Jack Pepper’s stone, metal and chain.

He’s no longer here in bodily form.

Incinerated, disintegrated.

His ash was buried when it was past warm.

Conclude, ‘back to nature’ integrated.

At Todmorden Unitarian Church.

Above and beyond the towering spire.

At the highest point, if you were to search,

its place in the graveyard, should you enquire.

The commemoration to Jack Pepper.

As if his remains are buried down there.

Which they are. