Entropy

if i was a scientist
and i read patterns then
this is one i see. We all die,
one day,
time means absolutely nothing
and
will eventually mean nothing.

Time can go in any direction
you want it to.
Scientifically there is no reason
it should always go in one
- entropy -
maybe one day maybe
time will be released.

This strange barrier will shift,
paradigm.
Cracked eggs will be reformed
crying over unspilt milk.
Take back the shit
we flushed away.
No more regret,

The Prince of Dalston

Dalston
funny how
i came to you,
in my time of need.
i was, i think,
five or six, i can't
recall when it was
exactly.

Mum brought us
in the tank called "Princess".
Designers had
humour, it was far from
regal. Broke down a lot.

There was me, you, him,
her, scraping down the M1
(via the M6 and the starved
spaghetti junction).
All our Problems stood
scratching their heads, in
the North-west: "hey Poverty,
where did they go?"

New dad greeted us,
big grin, hairy hands and
a golf jumper. His embrace was soft,
happy and smelt like brut. It
was protection, forever.

One small room, followed by one
small kitchen, with one small bath-
room in between. It had one big
heart.
Her, him, him, him, her and me;
one happy, dysfunctional family.
For a time, in Dalston.

This place was a firecracker
to my insides.
Curiosity sat on every street
corner and greeted me as I
walked by.

It was the deluxe Dulux paint chart
of colours, smells and sound.
Just London people.
Some called me treacle,
they had spirit, they made me laugh.
The "Princess" had brought Dalston's
young Prince.

In my Ivory Tower,
I would sit admiring the world, its
idiosyncrasies and foibles.
Crime was exciting, people shouting, coppers
giving chase - hurray!

But as i sat there, eating basmati rice and
ketchup,
I didn't know that the Problems
found out where we lived.
First they took my brother,
I cried: "you'll never take me!"
Dalston we still had each other.

Mum left, didn't love Golf-jumper-dad
but i did, so i stayed.
We lived out those short moments, in the
long, hot summer of Hackney E8,
with smiles on our faces.

A day came when
Golf-jumper-dad said: "we take short
trip". Sounded fun, right?
Ridley Road, Kingsland Road, M1, wait!
They are taking me back! NO.
I grabbed Golf-jumper-dad's neck:
"please i want to stay, don't take me back".

We nearly crashed - a 70mph plea.
He explained, i never understood,
hard shoulder of M1 and life.
I never said goodbye Dalston.
I missed you.

i do

i do open my eyes
i do walk
i do talk
i do eat
I watch scooby doo

i do not think -
i do believe in god
i do like football
i don't like my mother

i do one.

i don't like girls
i do like girls
i still like football
i do beer
i do a dance
we do the do
i do the dishes.
i do have kids

"i do believe in fairies
i do, i do, i do"

i do live in sin
i do what i gotta do
until
i do

i do think
i don't believe in god
i do this I do that
i do a crossword
until
i undo
then
i did.

How to write a poem (for all that wondered how)

Take a pen,
make a mark
on your chest
then...
pull out your heart.

Hold it high
but not too hard,
watch it beat
then...
make a start.

Grab some paper
and that pen,
write your poem
then...
you have art.

Language of Love

I need it in writing
like a death warrant.
"Guillotine, 9am"
Irrevocable vocab.
The last language.
My ivory tower
of p's and q's.

"just friends"
Loves vernacular
fuck off!

Morning Chorus

Your face stands out in a crowd
like the whistle of a man
in love that echoes
around the streets of Paris
in the early morning.

It lifts high above
the sleek,
regal buildings,
leading the morning chorus
in a wonderful procession.

It dances along the surface
of the Seine,
causing ripples
of excitement
in my heart.

Up and through the Louvre
it cascades
like a waterfall of renaissance,
gathering strength
as it goes.

As it reaches the Bastille,
the song
of your resplendent nature
ferments into
a triumphant revolutionary fanfare.

Your rapturous day spring hymn
leaps into the sea above,
escaping its worldly cage
with the grace of a flying fish
jumping with a hastened evolution.

And, at this moment,
the suns glorious beams
fill the balloon
that is our eternal horizon
with your very Being.

You breath life into me.

An Icelandic Paradox

for every season
there is a moment.

the stillness of winter.
silent snow
falls
dead from above.

for every reason
there is moment

the joy of spring,
sprung,
sprang from my heart.
life below.