A rebel without a clue.

Central line o o o o that shakespearian rag line. stick with me in this line. shadow of the law line. over the yardarm line. a stitch in time line. a yard of ale line. London town line. a bird in the hand is worth two in bush line Gules, three lions passant guardant in pale or armed and langued azure, line shandy drinking puff line. booze time. England - it's time line. we've run out of bog paper line. solely a political motive line. power corrupts line. divide and conquer line. your finger goes through line. put that in your pipe and smoke it line. pretty vacant sounding like pretty vacunt line. move on time line tuna make me retch line. marmate, love it or hate it line. teatime line. a Pukka pie line. your eyeliner is dark line. 4 and 20 blackbirds line. thin line. thick line. long line. short line. nice line. awful line. a fine line Ontological line. just stop-starting line. we always pretend line. in line. on the line. over the line. line line. head line....

It is eight thirty The zombies join me I wait for them never to appear But they hardly disappoint. Beautiful blue skies White gulls far away Green seas calm Before the winter foam. Not enough ... Concrete stance Frail and lacking Formless Puzzling Saturday? Why should I see a stripped down universe? Did you strand me here? Too much Too young Until the end For something so ancient. Amongst Hard working Little thinking Too tinkering Fools You sit beautiful And reclined I sigh For youth Love for youth. A labyrinth is the complex ways Our seldom easy to plan means NHS can only slowly rattle A poisoning tail at the end of a path. Physiological, tick. Security, tick. Belongingness, no. Esteem, no. Self-actualised? Improbable. Being aware of awareness Inner peace and stillness In the face of the hurricane Of humanities farce.

Working in the weight Inside eyes frightened Scaled in to lateness And your verisimilitude. All psychopaths are ruling us now From the first dawn of consciousness Until the sunset upon this broken throne God it is bad. Gregg Wallace Is a crudely pictorial Probably false Faked from buttons to face. Didn't you realise? Is it possible I've lost interest in Facebook? But am I alone? First I got bored of television, then computers now I enjoy sleep. Oh, dark energy - you flood Our light minds with fear All we think we knew is false Arriving on shore without pilot or mast. The universe is a hologram How can a string vibrate 'one dimensionally'? Take me away from here. Flex a wrist, right No blood there Sure to run free at Least expectation. Today is likely to be numb And suffering mouth feel Which speaks of astringency When something happened Drinking a cup of Jasmine Tea. Is the decline of the pub the reason for the increase in male loneliness...

Information is never absolute Parts are lost Parts are hidden Parts are banned Parts aren't comprehension Parts are mystery Parts suffer misery Imparted untrue Lies take apart trust And deliver malcontents. First in three Third being sunny Twice equally squally. Eclipsed mood First in heart Heated crimson tide Flow in; tranquil, Sublime. Garden grows Between bricks and mortar Falling leaves gather Before the rake People smile against Implemented Being forced: awake!

Stood waiting - surely death must be frightenly cold. Such freezing of every emotion, body and pain. But what then? The Universe is inhospitable in all parameters except stars. The season's change makes it seem beyond a joke. We lie in bed and do not wish to lift our head. It creeps into every bone and nerve. Between toes it forces me to rock and fret. Bus home and time to descend into East India Youth.

My mind has been filled with beasts of absurd proportions and I was unheard among the cacophony of their blasted voices.  The space I was looking for was marginal and obscured to my sight. It was there but like the thin ribbon floating on the current of broken branches, spinning turmoil and helpless hopes heading beyond the steady shore in a forced drowning. Between the heaving, the rushing and the dominating of the presence I could find no means, no shore and no foothold. It was all lost for I. Now I stand, after nearing a suffocating end,  drenched and gasping for meditative air; peace brought lower to my soul beyond lungs like a spinnaker forcing and heart bearing a capstan fully wound-up under earthly pressures. It is relief to feel calm as the storm water retreats. After a purposefully felt mindful day (I had resolved to have yesterday evening). The bad weather gone and the demons drowned out at sea. Against the odds I stuck to this crazy confusing track with voices ...

Nothing I do is worthless It is a reflection of Truth Troth to being and equal not being Holy is the whole reality Discernible in pure view.

Today, what of it, that is left I brought you rocket, olives and bruschetta bread For me the stage was set for resting amongst the noises feeding my head Right amongst the section of architects stones stood such spitting scholar Closed eyelids and puffy face while waiting to face heavens appeasement The craft of which you speak hasn't levened cleavers leaving me dead and hollow. My pedimental marble is cold and unfeeling framed against a rattling voice. Fucking further than I forsaw from the distance of 5pm and 8pm.

Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It's that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it's another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies. Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We're bombing the wrong people. Not sure what this means: I've been on the X98 the last couple, three days and it's half empty from Wetherby (where it was full before I moved back to Leeds). I postulate it is a sign of the times: mass unemployment reduces the footfall on public transport: this in turn will reduce the overall income of this public function and the knock on effect will be higher price, followed by still lower footfall. This ain't over yet! Even the red ...

Office girls get up and dress like whores. Office gentlemen dress like confirming priests. Some of them drag on fag ends in longing for destiny Some of them talk to their handsets like it's war. There is a faux friendship here And blank impotent rage When in years gone bye nine bells would toll The reality of slavish coil doesn't depend on whistles. Fake leather elbows on a tweed coat: oh is that the best you can do? Drag them away one by one and shoot the lot. Put them on the east coast cattle truck to be boiled down to tallow.

She moves like a shadow on the sand Twisting sidewise against the ripple and Darkly testing us for silicate and rust Footfalls tread in the melancholy dust The colours there represent a simple pallet But she tells me that she has more left The choice is simple and is easily balloted What more can i do to stop being alone But she will not help me solve her clue There i am a single singley chosen hue Deserting her love choice multiple tone.