Salvador Dali

Salvador Dali

gave the clock a trickle

as it tick, tick, tickled into sand.

A genius hand

that held many fans

salivating, berating and

contemplating man.

Salvador Dali;

paintbrush hairs above his lip,

he let them slip and slide

on hip and thigh.

He had the need to graze against

a most beautiful face;

a porcelain piece

while on his knees

mottled with blue

he painted her trees

that led to a bush

and a final push.

Two paintbrush hairs

rubbed together in ecstacy.

Salvador Dali!

Salvador Dali!

They said his name at parties

and he’d cup them in his hands.


What Gets My Goat.

A list of things that piss me off:

people in cinema’s that cough.

Things that really get my goat:

Faux Del Boy charm and fur coats,

A 60p Kinder Surprise

and people who call quaint chips “fries”,

or the people that call death a “demise”

and cheaply filled cut fine steak pies.

But what really gets my goat

more than fake Del Boy charm or fur coats

is the celebs in glossy magazines

who haven’t had fame since the 90’s.

Peter Andre, Kerry Katona,

silly, petty, whiny moaners.

Katie Price and Alex Reid,

sell their soul for glossy greed.

Other things that wind me up

are England in the World Cup.

These spoilt and fattened little sows

trot about then whine and pout

when the game just doesn’t go there way

they’re ungrateful shits with too much pay.

People who laugh at their own jokes

and zero sugar diet coke.

Pubs that charge above the rates

are another thing I really hate.

Seven quid for a vodka and coke?

Now that’s what really gets my goat.

Little kids with guns and knives

choosing a life of crime over houses and wives.

Little kids playing games

on their computers, not getting grass stains.

Sitting indoors and putting on weight

and chatting online to their chubby mates.

The jokes that pause for laughs on Friends

and trying to write when you can’t find a pen.

Getting a line from a song in your head all day

or the three lots of tax we’re expected to pay.

The fact nothing is free when we’re in a “free” world,

Tim Henman at Wimbledon, he plays worse than a girl.

All of these things really drive me nuts

as does the idea that all gays are sluts.

Black jokes from the 70’s on movies modern

and C.G.I fests like Werewolves and Gollum.

The Twilight movies, God, I just can’t bare to look.

The movie is terrible “But you must read the book!”

A film should be good in it’s bloody own right

without me reading the book for a week every night!

And Twilight, O, Twilight, thanks, thanks a lot

for putting on my T.V more vampiric rot.

This is a list of things that piss me off

so I won’t go to the cinema if you have a cough

or pay a whole 60p for a Kinder Surprise

or ever call the humblest of humble chips “fries”;

I won’t be at the Twilight film premiere

or reading glossy magazines pretending to care.

I won’t laugh at Americanised O.T.T Friends Jokes

or be drinking zero sugar cokes.

These things really get my goat,

faux Del Boy charm and fake fur coats.

Edward Cullen, lean and mean

on the cover of a magazine…

The Shoes Blues. (Uno Draftero)

I’ve got the beat in these new feet,

I’ve got the blues in these new shoes,

I’ve got the beat in these new feet,

I’ve got the blues in brand new shoes.

And these shoes, they show the blessed blues

as my feet they stomp with every move.

These shoes they dance the blessed beat

as they stomp and stamp the ground with feet.

Another Brick in the Wall.

Hey, Jo, up here on my wall,

up here on my wall, up here on my wall.

Hey, Jo, up here on my wall,

up here on my wall, up here on my wall.

And I don’t need no edukashun

to count these bricks, to count these bricks,

to count these bricks,

because too much homework makes me sick,

it makes me sick, gets on my wick.

Repetition to a fish, is a repetitious wish.

Fresh as daisy’s, milk and honey.

We are just two fish in a bowl

in need of money.

Hey Jo, up here on my wall,

up here on my wall,  up here on my wall.

Humpty dumpty, he had a big fall,

he fell off the wall, scrambled eggs in store.

Breakfast with you echoes daily

but its fresh as honey, crisp money and daisy’s.

We’re just marooned, got the jugband blues

lack of money old news, but as fresh as a bruise.

Hey Jo, I’m up here on my wall,

heading for a fall, heading for a fall.

Hey Jo, I’m up here on my wall,

heading for a fall, don’t know whats in store.

And I don’t need no edukashun

to count these bricks, to count these bricks,

cuz too much ‘omework makes me sick,

it makes me sick, gets on my wick.

Going to the park to see Emily play

birds eye view from this wall of grey.

At times I think I should be learning to fly

because my fall won’t be part of the great gig in the sky.

You know, you know, I should really try,

to learn some lessons in learning to fly.

You know, you know, I should really try

to learn some lessons, it just takes time.

Carroll said Lessons lessen from day to day

until you know everything each and every way.

But more than knowing everything one of these days

I’d rather our lives have the happiest days.

The tigers break free from our old fears

and how I wish, how I wish you were here.

I realise all I want and all I need

is a ladder so you’re next to me.

And all I want and all I need

is to grow long hair that you can reach.

Climb the wall and beat the bricks

that trap me high and make me sick.

Hey Jo, I’m up here on my wall,

up here on my wall,  up here on my wall.

Hey, you, I’m up here on my wall,

up here on my wall, up here on my wall.

Monkeys In The Backroom.

Monkeys in the back room

making pastry skin,

talcing it to make it paler

and slicing in wet grins.

Monkeys in the back room

get out some currants and some grease

they slather on the ointment

and create currant S.T.D’s.

Monkeys in the back room

they created AID’S.

