The train was angry

The train was angry because of the stress
Gone is the humour, the quaintness
In came the rules, the strict regimes
The paranoia of modern times.

The train felt angry, it was horse whipped
Spurred on by the driver like the old horse
Starving and tired under a cruel master
With never any freedom never any leisure.

The nights were shortening the pressure grew
For high speed journeys from Glasgow to Crewe
But just before entering the junction at Stoke
The train lost its temper and off the tracks broke

Why did it happen? A reason we need
Why did the train crash at such a high speed?
Perhaps like the carthorse pushed to the edge
It reflects how society plays games on the ledge.

Nov 10th


I’d like to join a railway line and never have to stop
Or languish in a siding or sold off as scrap

With fuel to keep me going, water to slake my thirst
Through the night with fires alight I would travel around your lap

I’d like to join a railway line a classic model one
A line so beautiful in design that circles round the sun

To never ever tire, to ignore the tick of time
To dispense with any schedule,
Oh yes, I’d like to join a railway line

Steaming to the buffer on a private track
With carriages of sumptuousness, upholstery of black
To spend my time on the railway line
With no need of turning back
Oh yes I’d like to join a railway line

The summer would be timeless without the need of work
Just to travel round and round the railway line

The nights would be endless as we’d listen to the sound
Of stars alive forever until the end of time
Oh yes, I’d like to join a railway line

27 Nov 1995



The meteorite pilot
Guides his chunk of rock
Through the night sky.

Once long ago
In a desperate war on earth
They were used as suicide meteorites
Crashing into cities
Leaving giant craters
Where people once were.

The meteorite pilot
Cruises the canals of the solar system
Towing showers of iron and gold
Towing showers of diamonds and sapphires
Towing showers of radioactive mineral
Guiding the meteorite
Around the heavenly bodies.

The meteorite pilot
Like a cavalry officer
He will charge against whole populations
He will make the earth rock
To leave behind a cleansed land
For the ruling class.

The meteorite pilot
Cruises outer space
The leader of rocks
That go where he leads them.
It’s no easy life,
Meteorites are like wild horses
Galloping through the darkness.
To harness them
Is a fight to the death.

The meteorite pilot
Has other work,
While doing the rounds
He observes the frontier,
He picks up strays,
He destroys rogues,
Turns them into fuel,
He keeps the heavens safe
For those who can afford them.

21 Oct


I live
in a cold
meteorite crater,
with the meteorites of the moon.
The cold meteorites
love their moon crater.
but to me,
it’s all doom and gloom.

They leased it
on the moon market,
and grew marigolds in the murk.
The hired man
from the cleaning club
dusts it once a month
for part-time work.

I live in a cold
meteorite crater
where the man in the moon
asks for rent.
Where the meteorites
skulk about
with faces
like a collapsed moon tent.

But elsewhere
on the moon
they live
happily as can be,
eating roast beef for dinner
and drinking tea for tea.


Meteorite maid
Sitting astride your stallion
Galloping through space
In the big space race.

Make your bets
10 to 1
The meteorite maid
Will finish in the sun.

She will be photographed by the Sun
She will do an orbit of honour
Riding her meteorite
Her precious space rock

A meteorite rock
A black beauty
Galloping across the sky
With its meteorite maid

Dec 95

The boy struck by a meteorite

The boy struck by a meteorite was never the same, never the same
He came back down from the mountain in so much pain, so much pain.
His hair was redder than blood; his eyes were brighter than stars
Sometimes he flew; sometimes he crawled; sometimes got drunk in bars.

But he always loved you; he always loved you – Miss Meteorite.


The day starts normally.

1. A man stands in front of an advert for a car on a billboard. He examines the new car that is being advertised. He is thinking of the latest technological advances it has; he is imagining he is driving it, if it would be a pleasure, if people would notice him.

A man stands in front of a landscape painting with a car. It is a realistic painting. He feels as though it is real. He reaches his hand out to the painting to open the door of the car. He thinks that the road is real and that the road is going somewhere.

A man passes by a car in the street and turns to cross over. The car blocks his way, He tries to get through the gap between the parked cars but there isn’t a space wide enough for him to squeeze through. He takes out a spray can and he sprays the windows with black paint.

