Art Attack.

Kalashnikovs spit deadly hate
Upon the streets of grey Paris.
An art attack, the deadly fate.
Je prie pour eux - Je suis Charlie.

A sketch of these disturbing times,
twelve martyrs die for liberty.
The clanging of Notre Dames chimes.
Je prie pour eux - Je suis Charlie.

Bullets of hate will not erase
the sable brush strokes of the free,
dripping red on these bloody days...

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

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Death Of A Poet

The grey November sky has lost its light,
just one more boy has fallen to his death,
another lad who won’t survive the fight
or pass beyond this final exhaled breath.
Though many soldiers leave this war unheard,
their stories lost forever, never told,
this one will paint us pictures with his words
that will not lose their power or grow old.

A week beyond that fatal can...

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Re-post from earlier last year - now with audio and music backing

Thirty Plus Years In An Open Necked Shirt.

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
a walking bag of bones
staggers out onto the stage
like Woody from the Stones
rapid fire delivery
sprays all with Salford tones
jitters, jives, ducks and dives
wrestling with the microphone

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
in much need of a comb
sh...

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