A rebel without a clue.

The last day of March begins With the sun cornered between Clouds and St James' Hospital And me sat in the same space Wondering when this will finish? The voices in my head are reaching Outward, from where they'd been Relegated to an occasional threat, To become emboldened by others Who always judge on partial evidence. Give me back my feet, and my Way, otherwise I will cave in And mutate again becoming lesser When all I seek is magnitude! Yet isn't it still my choice to walk? Bored of switching on the radio With it's list from panic measures, And hearsay, dropping "mights" Into the doomsaying with this Negative wassailing upward creep! Crawling back into the kitchen, Stirring, sideways, this familiar vessel, A subcontinential spicy ration, Breaking my fast, prior to One form of exercise without prejudice. Cruelly formulated in this cell, By those without a free instinct; Charmless, bland or banal. Gruel they serve up in bitter measures Isn't ...

Corona virus lockdown, on Day seven of mind control, (The state says in must be)! But something doesn't make sense To me. To become so overwhelmed - Just like so? By nothing. What is this fear Crippling us universally? Please will someone Speak truth about  What this smoke Is enveloping? And it's actual purpose Disguised. Running, With tail pointed down, From this impossibly Miniscule, but ruthless Sometime killer. Over my flat hovers, Gnat-like, Circling ready to pounce Sirens wailing, flashing Drawing our eyes Away. Just another brick Against the truth And what is coming, Really? Stalking us  When we seeded this Beginning ourselves! Building over The prison Completes. Around those free. A few casualties  Are nothing to the frequent Bombs rained down On Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Et cetera. In the name of no-one Human. What is it, beyond this Painful bend, They wish us to not see? It just feels like Déjà vu. And we're distracted Fools, Again!

Today was a game of two halves - During a bottle of Monastrell And picking my way  Back along the plateau, In my head, towards La Mancha. Day dreaming and drifting Too many footsteps! My brain is warped by Citra: So sick of brewing beer In such small quantities And quality might unhing me? Beer kit I was forced to sell (By the one most at risk)! All the most necessary kit To survive Corona Virus! But it insincerely Buggered off to Micklethwaite! Embraced by a Southbank middleclass Bastard! What's the good of Citra? Give me a noble hop Or a fantastic noble grape Not mind rot and pointless worry This organic vino seems OK, As the electricity went off (And I ran out on gas)! Such a silly situation, And all I want to do is walk!

What possessed you to apply? Did your friends with good advice implode? We should hang you up in chains Let you rot beside the ill-paved road Born too late for the First World War Siege of Troy was long before my time Naseby, Jutland, Agincourt Characters perhaps from pantomime Authors, sport, landlocked states Capitals of Europe and their size Breeds of dog, famous dates Kind of hoping these things don’t arise I don’t watch films in black and white The trees and flowers and birds have passed me by I’ll just guess and hope I’m right The first man into space was Captain Bligh Good luck back in work They’ll’ve heard you were on Have you got the file for Mr Out In Round One? Harken, a cuckoo! Or is it a wren? Don’t ever darken our doorstep again Truth is beauty, beauty truth All you know on earth, all you need to know Superb, succinct Pity then for you it’s not quite so Hickstead, Hickstead, Hickstead, Hickstead Duck Soup, 1933 Words beginning with K-N-O Words that end in B-H-E-A-D

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.