ditch

The grass out there grows with the wheat
long since grown in warm weather sweet
long as the mane of brave Ardennes horses
their bloodline mixed Arabian and Belgian

Those horses shouldered gun-carriages
in the mud, where blood mixed heathen
bled european in the first war, the great war
the shit war of the Somme, a war to end all wars

my booted foot crushes down these grasses
as I consider the losses of men so young
whose sap rose sentient and earthy
whose conversation blithe remained cheery

I march my black dog, he that is melancholy
boundless he follows in my awkward steps
Tommy et les Francais advance to meet with Jerry
their khaki tunics crimson stained and ruddy

I step out at Vimy Ridge tufted grass under foot
sounds of the heaviest artillery attend our path
four divisions of the bravest Canadian corps
on the ground before us, men, the dog and I

shell-fire in the mid-distance crashes low
our hare bounding once more to show
running on the margins that bares the brunt
my mind racing back to the Western Front

the green-gold fields out here ripple swollen
as a sea full of corn yet ever those young men
lay in their carnage in blight of mud, weathered scorn
to wish tho’ breathing they might never have been born




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. .. taking back Harlem .. .



I stood on the girder-bridge
where cold grey water passes
wiped my tear-stained face
tried to clear the mote stuck ote’ my eye
I have never been to Harlem

The Clyde she passes by the Gorbals
south-side of that pulsing city
out where the old slum sits
they dressed her in respectability
but she is a sow on heat with 14 teats

Swam long – the Rubicon
water shallow an’ ’twas muddied
of decisions laid long-side the shoreline
torn hearts and corpses bloodied
I have never been in Rome

Or sat by the banks of Purus River
where there is still sweet water
west of one unspoilt tree savanah
the axe is sharper when it’s clean
the worst murders – those unseen

Travelled to St Louis to see another river
laid my roots down by Maggie’s farm
strange that I reverse my decision to disarm
that day the bomb struck in Kiev
children died, others arms were severed

Floating down the Tigris River
with no desire to kill or maim
I noticed there a crocodile ‘ere teeth so sharp
a sign hung over his scarred head
It read ‘kill or be killed, till you are dead’

When I was young so full o’spunk
dreamed I to re-populate the earth
mama said ‘your balls too big for your head’
‘we all swam in that particular river’
mama’s words a shotgun to my head

I won’t swim the Harlem River
8 mile long it could damage your liver
outfits full a’blood with striped bass and the flounder
junk-business floats, it makes you shiver
I have never been to Harlem – no never

To trace the Yara to its origin
you will find it always muddy
upside-down and full of bodies
Yarro-yarro, indigenous, holy
sink a place of truth and dares

We squander liberty, forfeit heat
to journey up the Glåmaq
the vastness of Gudbrandsdalen valley
in the land of the midnight sun
to wear Norse legend and mythology

I must return to Shoreditch, to Botafago
to Harlem in the midst of where we left them
drug-lords prosper those rivers of convenience
turn the stone on this obscene prohibition
oust Custer needs be fifth amendment too


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We address the condition
of a nation by its social order
the position of its women
in spite of any lenience

a Mother Mary in plaster
a Sinatra’s daughter
Is she dead,, or is she alive!
shame of the holy Mamba

snakeskin dead unwinding
inside mankind’s womb
feminity of her ocean plateau
the conquered vanquished

Indira Ghandi, Jeanne d’Arc
Sinead O’Connor, alas my influences
then there was my mother
her jussive lover on the shore

the paps, the udder, the
suckling teats spent and dry
where judgement falls blindly
on maternal eyes

burka soldiers, riband smiles
who tears the veil
ruination, catatonic surprise
sent on her maiden voyage

around the misted promontory
ancient pearl divers arrive
those happiest away from land
search the deepest, leanest

shifting sand invaders
of the failing, coralled sea
who may still find fresh molluscs
the lushness of schilderiana shells




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On Erin’s Cloud .. .

erins cloud

on Erin’s cloud I laid aside
the lusts of war and betrayal

where sensations lie with kings or
Aphrodite’s caressed expulsions

her nightly flight to honour love
his restless ardour and desire

the itch that nether could be scratched
’till her sweet Montague did lift the latch

in all the world there is still faint mystery
a seed is sown, a Fabergé egg

an age of consent for apes who mate
whilst some choose alone to sonder

creation’s verse will allow for this
by virtue of the sacred life

abstention be the mother of none
husbandman propagate thy wife

at this some will harbour resentment
choose umber over olive for the healing

the juniper, the mango and the pear
yet the orange blusheth crimson




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As long as you sleep .. .


As long as you sleep
  I will watch over you
  to warn you of the crashing waves
  the march of time
  relentless in its disdain of life

Your caustic skin renews
  yet denies the eloquence of reason
  your appearance sequinned
  sequential of the order varinidae
  your horny back ’tis pressed
  hard against the wall
  of mankind’s duplicitous persuasion
  where magnets draw affection
  more by your quizzical expression
  per chance you acquiesce or quantify
  your scientific appropriation

We monitor this, we determine that
  the constructs of our dependencies
  while all nature suffers, struggles
  from our monstrous alienation
  anxieties are sick mothers
  looking over our shoulders
  for alligators in the sewers
  elephants unbidden to our quarters
  predators that wait impassively
  compulsive disorders and addictions
  wants that become needs, vision bleeds

and while you sleep
  I will watch over you
  wake the moon while it is drifting
  send beacons unto the planets
  announce your firstborn young

Impressively passive
  genus varanus merrem
  they hunt in packs
  like hungry dogs of war
  for mortal combat with teeth and claw
  they hunt to gather, stay alive
  as all species of the carnivore
  a most necessary absolution
  affords this gently generic reptilian 
  endangered, finely prehistoric
  limbs prehensile and grasping


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. .. picture postcard album .. .


. .. some are yellowed, some are straight
a few hardly come into view
they are lost somewhere in Jonah’s ether
at the bottom of the whale
in the slime that’s part digested
picture postcards leave a trail

a super sleuth, crack-hot spy
wearing those sunglasses
that really are – a camera
dirty postcards of flesh and limbs
barrel loaded, the polygraph set
record monsignor’s greatest sins

we have no need to publish
the public have seen it all before
nothing shocks or titillates him anymore
joe’s a broad-minded individual
made up of a thousand parts
a million or so picture postcards                                                                                                 

addresses have been scrambled
cancelled postage all ink-blazed
moments of impropriety catalogued
phone-calls and messages saved
a respected, socially communitive figure
once more has been caught in a lie

misinformation, deceit and outrage
decorate the album, line the walls
subjects of enquiry block all calls
aside the awesome realisation
treasured picture postcards
squeezed his life inside a vice

Jonah makes a rush for the exit
the plume of vomit is extreme
waters of Niagra falls of Victoria
are not enough gushing asperge
to wash away picture-postcard
incriminations mostly obscene

it all came out one summers day
amidst the pools of contrition
aside the mountains of regret
the souls of many Jonah’s
found bundled in a heap
a pile of picture postcards
never meant to keep .. .


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