A rebel without a clue.

Being homeless is a habit: Sorting through tab ends Vainly hoping for gold tipped Promise , lifting one up  Above the pideon pavement. Another person's discarded fag Is a surface where Covid lingers Opiated, but not finished yet! And these souls, unclean, Just wait to be gathered Into deaths cold embrace And turned out, cruelly, Onto a morticians slab "Here lies a habit disforming".

Up The Ridge, Combining exercise With necessities, and Spring is definitely thriving Sprung is my mood striving Approaching Meanwoodside. But now there is a queue Dominated by a whiner, Who is so afraid, Which makes me relieved For not being her head. Shopping for necessities, Like pineapples and crisps, (During abnormal times) Is an upside down prospective: Crisis pudding or pineapple pie? My turn comes Only 40 persons in But still no toilet paper Oh, hang on! That man's trolley lolls Heavily, like the girth Spread beyond belt. Next boon, In these odd times, It strikes down Gluttony? With my few items, Minus bog roll I collect a basket Wafer thin.

Outwards, Colluding exercise, essences And hopping a few green spaces. Going out some While, inner voice calm; Down. Being away, Always alone, Tranquil Sitting in the sun. Basking next the greedy pigeons Distanced, Walking all the back ways: Ones neither or others either! Onwards, Through insidious Merrion Lanes, Keeping the dumb (Beyond arms length) An obvious difficulty. Oblivious, Wake up stupid folk! Are the British always Somnambulant? Sideways And swerving; A few close shaves. So paltry isn't a mind, Yet a fly would linger Bemused! Riding around these vacant lots (Looking for a place to land) Noticing Zero; inevitable silence. Unbelievably four forks, Together, Are having a BBQ, Smoking the Leylands, As I waft home.

This is not a cry It is not, sighing, Begging for pity. This voice speaks For a man afraid. Death gasps; Not for fear. As, grasping, It is quite homeless Here. So, cheer What will be will be! But being alone Is without ears And, seeing no-one, Blinking back tears: Unjustified.

In the evening, of day one, Alone  Facing to the east. As the wind Feels this way: Caressing parting sighs And I dissolve Down the valley (Making sure Essex Dogs plays loud). On this inward retreat. Some hands seem chapped and, Where a heart is desiccated, It is integral to this boney city. Dried: clattered, Clapping at nothing and an Empty hollow: shattered Where a terra rosa stains Along rivlet driven tears And life dissolves there. Clay, lies uselessly Fat, under Fixated assurity. While, my heart dissolves Into a Rochefort's happy, holy, Vectoring attack, it Releases me - but I cannot step aside This appalling season. For a time of real, Bloody pumping, We forget those trusts, In which we know There is no answer!

Mike told me about a market in China, he visited, which dealt in "exotic" birds, who met their end, forlorn, in a Chop Suey, and we must ask ourselves why we think this is ever OK? Behind the padlocked gate, and locked door, of a battery farm is the not-so-exotic Chicken: who we deal with in a similarly ruthless manner - to incorporate into a Sunday roast or Southern Fried Chicken - and I ask myself the same question. Why do we think this is ever OK? The irrational answer given usually consists of an arrogant "because I like it", yet I would contend that this is a world where we are all one - you, I, Lola and the dawn chorus I'm listening to - and I shouldn't like what I am doing to "I" because the results can only ever be horror: Corona Virus is where this has led us? Yet I cannot dictate to anyone, because all life consumes matter to persist in existence! All the way up from single cellular to multicellular and, indeed, solar, interstellar and pa...

All day yesterday I've sat inside watching the world outside and all I know is I want to linger outside: yet I didn't. Why didn't I, when that is all my life needs? I'm not house bound. Lola is, but I've just no cause to be behind these walls? Did I think I was immune to humanity?  Royal Oak might be making me consider, yet I was still sat there holding nothing dear in my grasp. Whenever I sit in a pub, café, restaurant, or other social setting, I am always trying to understand what it is which makes people speak the way they do. However I find it so difficult to listen without prejudice: judging words, actions and deeds. Suddenly I am awake again! It takes me a little time to come out of the milaise I fall into whenever I transfer from true being (walking) and unreality (not walking). My answer isn't at the bottom of a glass, can, bottle yet whenever I re-enter society from my place of isolation that is what I do. This morning I was awakened by the ...