Always

How many letters make up that old word 'hell'?
Can you count them as they whirl round in that place beyond what's gone?
Can you feel that sense of falling, going to fall, or having fell?
So you want to know the answer? Then don't count - its always one.

So we're left with just this question: which letter produces 'hell'?
Did you get to it already, has it rung your inner bell?
For those who cannot count or do not care to question why,
Hell - singular or plural - always was and will be: I.


That was the final verse, so what the fuck is happening here?
You've over-shot the end, the stop, passed into empty space.
So for some light relief I've made this one-liner appear:
The zero met the eight and said 'Give me your belt, my dear'.

Just Realized

Just realized why I never look too far ahead
Why the future seems a dark place in my mind
It’s because if I look ahead I will see that what I only fear now
Is actually waiting for me like a predator set to pounce
And that’s not another weight I would like to carry round with me just yet
So I’m hiding in the moment, like a sailor lost at sea

Just realized why I never look too far back
Why the past seems a dead place in my mind
It’s because if I look back I will see what I’ve taken so long to forget
That those things that happened were real and really lessened me
And that’s not another wound I would like to fester or heal right now
So I’m hiding in the moment, like a slave that got set free

Fuck it all

Fate, the ugly bitch and bastard,
Hides behind the cloak of destiny,
While privately in glee from garmonbozia
Boasts their hands did alter things once free.

Free will, the hoped-for god of intellectuals;
Causality, the god of science and its sons -
Be still, these gods are false like all those worshipped shitbags,
Quality was sacrificed for this joke of mine:
A broken sign deliberately bereft of rhyme.

This or That or Which

And this is the mouth
Which told the lie
That burst from the ground
And scorched the sky

So killing the child
Which crawled out of the womb
That got fucked up the arse
By the man in the moon

And this is the face
Which forced the smile
That extended the walk
An additional mile

And here is the pen
Which wrote the tale
That the man in the maze
Had strayed from the trail

And this is the end
Which we knew was ahead
That stops all the words
Spewing out of my head

Bipolar Blues

The middle is a mystery
It's somewhere I've not been
It's not at either end of me
It's some place in-between.

The middle is a default zone
It's where most people are
It's where the soul feels most at home
From here, it's very far.

The Story

unfolding

Alien Lament

Orwell's losing, Huxley's winning,
Folk consume 'till their heads are spinning,
Our 'Brave New World' trumps '1984',
The twenty-first century is a chrono-whore.

Accumulation of maximum money
Ranks much higher than what's good or funny,
Right or wrong's now not so absolute,
So if you pay your way you can shit or shoot.

The dollar-sign is our species symbol,
From our genetic code to our frenetic sins,
While our other values wouldn't fill a thimble
And just protect us from any financial pins.

So on your First Contact with us on Earth,
Aliens, listen up, for what it's worth:
Whatever wisdom you kindly offer
Will become another coin in the human coffer,
So get your noble visit over fast as poss
Then teleport like hell, or make First Loss.

The Secret

The Secret is much more than just a thing that you can’t say
It’s a burden and a freedom, and a jagged broken link
The Secret is so special that it can’t be washed away
It’s a critical deception, so much more than you might think.

The Secret can be kept by more than kings, liars and fools
You don’t need a plan or goal, or any special kind of tools
It eats into your soul, and from the centre to the edge
The Secret is an everlasting fire-burning pledge.

But when you have the Secret and life lets you fall in love
The person who you love may want to share the Secret too
But you know from deep inside and from those values high above
That you must shield them at all costs from what this wry Secret can do.

Falling

A fractal fate, an open gate,
A falling wall, a lifted weight,
A dawn portrait of quality,
An undrawn map of destiny.

Shooting stars aren't meant to fall,
They sing of light and zoom and call,
They only die inside their dreams
Of people doomed by hapless schemes.

A portal hums and opens up,
A mortal swears on golden cup,
Now I can through full-moonery
Uncloak a deeper you and me.

Yeah yeah yeah

I could write top pop songs
That go "boom boom boom boom
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah"
Say things like: "My bedroom's
For just you only girl
And when I call your phone
You make me hot and moan
I'll buy you lots of bling
And you can kiss my ring".

But I hate most pop songs
Don't want big hits or gongs
Or tussles with King Kongs
So all those dumb cliches
"Are yours babe" - so I says
That those who crave this pap
Their brains will turn to crap
And if all rights turn wrongs
I still won't write pop songs.

Mandala

Make me one with everything
Asked the Buddhist of the vendor,
Nothingness is what we sing
Dreamt the bird so small and tender,
All is one and one is all,
Liminal we stand or fall
And so nirvana render.

Double Agent

By accepting the validity of both love and anger
I am patently at peace with my dark doppelganger
You have to know that you’re dealing with a double agent
To find the good in this, to reach the ultimate reagent.

It’s not what I’m called that should define what I am
Instead it’s what I am that should define what I’m called
It’s not where you’ve been that should determine who you are
It’s where you’re going next which lets emerge your inner R.

By swapping parallel worlds with our regular reality
I know that we will reach a final chemical singularity
So when I find myself entangled in a strange strong resistance
I always think of Einstein’s words: its spooky action at a distance.

Means End

Does the end justify the means?
Or do the means justify the end?
Well, the means don't justify the means,
And the end's just justified, it seems.

Does the word justify the thought?
Or does the thought justify the word?
Well: thought can fly solo if its hurled
While the word’s justified by unjust world.

Cloud

Kept secrets of the past, denied
That was me, my brains were fried;
Faces merge within the crowd
That one’s me, up on the cloud.

Your face rings bells, were you my lover?
Or is that something I’ll discover?
This place feels strange, like déjà vu
Or is that stuff I’ve yet to do?

I don’t hide things, but they do get lost,
I don’t buy rings, but still pay the cost;
This place is mine, you’ll find me here
Within walls of love built from bricks of fear.

Whenever I’m backed into a corner
I always lie, it’s the way I mourn; their
Faces blur, smudge into cloud,
I stand here still, these words endowed.

Secrets of the past are well worth losing,
Makes it look like our actions were on-the-spot choosing,
When echoes of the future are what we’re holding,
When what’s going on is really fate unfolding.

The Journey

Drive your ego like a Harley:
Sit far back, hold grips real gnarly,
Zoom on like Billy and Charlie -
Thank you Shulgins and Bob Marley.

Egos don't like meeting death,
They'll up the anti and spit out an F -
When you let the ego make your choices
It will shout down all your inner voices.

So grab the reins or handle-bars,
Then over-take those front-drive cars -
And don't forget this contemplation:
It's the journey that counts, not the destination.

The Truth

Lies become reality:
She wears them like a frock,
So that her prime creation
Cannot tell cunt from cock.

Believe your propaganda?
It's meant for them not you!
For someone had to do it:
So I would do it too.

The Tweet

Twitter's damn loquacious
So very cyberspacious
But utterly ungracious
Back-turning so to face us

Recovering

With every relapse I'm uncovering
That discovering is recovering
Even though, to the government,
I am breaking legal covenant.

(I grew up with no mnemonics,
escaped death via economics,
then pumped up by ergonomics
I set sail to pure ergodics)

Questerly

I’m seizing my destiny,
Paying the price for me,
Choosing the best to be
By doing the quest that we

All count as reality -
From east to so westerly,
Lost years that have tested me:
There's home! At last - set me free.

Ring

Ring O ring, so wireless,
The test-tube spilled its virus:
Atishoo, atishoo,
We all fall down.

The sheep are in TV-land
Boozing from the cup:
Atishoo, atishoo,
We all fucked up.

Where

I was raised in a border town called Curiosity,
Where the people all seemed kind of spurious to me,
So I left to learn from books at the old monastery
Where the monks taught me science and arts and much of mystery.

And now I live in a house called Liberty.
There is a garden out the back
Where stands an apple tree.
The rent I pay is high - but our land is free.

The windows stop the rain
But let the light come through,
Which shows the features on my face
And all the things I do,
But not the creatures in those places
Where these last thoughts grew.

The Book of Lives

Lives unfold like a book, this should be no surprise,
We’ve all got shit up our arses and tears in our eyes;
Yes, we’re nothing but bags of pulsating offal,
For the world starts and ends as a rotting meat-brothel.

The first level of liars are those persons whose claims
Show they speak from their hearts and not out of their brains;
The worst kind of traitor’s the lover who pleads
That great trees of trust must branch out from good seeds.

Old mirrors reflect my face misted and faded,
But not what’s behind – a soul twisted and jaded;
Once more, eyes seek hope in that last line of verse:
Forever, for never, for better or worse.

Just like you, I’ve tried to believe life’s what you make it,
Unlike you, to feel this I fucking well fake it;
I have tried so damn hard to find those golden doors,
All I’ve reached is this endpoint: we’re all pitiful whores.

Our world is a Hell with a thin coat of Heaven,
And the number which follows six-one-six is black-seven;
You may read all these words if they give you no trouble,
But you’ll soon forget them if they burst your sweet bubble.

Like cakes, words have layers – of meaning, not fruit:
You should always judge cards by both number and suit;
The secret lies here, climax-lush, just like sex:
The last line lays it clear : X X X X X X

The Chalice of Choice

‘Existence is wondrous, the chalice of choice
Has made gods out of beasts, so let’s all shout rejoice’!
Believe this and life’s brutal trap’s got you caught,
Because science shows choices come well before thought.

Categorization as winner or loser
Is unlinked to your belief you are a chooser;
Events unfold patterns of physical laws -
The illusion of free will is theirs, and all yours.

Our awareness of making up our mind’s a tale -
A story we tell ourselves, succeed or fail;
From galaxies down to the last superstring
We are all clockwork fools ‘cause fate’s doing its thing.

Twelve

By the 12th step of recovery
My true life came to this:
Twelve friends betrayed me
Eleven homes had stayed me
Ten drugs filled spaces
Nine masks made faces
Eight fighters threw me
Seven lovers knew me
Six head-sick siblings
…Five Secret Things…
Four punished crimes
Three degrees
Two mind grenades
And a-part-soul in a body

Parallel

look forward in awe
not backward in anger,
make that double-take on our dual doppelganger,
and with both tongues immortalise
and with each hand dichotomise
the thought, the word, the glittering prize

a duel of twins, a dangerous game,
though ripped apart we yet remain
with twisted lies to split our sin
like lost stars locked in fatal spin

the schisms in this two-tone voice
are echoes of our our schizoid choice:
to take the one-way parallel
which beams to heaven or to hell
- the same old place, though we can't tell