It’s the planet of the apes now

you monkey bummed and now you pay.

Monkeys in the back room

cooking up a nice surprise.

STD’S and foaming rabies

all add to our demise.

Monkeys in the back room

fighting a new war,

putting currants on the cocks

of the greedy and the poor.

Monkeys in the back room

gonna make us pay.

Monkeys in the back room

gonna kill us all today.


He offered words to the birds

because their coos were too crooning.

He offered the knife and fork a small spork

because the spoons, they kept spooning

and through it all, the world,

it keeps moving;

as somebody wins somebody’s bruising.

Bruised cheek, last week,

she can not talk, she can not speak.

Black eye, don’t know why,

the only break she gets on sheets.

Get her breath back, count to ten

then it’s time to fuck again.

Aint got no love, aint got no friends,

got no Mother, it’s men, men, men.

And where is he as spoons do spoon

and little black birds groove and croon?

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,

my oh my, is the world starting to pay.

Plenty of sunshine, boiled grass looks like hay

no food to eat now, so let’s pray for rain.

And the black’s don’t have souls until ’76,

and the towers, they crumble, like fallen twix.

Have a break, have a kit kat as you kill the world

and the rainforest dwindles, palm oil is like pearls.

The world is our oyster and we suck it dry

and get more fat on our backs from eating food fried.

As we get fat arses and doubled double chins

we chuck it all in one bag, fuck recycling bins.

He offers words to the birds

and a buzz for the bees

but where are the crutches

for that whore on her knees.

People get trafficked

and there are millions missing,

for Him to find them

would be like going fishing.

He sits with a line

that is hooked and the sunk

in this Hades realm of lost souls

that are drugged up or drunk.

They can’t grab His line

because it’s not even there,

invisible and hidden

they think nobody cares.

To bite onto His bait

would be like a mouth full of cock

and these poor little choir boys

are sick of having that shock.

Whose to blame for these paedophiles

that can run amock

and throw women in prisons

and keep them locked up?

It’s the Jews,

it’s the gays,

it’s anyone but themselves.

What does He think when he sees this?

Religions in bad health.

In fact it is dying, critical, comatose.

It’s been dying since Chaucer

with the priest whose nose grows.

Not literal, but cynical,

they are all lying c*nts.

Anything to get money,

they pull stupid stunts

like saying “to get into Heaven

you must pay your way.

There’s an entrance fee on the door

or down you go with the gays.”

I’m sick of this fear

and I’m sick of their lies,

Catholicism and cynicism

hold hands in the night.

Do you think that priest prays for your soul

as he counts up those riches?

Does he fuck! He’s a pimp,

and you’re all his bitches.

So Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,


let’s pay the bigots

and let’s hang the gays.

Let’s say Jews killed Jew Jesus

and the Roman’s saved the day,

let’s say the Holocaust never happened

and in a holiday camp they stayed.

“Yeah, they’re a bit skinny,

but that’s just their race.

Too fucking tight to buy food

and put it on plates.”

And that’s what sticks in my throat

and makes me choke,

that these issues of seriousness

are a big fucking joke.

And the people that matter,

the victims,

the dead,

they are forgotten and scorned

and put in their beds.

Shooed like a child

with wild thoughts and nightmares;

“Darling, Auschwitz never existed

now get up those stairs.”

How can our children

learn empathy and love

if we won’t learn from our mistakes?

Instead we are innocent, Gov.

We can’t teach children the past

if it is emotive and sad

but we let them play violent computer games

and question behaviour bad.

And what does He think

when He sees the ghosts of the dead

who lost their lives for nothing

and for Him they were led.

Does He feel guilty

as he croons with the birds

when for those lost and missing

He can’t give them the words,

or the chance to jump out and escape

like a Jack in the box?

Instead they are winded back in again

and the door is then locked.

To Him I do ask,

do we learn and get better?

Or do we keep repeating

the same mistakes forever?

I listen, no answer,

what do I expect?

I’m just a fish in the water,

hungry and vexed.

Swimming for answers

and diving for truths

but these truths are old

and so is this news.


God softly croons

as the birds twitter and tweet

and the poppy’s do bloom.

One day we’ll get answers,

maybe one day soon

but for now the birds sing

and the whores sit alone in their rooms.

Make Tea Not War.

Houses close together,

no room for real territory,

its derogatory

in a ten storey flat

surrounded by rats.

They’re the King of your castle.

It’s a farce. All these cars

to drive short journeys to places

with smaller spaces.

You’ve got your shoes,

you’ve got your laces,

tie them and go.

Let your muscles grow,

we’re so slow,

losing control of our feet.

Of the beats within us.

Roxette said to listen to your heart,

it’s a start, our natural rhythm

is dwindling and hinders

the fire to cinders.

A fires gone out

so what’s it about?


A man walks through Waterloo

station with the patience

and honour of God’s angels.

His angle was all right.

He was healthy and slight,

he was black, all in white

and he carried a bag.

He sang.

He sang for God and Jesus

and we all thought:

Jesus he is good,

with food for thought.

He caught us in a moment

of simple joy and serenity.

Serenity and peace.

I don’t want to be a preacher

and I won’t preach to you,

beseech you

or beg of you not to pray to God

but to pray for us.

To pray for change,

for us to say “I forgive us,

let’s start again,

let’s be friends.

Let’s start with Hello’s.

We’ll take it slow.

Cold straight to hot

can be fatal.

I’m not asking for passion,

presentation and charm.

Let’s not do harm.

Nice, nice, nice,

not sugar and spice.

It’s not the 60’s any more

but darling, let’s make tea not war.