Concrete Slice

The steel-cold kobold,
Peddle on frost-bitten roads.
Before the vendors of those,
Who sell fried chicken.
Or Kebaby’s where it may get stabby.
Or any classic backdrop of a modern urban tragedy.

The counter-culture soldier says to another;
“I thought we were leaving all the gear with your brother?
And we’d be getting no more calls or bother?
If I have to do a bird who will take care of my mother?”

Because the counter-culture soldier is an only son,
Of a weary single mother whose best has come undone.
And we all know this isn’t a question of just one;

That bought the lie of power from a little white square,
With freedom or a life the price for peddling the gear.
But there is little turnover in preaching to the choir,
Cos profit is the motive for the scene yet to transpire.

Easy to take aim at the youth gone wrong.
Hard to ask ourselves where all the drugs come from.

Scene ends, the counter-culture soldier has laid his life down.
Common consequence when handling the White and the Brown.
His eulogy is held over broadcasting silence.
Soul lost to a war not in Iraq or Northern Ireland.

But who will mourn this soldier when they put him in the ground?
No gun salute, just the sirens sound.
Another young soldier will replicate this life.
The same tale in this jungle, another concrete slice.

The Voices in the Wall/ The Walls are thin, here.

The voices in the Wall, think they’re all so fucking cool,
Pseudo-psychoanalysts, just a bunch of nosey tools,
Is there any right that these jumped-up, moralistic, prigs can find to try and listen in,
Through the thin,
Drywall and concrete brick,
It makes me sick,
Like a fly on the wall that won’t be crushed,
Reality TV that they don’t need to rush with at all.
No delay.
No replay.
They’ll be here everyday to comment on, what’s going on
With the neighbours round the way.
When was it ever acceptable to play Voyeur?
Even if you want to do it at least show yourselves, pervs!
The enemy I can’t see has no right to judge me.
I remember the old days…
Actually, I won’t call them old days, still quite fresh of face
When all my enmity was conveyed to some external space,
The truth? With crushing brevity; it’s my own mental state.
The walls are thin, here.
Disembodied voices disappear and reappear.
Unable to vent my strife, despite the agony  of knowing no one’s there.
Of faceless foes and twice failed family,
Partaking in this twisted tragedy,
The secrets are of my own making,
All to the voyeur, just straight laid bare for the taking.
Even in my sanctuary can’t receive any rest,
The newest round of judgement seems to weigh heavy on my chest.
Common sense says opinions of wisdom mustn’t keep us down,
But close-minded misconceptions make a clamour for my crown,
Tears of a clown, smile on my face.
Pent up by pernicious thoughts that try to keep me in place,
Who knew such bitterness could mix with such utter disgrace,
I am the writers nemesis; my own mind is misplaced.


Anon, anon.
More stunning than the setting sun,
more real to me than what lives behind my ribs and in-between my lungs,
I would live and die for you, and live again if that’s what it would take,
cut out my tongue so that I could no longer ply my trade,
You’re quick to call me a fake, like:
“boy you think I ain’t aware?
Your poetry ain’t quite enough to loose my underwear,
or you thought those were the first cute words I’ve had to sit and hear?”
so I stake;
My claim upon your heart like Vamps teeth,
hoping a mans deeds can trump his mouthpiece,
I only went to grab my cape so I could sweep you off your feet.
But you knew the age of heroes was already undone,
and to be fair, freely shedding tears is not my custom,
but I had just lost one,
the ugly duckling sung his swan song,
now I’m sat here wondering where the bus back’s gonna come from.
It used to be,
I’d be utility to any silly goose for free,
I couldn’t see that you were using me, until you’re used to me,
And you weren’t just a beat,
You were the jewel of my campaign,
but the shoe fits, walked a mile in it to see change,
this Tomcat cracked the riddle,
so I’m stopping the blame game,
Instead like dark wizards,
I just never say your damn name.


Forgive me Heavenly Mother,  I have sinned,
The maker-of-paths left me in my youth;
It was your law that was engraved on my heart,
It was your heart that nourished me, root and bough
It was your bough that let my hands touch the sky,
Like a flighty bird I left your branch blind to the wind before me,
Like a winter tree I shrugged off your shade
My own law would guide me and you would behold my greatness,
Verses in the back pocket, notes in the front (Soul Other Node) pulled a prodigal
A period of prodigals, until your soul could not cry out in its usual ire,
Until the fear for your (Self Over New) caused you,
To douse the flames, careful not to scorch me, the love on fire,
I was not proud, to see one so strong seem so cowed,
But you and maybe I knew
There was no act too new, none too low for you,
To reconcile your (Same Obviously Not) from somewhere far,
I still hear the words that bind us:

Relief (Pt. I)