2. I am chasing my voice. How far away is it? I cannot hear it at all, is it behind the distant ruins, fields and the hills?

There was an explosion, an explosion of pointless hatred. I could feel it; it was like a cannon shell that hit me dead centre. My voice alone escaped, a sound flew away, a sound of impossible pain that darted out of the impact zone like a terrified bird.

I was a dead boy, a battlefield victim. I was the black hole in the ground. My life clung to the sides like soup.

The tweezer birds came and picked up very piece of me and put me back together. They found every torn part of me and reassembled me inside the crater. I crawled out, I tried to scream. I tried to shout out. I had everything but my voice. My voice had gone and I didn’t know where or how to find it.

3. Things keep falling from windows, from tables, from clothes hangers. I pass by a washing line and the clothes on the line fall off.

I am in a library. I go to pick up a book from the shelves and it falls to the floor. Another book on top of the shelf falls from a book stand. Then another book falls out of the space of the first book.

I am in a restaurant. I am ready to eat. I pick up the knife and fork. The salt cellar falls to the floor I go to pick it up and the mustard jar galls to the floor. I bend down awkwardly to pick both up and the vinegar bottle falls and breaks. I straighten up and leave.

I am in the kitchen making tea and toast. I open a packet of tea. The tea bag falls to the floor. I go to pick it up, the toast pops out of the toaster I go and I take the toast out of the toaster and I drop the toast on the floor.

I go out. I go to the tube station. I search for my travel pass. I take it out of my pocket. My keys fall to the floor. I go to pick them up, people surge forward to catch the train and I drop my travel pass.

I look up at the skyscrapers. First I see a folder fall out of a window. Then I see a box of pencils followed by a bundle of toilet paper. Then I see someone leaning out of the window and they fall out. Suddenly moving arms are sticking out of the windows trying to catch the falling woman. She grabs one but her momentum pulls him out of the window and they both fall. Attempting to lean out of as far as possible many people lose their positions and start falling then the whole skyscraper is covered in falling people.

4. I go into the courtroom. The judge is a big angry cat. The attendants and assistants are  big angry cats. The prosecutor and the barrister are both big angry cats.

I leave the court and go down a corridor and up a winding staircase. I come to a hatch and I look inside. I see a decomposing corpse and I go to look for an officer.

I find someone in an officer’s uniform but the man himself is invisible. I open a large church door and he is sucked in by a strong wild wind.

I walk out of the courthouse to the grounds. Several strangers are following me at a distance. In my mind I can hear their thoughts. Get him. Stop him. Don’t let him get away.

I run for my life.

A huge crowd of men are running after me. My feet do not touch the ground as I run. I realise that I am not getting anywhere. The huge crowd is on top of me. I want to wake up.


November storms take the last leaves from the trees
Growing on the branches in the summer
Blown by violent gale force wind into the twilight
Down to the ground they fall to the hammering winter

As light fades, I watch helpless from the backroom window
The insecurity of love confront the stormy evening
Blown across the hillside, dissolving in the night
Passing the watchful in the darkness on the road

Tired of turmoil I sit qui-vive in the amorphous room
A towering darkness separates me from your life
I see through the storm as if it were glass, your home
As crashing furious darkness spreads over the road

The ruthlessness of the storm has no time for a goodbye Will not see the comedy played in the shelter of the heart
Or remember the love story ending in the winter shadows
Wants only power and fear to cast out the dying year

No light is seen in the dark pouring rain
Fiercely splattering the window and then hurriedly sweeping on
For the future is a puzzle gathering in the darkness
An insecure mirror of nature born from destruction

The ancient river of life assembles in the unknown
Beneath the stratus, static shadows of memory begin
With the consciousness of how incomplete experience remains
As winter prepares the new season beyond the storm


Feral child in the dark tangle of the moon gashed night
Surviving in the blood redness of the claw moon
Roots, paws, tooth, claws, alive yet dead, survived yet destroyed
From the dungeon of her soul, tears dilute the sticky dew

Feral child in the dread darkness of spinning dreams
Half man, half beast pursuers in the sinews of the night
Her heart of crushed stone and blood lie in the wolf’s lair
A cry of human fire and tears sears the sorry air

Wild feral child, blind as a bull, bright as a blinding sun
Whose cup is full of pricking thorns and poisoned water
What Barabbas abandoned you to the wild broody bitch
Can somewhere a father speak for you in his secret heart
Once I was like the wild feral child
Wild like the moonlight in the wilderness wind
Thoughts as dark as the deep black rock
Life like strangled streams over rapids
Unguided moments when love was unknown to me
Unguided moments when life beat me
Wild feral child death has stalked you in the night
The white eye of knowledge has made you afraid
The white spot in the blanket of darkness
Has seared your heart like a laser

You ran through the trees, the roof of the forest screamed
The tears of dead bodies bit your feet like cat’s teeth
The clash of fear and sorrow stifled your throat
For a friend in the jaw of a predator

Wild feral child eternity is in your heart
But thorns rip your tongue that never speaks
Like wolves at a carcass your speech is torn
Speech that cries for life in the jaws of death

At night when you return to your den
When every breeze is like a mother’s hand
The evening sun’s desire gives birth to fever
You see the sky through the canopy and feel lost

Music sketch: The time ahead

Something I made up on guitar that I liked. So recorded it. 1.25 mins long. I was able to edit a few gaps out with a wave editor which is a relief. Grazie


Love burns in the kitchen light in the twilight the cold silver moon, love burns in the night forests catching fire. The white rabbit in a white collar swinging from the gallows grinning a deadly grin. The white rabbit on counter clockwise fairground rides where candle flames quiver in the night air. Love burns the white fur, the eyes stare like exploding ovens. In the kitchen light the white rabbit skydives through clouds of burning oxygen, the ghosts of ancient flowers dancing in the slamming door light. Burning corpses of sensual love dreams roll down the edge of the sea of tranquillity, the white rabbit hops across moon glassy universes.

The white rabbit blues

The bluest food of white rabbits falls in love with charging moons in fields of thistles where bulls are sliced to bits by scythes of flashing morning sun. Love burns holes through hoops of love where white rabbits bleed to death like melting mini cars in cemeteries. White rabbits bring flowers of moth-silk petals fluttering in the wind like turpentine fire bombs. In the shoes of white rabbits, legless ducks on stilts walk through world war blitzkriegs seeking golden eggs, crashing meteorites of stag fights in motorway collision courses.

The white rabbit blues

Enamel onions with tongues of hydrogen-fires cry with jelly babies in pond water tombs. White rabbit love affairs of planets crashing through meteorite storms with thunderous waiting wolves in King Arthur battlegrounds. Love burns in worms of neon lights rolled around balls of wool in blood filled skies of autumn snowdrifts. White rabbit sings of sleepless loneliness everlasting on islands of gloom pierced with cannibal’s spears, cries of eagles in featherless bodies.

White rabbit blues.

Crystal chandeliers in melting kettles filled with love bites attract plagues of flies that die in holes punched into old love letters. White rabbit toys litter play-school dreams like armies of marching peppermints into the overgrown gardens night. Love burns hot iron brands in outer body hallucinations of operating tables amongst waiting armies of angels, where white rabbits grow like snowflakes from volcanic ice explosions in the undercurrents of Antarctica.

White rabbit blues

White rabbits within white rabbits with flaming tails of white whales where lovers on death beds kiss the necks and shoulders of deep sea monsters. White rabbits like flakes of flaming skin stampeding against full moon darkened nights of rocketing evergreen trees. True love white rabbits with human feet roasting on spits of shooting stars where half-awake Romeo’s hang like sofas from coconut trees in wheelchair scrapyards. White rabbits like enamel cannonballs mutiplicate in exam rooms like calculator production lines in dairy farms, flowing like glaciers in raging forest fires where tigers with bloody jaws are lit like street lights.

