A rebel without a clue.

The Earth sighs deep relief, Yet today I am exhausted! Suffering a separate malady, While the old enemy strikes, My pointless hands grasp space, (Praying away a weapons thrust) Or I'm lost! Within a formless version, During a faint day, On hearing a formless chatter, Disregarding my soliloquy, It's back. Between the truth and the death.

We've done this to ourselves, And everything loving! Over a thousand creases woven, But not so blinded behind the Caricature, in a fantastic show! We're not fair, nor equal and never just! Inside me a battle persists Between truly being honest And lying forever to my essence And I don't know why! But I know I want it finished. Perpetual and turning back On myself relentless. Turn this scorning frown inside To display an illusion Where speaking fails. Now I feel lost again, Battling unnecessarily, An imposter, I must relieve From perculiar perch - Most predicable, and Being knocked off, Firmly and hopefully Beyond restitution.

The demon escaped the bottle last night It did it's worst, attacking those I love, For no reason other than Ego. Even while I could see this other 'me' out of control: It was like watching someone else operate My mind, without finesse, And it was perculiar to be aware  These actions and blunt words  Came from a source other than me. ... While I am trying to stay focused during these difficult times, on Tuesday the other pattern in me surfaced and blew off into the path of those, this "most angry" secondary persona, most likes to swing for. Wednesday was a day of feeling bad for the things I said, which came from a source I wish to be free from. This morning I'm awake early and the wave of attack has vanished. Phew. This isolation is going to be very tough, but it's forced me to see the flat in Little London as my home: there is nowhere to run to while Leeds Homes (Leeds Council) website is off line anyway. Currently I have a place to retreat to and be at p...

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