Sunday, 31 May 2009

Caugh In The Headlights

The light of the rails
Burns a vigorous light
When kisses burn like stings
And the tension between
The flags we bare is burning up
The skin rushes like lofted edges
Speeding along the tracks
In edgy habbits

I am the Rabbit
Caught in the headlights
Blairing at the flashes
Crashing on my name
The squeals ring these
Old ears to the bones

This train is squealing on the brakes
As life just seems to hit me in the face
With full on shock tatics
And distateful memmories
We are heading for the rails
In the time of tears
Streaming out with wet dripped words
The frantic beat of spokes
Hitting the wheels
Like a cautionary car crash

I am the Rabbit
Caught in the headlights
Blairing at the flashes
Crashing on my name
The squeals ring these
Old ears to the bones

Thouisands of people
Eminate my name
With the ringing sense of glee
And the paperazzi stains
All claiming to have ownership
On my very name
As they are lingering
In the steam soaked shadows
Rusting in the junkyard
Hiding behind a plastic coated fassard
The vaneer is fake
with the cracking in the walls
of this mental state

I am the Rabbit
Caught in the headlights
Blairing at the flashes
Crashing on my name
The squeals ring these
Old ears to the bones

Clammering at the frantic
Speeds opf light
Decompasing splits that
Live in two lives
One for all the quiet rights
And the other for the steam and gloss
Of a charmfilled heartache
Of a pressurised crush
As there are splinters
On the rails
Cracking all the lines
Whistle stop madness
Cracking onto me

I am the Rabbit
Caught in the headlights
Blairing at the flashes
Crashing on my name
The squeals ring these
Old ears to the bones

The snaring voices all blur
Into one forgetfull tone
Forging fake friendships
In pretence circumstances
Buying all the truths
For the meek of responcibility
Questions ebb and flow
On the rattling strutts
Because these eyes glow
As I am stuck right here

Saturday, 30 May 2009


I Can Be

I can be a hero, A Liar or a cop
just take this swig and your mind will drop
As I take a taste of the river flown lager
Watching pills push up walls of the waters edge

I mean I can also be a plosited
Esqutiod Gentleman displaying affection
With a kandid of hand holding grace gently
As the eyes float too the bottom of the glass

I can be a phylosipher, a debater and genral public hater
With the rambled tones of bluring words
As I slur everything I had ever heard
Burning tones of the tongues of the undone verbs

I would also used to consider myself
Someone who was born with an untold welth
As I pushed pennies towards the watering holes
Drinking gin from the Tin to hide the holes within

I mean I can be anything I want to be if I put my mind to it
I can be a Fireman just like Sam
Or wait here for hours
For the final tones of the slaming bells
Ringing hometimes hoodlum

I can be pollitician, a Barister or a clart
Talking like the Urban tarted man
And his shackled plans
Rulling out his grands for a bitterness that always stands

I can be a Boxer, a rebbelionist or an Actor
Taking in stages everything for the X factor
A star to shine above my name
As I sift in vein through the Kronnies eyes

But there is a staining taste in my mouth
As I often talk like I have got no spout
without rolling lines of the white devine
to shove up my nostrils for the sobring times

I can be a Joker playing on people with hot pokers
Or the misserable skulcker loathing in the corners
With a vegetating insulting and un kind
Until I pull up these mental blinds

I can be journalist, a jouster or a public bouncer
looking from the sides hounding
with Authoritan poundings
Shelling out dust from nights of uproarings

I can be anything
If I can take my eyes away from the half empty glass
haunting me with its very grip gritting my teeth

Thursday, 28 May 2009

The Modern Artist

I am an Artist with a victorian vaneer and a corrigated sneer
With a rich mummy and Daddy giving me the freedom
To be none other then a Tracy Emin want to be
Copying and pasting with never ending glee
I'll take a photo of my bedroom and sell it as Nouvell art Cousine
Until it bleeds freely with green fibres to me
Oh won't it make mummy and Daddy pleased happy
To see their young son pappying amongst the glitzy yobs
And those all so precious and oh so selacious Art crittic lots
This is fabulouse they would cheer
with pointlesness of a new debonair
As they all staired at a desolated bed placed in the corner
With the please rub me stains stuck onto the sheets
As I pose with useless unbespoken tones
Strutting around the Ta Ta ing snobbery in corners
Cringing with the nose of the nouvell artist
rank with the hooked tones of the higher class echaelons of society
Tarting up the regal parties with bucks of fizz and whizz
Oh what a wonderful life this is
Looking at vast creations blandlism as petice and exciting
Even if I am copying it in writing!
I am a human not a robot,
I got needs that you aint got
I got emotions you wont rot
Because I am a human not a Robot

Dont be confused by my irregular appearance and my lack of coherence
When I speak in the tongues of the burning man
Looking for connections and emotions of who I can recieve
With glowing hands and a warmth to touch me
Jump starting this heart of proffessed lyrical messes
As rambled out drones of mundane groans
Judging me like treason with alphabetical alchemy running down my neck
Making me sick of being treated with the same mechanical dresses
Underpined by profesional stances that we identify ourselfs
stacking along the isles of the same old shops
With the mid life chrisis stuck in the middle
Like a flowing mental state of instability
Pondering on a wire of how to let this life be heard and not disturbed
As I put a foot in to test the waters of who I can be in this life
And what I can see to be displaced in society
Like dismorphic abombinations that some of the human race adear to
In stereotypical formations clustering in gangs
Because they want each others backs and fear
Being lone masts for provercations
As they dont know how to cry with pride

I am a human not a robot,
I got needs that you aint got
I got emotions you wont rot
Because I am a human not a Robot

I have a disability of the learning tides
So I dont always know how to move with the rise of the human flowings
Bringing to power the voices of many complexions
That always lurke in these eyes
As I am battling with a crushing pride
And a passion that carries me on the roughest of strenuous rides
Creating a sliding slope for me to fall into the diches of conformity
It scares me to think that we judge others on what we see
Without knowing the truth of their picture battled storries
Of what lives they lead because we are to concerned with our own breeds
Like malfrustrations causing confusions within humanizations
Asking question of how we should intergrate with one and other
And where does my heart sit when you are mis-stitched
With discomfort into your new clothes like an emporer with a new thrown
Pulling off the browning points of life
To counter act the dower sounds of the tragic man
Walking in lines of the slumbersome streets
splashing waterstone man with the coldened hand
Burining frustrations into the voices of an uncontrolable flexing rage
Like red raw rape of society
So we become indiginous of individuality excluding those that do not look a like

I am a human not a robot,
I got needs that you aint got
I got emotions you wont rot
Because I am a human not a Robot

The Human phylosophy is to take orders from the barking dogs
Handling mis-cast personalities living a liberal freedom
As I find myself revolting against accusations
Burning in the name of the family dust
As I appear with a lollaping tongue full of dis-taste an honesty
I can bight with a lie, but sometimes I would wish I would die
Just to be judged by the person that I am
And not by the skins that I carry on me
So just don't look at me because I have the palest of skin
Just come and ask and I might let you in
To show you all my personalised insecurities
And how I would like things to ring with a bueatiful glee!

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

Who really cares for the voices under the stairs?
Hiting the cobbled wood from the empty shed
As social concience stings and colours of voices runs rings
About contexts of foundations we all swing round and round
With polliticians stamping on the higher grounds
Along with their maccabre tones of the lefts and the rights
braging amongst the richest types
With Westminster snobs mobing all the parties useless yobs

The Houses of parliment ring roses with clerks and poses
Raise upto the mic my dear speaker
We are ready to make you feel a bit weaker
Bark the dogs of the other clans and pods
So who are you? Labour? Torry? or Lib Dem and boring?
They would all sings as a skinny pale man skimmed upto the mic
I speak for man of the Joe Public clans
Well we all do that they spat out with stingy tones
Raising their voices too the cieling

But really they are all just dreaming!
I mean who can afford a second home in Ealing?
When they claim to be dealing in aid of the public healing
I mean do you see ministers on public transport?
no you see them in personal escorts
With Jaguars and Porschs pouring out all over Camerons Green clauses
Whilst Brown drowns in Labours instabilities
And there is no hope for the Lib Dems to stem security!

So Lets confuse the public they cry
And make everything prohibited until we all die
Hide everything with red taped buerocrassy
That we can all call democrassy
Hide in shame and poke the lame elements of scandles
Of who did what to which middle class toff
Ringing with bighting acusations of who did what
Like herds of dogs in kennells
For we are right and you are wronge
They would scream along to the same old songs
With lollaping tongues laping from side to side

Monday, 25 May 2009


How can You Speak Proud
When you dont know how to feel aloud
To Raise your voice and stick it out with pride

Your voice is a statement of clerickle intent
Of how you react to societies lament
we always judge you on meaningful intent
And how you pronounce with clear intensity
On how we should lead humanity
From the pounds of the Paupers too public inauguations
As fickle illusions bight and hold
Destroying conclusions of public confidence
In Bitter Streets where violence meets oppresion
That we sweep into the coverns of society
To lead on the beaten tracks of obscurity
White trash havens crawling with crack addled miss abuses
Voices that are trodden down in grifting
Like the fear of the youth spitting repression

How can You Speak Proud
When you dont know how to feel aloud
To Raise your voice and stick it out with pride

Desolate desperation haunts in the eyes of the judged
As they are ready to hang for the chop of the voices
Spearing lifes pure grimes in isolating times
Where we arrest ourselves
Pushing on punishment in our minds
Sugesting we are not ready for the testin times
Toppling over the sands of time spent equalising rights and wronges
Among many people to raise their stances
With people living without chances
To break out of the cycles of Repressing outsiders
With the sounds of trampled on plans
With the triumphant slams of pollitical cablams
Laying aim on Joe publics men

How can You Speak Proud
When you dont know how to feel aloud
To Raise your voice and stick it out with pride

Sunday, 24 May 2009



I am the insecurities crawling in your skin
wishing how you looked better off thin
stripping yourself down too the bones of personalities
Skeletal tones and brittle bones
Causing you to look at life like a pointless self help video
Where does it go with all the feelings of washed up dazed dreamings

I am your personal judgement That will hound and hackle you
Until you give in to voices of self doubt in your head
Causing you to see everything with a black cloud
Drowning out the sunshines light
And shouting out a loud No I am not proud

I am the voice of reason
Telling you everything you do is right or wronge
Making you mark your sword with pride
Or swallowing it withb lifes great strides

I am the ghost in your head
Creeping in your dreams as I sift through your every stiring moment
Breathing life into your hazards and deepest fears
so please do not be to uppset my dear

I am your shadow following your every move
With almost stalker like tendencies
As I inch with ever miloscoping attention to detail
Down to every last little twitch or flick

My Dear I am your every question you ask
And dont always supply the answer
Because it is uncomfortably perplexed,
Confused and concused up in your head
As you piece together fractured words

I am the holder of the kanded touch
That just wishes for a warmly hug and softness of skin
But these voices within
Will always trap me in a harsh sharded tin



I am Art
I feel like I am hitting my head against a brick wall
As every time I stumble and fall
With ever present stances of disatisfaction
Playing upon my every reaction
As events slap me in the face with a cold neck brace
I can not help but think that my face is out of place
And I can not help but feel disgraced
As everything seems to blow all over the place
As there goes the optimist of the human race

Whats that he has special needs creativity as his friend
Other would sneer and condisend towards me
We cant have you as one of ours
They soured because creativity is on your boards
They would wrap tongues and twist around my wrists urging me to slit them

So we all will laugh at his funeral they all jeered
And that is where they all claimed to know him and his colourfuls glory
For Art was a nerdy kid with strange complexions and no sence of pride
As his story had been washed away with human tides of hystory
Like snowy blurs of colour fading to grey
As they burdoned me with diluting cheap champaign
People walked around stairing at empty cases and frames
With a never ending sence of distaste
You could see their eyes buzzing thinking
Did I Kill ART?

With worrying tones placed on their faces Arts crittics would race
with no ending to senses of who could I crittic next
And treat with X-ray Spex
As looked at those labled in the different line
Whilst singing who will step out of line this time?
As they burried me with a jolly ho
And the sounds of Corks blew and flowed with chardoniegh bows
Lets start dealing they all squealed with nasty undertones
As they had all hid away their Van Goughs Picassos and Renoires with Monets
With their mixed up memoires
Arts long term crittics began started to bleed with the green of cashes deadly gleame
As they would pause to think his only disability was his Creativity

We should not encourage this the Joe Public squealed
As they yealded all plans to burn pictures and paintings
Smash all Crockery to bring about destructive glee and cap the hands of creativity
As their faces wriggled with uncontrolled freedom of glee
Demonstrating how Arts death had lead to prosperouse deeds
Of marketing simple image needs to those to conform with ease
But there is still one question perplexing me and that is
Who Killed ART?

Death of the Optimist


Ladies and Gentlemen I want to make an anouncement
In the corner is the death of the Optimist
Calling on all Mourners ready to recite the hopes of his life
As he watched it washing around to paupers
Lacking from funding and appreciated hands
To build something that stands out these bare hands
And the creative words that he slurred with the burning finger tips
Lets halk them off they cried with jelousy and careless bodies
Wanting to stop and control everything with a jot, jot, jot

So we burried the Optimist with all the smiles that he bore
timbered up in an oak framed box with all his woulds, could and coulds
Cooped up into his lasting memmories of creativities In the labours glee
that brought about sunshine smiles long evapourated to the pennies rolling out of pockets
As the funding was shutting down like a cap on creativities crown
Oh so we will make you all drown
because you come from the same town as Van Gough, Monet and Picasso or Renoire
With all the other artists lofts and paintbrushes in the air
And scream we are writers not fighters
Painters not surplainters of flse pretences
As we find creativity wanting to be hung drawn a quatred

So lets Laugh at the Optimists grave
And say how good it was for us to make creativity our slavoury
As we indulged into the mundane copying of the want to be's for the pennies to ease
Because creativity is seen as a deadly disease
We dont design for people with differences to breath on the same terms as everybody else
Oh god theres a spastic with the creativity disease lets tax every breath he breathes
Lets face it we are all charities in need
The Optimist would plead tears
Please give me some spare change to makes this worth many smiles
Because all he wants to do is live and breath with the freedom of fresh air