Invasions of white rabbits whose bodies fill living rooms in royal palaces like cotton bales in high speed carriages of old steam trains on iced over lakes in mountain ranges. Love sold on sticks like lollipops in white rabbit eyes of dripping boiler room walls that crash down bottomless crevasses of vacuum filled ancestries. White flourish, hanging by their ears from trees in foxy eyed jungles where human armies lie like decomposing fleas in seas of blood. White rabbits like fields of Australian sheep melt into honeymoon couples in gothic Parliaments where aborigines wrestle with writhing crocodiles that swallow the heads of mating chickens. The white rabbit blues sung in telephones in bottles ringing with shrieks of rooks that swallowed old women in graveyards vigils. White rabbits rolled out like turf around castles of tumbling cards.


A Stranger at the Dinner Table

Several people re sat around a dinner table. I do not know who they are; they seem nice, friendly, unassuming. I do not see their preoccupations with each other.
They pass the salt, they pour the coffee, I like that the sun is shining, at how relaxed I feel with them, at how well the meal was so well organised; a family meal that has been happening every day for years.
Their clothes are clean and well fitted. The table cloth is clean. Items on the table include a pen and paper, a radio, a bracelet.
At one point in the meal they were all passing something to each other, their arms were folding at the elbow, swinging from the shoulder a motion that surrounded the table like a paper chain. Then they put their arms down and began to chat.
The wife spoke and as she spoke the salt cellar exploded like a small volcano and everyone was surprised, she though, not seeing the miracle or the response to her table talk just laughed.
The husband a few minutes later said something. The olive jar cracked open and the olives rolled over the table’s edge. The birds from a nearby tree flew down, do birds eat olives, and ate them.
The dinner resumed. The two twin girls started arguing over the chocolate mousse which stated to bubble and in the bubbles could be seen dark wicked eyes appearing. The mother told them to stop squabbling and be quiet.
The guest began to tell a story of his recent travels abroad. I was in Valencia recently he said and the gravy boat capsized like a ship and spilled over into the lap of their son’s new girlfriend.
This all hinted at the secret life of the family. I asked for captions to appear above their heads to show what they were really thinking.
The husband liked the son’s new girlfriend.
The wife was having an affair with the guest.
The twins were both in love with their tennis coach.
The group dispersed to various rooms in the building and the husband to his garage. The attractive maid came out to clear up the table. Suddenly on a distant hill a house caught fire. A fire engine passed by and all the firemen were singing

Your song of love and insincerity

Your song of love

The manifesto began to burn as you sang. When you had finished you had saved a whole nation from conquest.
The commander who had stopped to listen stripped off his clothes and walked across Libya. His skin became as white as snow.
At the prisoner of war camp your song hovered above the compound like a virgin light. The rules of war themselves bled to death and all the prisoners were released.
Suddenly on the calm of the ocean thousands of U-boats came to the surface attracted by their radar to your song. As you reached the high notes the code books ran into the sea and mermaids came and ate them; a Convoy of merchant ships passed by in peace.
In the equatorial jungle a man ran to freedom. Creatures in red coats with dinosaur claws and overgrown hair took hacksaws from their purses and listened. It was your song again for the 5th time it seemed to come from the mountains far away. The man reached the sea and safety.
Do you know that moment when all around you there is war yet it all comes to a standstill just to listen to your song of love?


Like a child who detects the insincerity in a mother’s voice you’ve known insincerity all day long. You give them their wages in the form of a treacherous smile and move on.
You were sitting on a rooftop when floodwater filled the contours of the land. Just like insincerity you said to yourself.
You know that at certain times of day the phone will ring. This must be insincerity for how can the fish catch the fisherman?
Your wife is self-wrapped in cling film yet she still manages her appointments. Little mice run about her feet as if sensing her insincerity.
A news report the size of a billiard ball crashes out of the TV and sips your tea while words roll about like marbles. Did they really think you would not see through their insincerity?
You know insincerity all day long, you watch it grow, you see its serpents heads popping out of its flowers and spitting blood and fire as the butterflies hover overhead.
You go to sleep and you have a nightmare that you have become insincerity incarnate.

Bag Full of Rocks

My rocks are the memories from different adventures. I thought I would just leave this bag here.

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.*♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*. BERNARD *♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*.


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