I ran across the bubbling fires
Without a hint of grace
With shadow puppets dancing
On the day I lost my face

I saw the night-time dripping black
Of humanity, was no trace
So deep I fell into the moon
On the day I lost my face

The rivers ran like wolf packs hard
Down ravines of forgotten place
Where no life at all took hold
On the day I lost my face

Across the skies the echoes raged
The hunters ride thru space
The vengeful howls of giants fell
On the day I lost my face

Like a nursery rhyming slum
Of frogs and snails in ponds of scum
The roaring of the angry past
Took their form on seas so vast

As sun shone seashore reasons melt
All history like dripping iron-smelt
As stars were snatched out of the sky
And burning arrows were let fly

Alone in demon meeting place
The day I lost my face

2013

from one of my notebooks of 2013. i read this randomly at a po

So, I began buying wild bird seed just lately and these little sparrows turned up and a few gradually turned into a ten or eleven. And I was worried that the sparrows had disappeared from Tower Hamlets where I live. But these look like babies just growing so I feel privileged to help them along.

A VIP goes into a restaurant and asks for his favourite meal.
It is served with missing ingredients, not cooked properly.
He is a VIP, his visit was scheduled, on an agenda.
What is he to do about the restaurant?

Christ, a VIP, came into a special place
He was let down, no special attention given him.
He was a VIP, his visit was scheduled, on an agenda.
What is he to do about this place?

this is in the tradition of the parable. some readers might give it some thought some might

Great lands
have grown so big
From little seeds
Across the seas
They’ve grown strong
And prosperous
And from this land
They did spring

So, it’s a shame
It’s very sad
not far away
They live in fear
And violent death
From the segregation
On your doorstep

Children play
In different streets
People live
Separated
By fear lines

The poor ones cry
There in a trap
At the segregation
On your doorstep

Hardly a tear
Hardly a sigh
Hardly a mention
In your office
For people
Suffering yet
From the segregation
On your doorstep

London is a city
Where the birds
Don’t sing
Anymore
It’s half past
Six in the morning
And the cars are piling in
I can hear
Their thunder
Their consuming fire
The birds
What few there are
Are still asleep
And won’t venture out
Until about nine
In the morning
People go to wok
What few there are
Tired still
From the overwork
They did last year
They’ll never get back
Their youth
Not in this city
And the tourists come
To see the history
But the history
Doesn’t matter
Not anymore
What matters
Is the beauty
But London
Is a city
Without beauty
Where the birds
Don’t sing
Anymore
And there goes
The first plane
Of the morning
Out of east London
Airport
Following a trail
Of death
Or pollution
It’s the same thing
And the birds don’t sing
And people
Try to carry on
In the slow leak
Of poison
From machinery
In a city
Where the birds
Don’t sing
Any more
And what pains me
The most
Is that people
Haven’t even noticed
Or even missed them
And another reason
Could be that
When one elephant
Dies in Africa
Hunted down
And murdered
Murdered because
They are big animals
And you can say
That they are murdered
In plain sight
Because they are
So big
So when one
Elephant
Is murdered
In Africa
A thousand birds
Die in London
I know it’s a stretch
Of the imagination
But maybe that is why
The birds don’t sing here
Anymore
There are
Items of guns
In their millions
And items of machinery
In their millions
And items of electronics
In their millions
That dull the senses
And destroy the soul
that take the place
Of birds
That might be responsible
For this great
Bird death
In London
Where the birds
Don’t sing
Anymore
And a neighbour
Falls out of bed
To go to work
And then there’s
Never another sound
Until next morning
And the next morning
And yesterday
And tomorrow
And there’s no
Greeting
From the birds
There’s no
Morning chorus
Anymore
Just he sound
Of millions of cars
And the trail of death
In the sky
From the planes
Flying overhead
And you say
But
They are passenger planes
But that
Doesn’t matter
Because they are
Flying in
And flying out
Of a city
Where the birds
Don’t sing
Any more
Where the nightingale
Doesn’t sing
In Berkeley Square
And the blackbird
Doesn’t spread its broken wings
anymore

This covering of the eye
A black blob in the microscope
Swims about my brain

It clings to all sight
This third eye
strapped to my forehead
Like a phylactery

This third eye
It covers one pupil
Then another

It will blot out one love
Then another
A blob of black jelly

Covering over the inner eye
An opaque contact lens

Swimming in the optic sea of sensation
Stultifying loves mobility
Casting a darkness into the soul

Is there a third eye? Even if there is, what guarantee do we have that it is