If the benefit system had even a single ounce of wisdom it’s this;
Our social family should look out for the most weak,
A little relief till we get right back on our feet.
But its peak, often feels like right off is where we belong
Since the mid ’40s folks have been singing the same old song
Parasites, scroungers and welfare cheats
Some new scumbag face drummed up to fill a tabloid sheet
Using a bunch of outliers to try and besmirch us,
But most claiming benefits are hard-arse workers,
And even thought the naturalised are ones receiving it
The foreigners always get the rap for stealing it
Like going to the fucking office ain’t bad enough
Folks see you roll inside and roll their eyes and stuff,
“Another fucking hood rat on the government tit, he’ll probably spend the cash on booze and drugs, the little git”
But I cotch at JCP feeling so superior.
Letting myself get caught up in the mass delirium:
That myself and these people are different species,
That someone of my calibre don’t mix with faeces
I know it’s a paragraph of the tyrants thesis,
Keep us at each others throats, they can rule the pieces

BSOD (Blue Screen Of Death)

I spend time wrestling the ghost in the machine,
Trying show it who’s supreme,
Till I get its own personal middle finger; blue screen
It’s obscene how many times it happened today
The operating system operates parts of my brain,
Programmes rage
Click, “download”, engage,
At this stage me and windows ain’t on the same page no more,
Thinking about kicking it’s ‘clart right through the front door
But I’m no neo-luddite that’s for God-damn sure
 Gizmo love big as my appetite,
Word processed by day web preamble by night
I’ve given up time and being to the screen, a bastard Heidegger’s dream.
Without a fight I relinquish my might to the blue screen,.
“But I’m looking to the future” I say.
“Get used to the tech revolution on its way”
Prolific paradox is that I’ve made myself a slave.
Deceived into think connectivity’s generated.
While I’m behind closed doors, readily isolated.
Deliberately sedated, I consume with a click.
Disdain the face-to-face replace tongue and lips with fingertips,
I don’t need no “Facetime” I need time to face the music,
And a type of fruit that won’t charge me a pound to use it.
But I’m far from the only one that has to do it.
Dinner tables across the country I’m accusing.
All our faces are in our mobile phones.
To try and hide the darkest pain of being alone
A billion selfies in a billion homes
Glass: the new grass. Wires not Wine, Crack lost to Chrome.

Omo Ilu Oyibo (Pt. I)

My civilisation stands at a crossroads!
After a good 300-plus years of drubbing everyone else.
Esu-Elegbara rises from his red rock, unnerving phallic god like a shepherds crook he leans on.
Chuckles as the stories of Old Gods reach me. Proverbs drum against my ears.
The sounds of thousands of years of the wisdom of aunts and grandmas, mothers and grandfathers. Fathers and Great-uncles.
I can almost grab them, Grasp at them with drowning man’s hands.
I want out for fuck’s sake! I want out! Get me to the promised land!
I want Hollywood savannahs and sunsets over Serengeti’s. The cinema fantasy of peoples in harmony with the earth and their fellow man.
Dancing the NATIVE dance, singing the NATIVE song in a tongue I know of but cannot utter.
Sick of green and pleasant land, of skies and creatures bland.
Done gawking at stone monuments, profligate off an oppressed man.
Finished with what didn’t want to start with me.
No loan for a dream because my hue is too dark for thee, a job because my name’s strange,
No humanity without that familiar qualifier.
A nice easy description, one-dimensional depiction.
A thousand pounds of fiction a millstone dragging me to Lost Paradise like Milton,
So fuck ’em all. This man’s not returning. If they all want it that bad then they can have it back. Like a rat, the ships already on its way down. With the rising sea levels, probably won’t be long now.
So I head to the motherland, over the sea I go. All the brothers in the motherland say “Omo Ilu Oyinbo” and to and fro.  Sense of self strewn, jigsaw puzzle in disarray upon the floor. It seems I can’t escape being “omo ilu brittiko”, because my accents way to temperate for the equator.

New Jerusalem/Babylon

I’m sick of the emotions I am always made to feel,
Of a Tower of Babylon, made out of Plexiglas and steel,
I know it’s always been a place that’s sold out to profit,
But now it seems the ones the make the dough are too proud;
It’s a lark, walking down the road or chilling in the park,
from the dawning to the dark of things,
It always starts to ring in mind’s eye,
War, for the jewel in the Thames low-tide.
It’s OK. We’re still a capital of culture,
The Capital ain’t being picked apart by vultures,
Of Capitalistic mystics, the economy is not a God
It’s not even a man but we’re still always at odds,
With those lording above, we feel they show no love,
Or the ones that lie beneath, that they say you shouldn’t be a part of,
No lazy bum’s allowed, no not even in the slums,
Because the housing from the state is being bought every one.
To build Towers of Babylon, the City just rolls on, it demands it,
What’s strange is towers never stand if the bottom is left stranded,
The strong will live on and on,
But Cultures been recycle, reciting the old songs;

Finally Arrived…

Blessings, human beings. I’ve been raised in a culture that has espoused materialism and uninhibited economic growth at the expense of our only resources. But I like to think of myself as cultured. Someone with his “ear-to-the-ground” and when I get full enough of myself, a nonconformist. So I’m putting my money where my mouth is and showcasing the creative dynamo that is…me. Some is poetry, some are short stories, some are general rants against all things human. Tell a friend anyway.

This thing feeds on your participation, so if you know anything in your life that needs shouting out, or can get my creative juices flowing jump on the comment section. Welcome aboard.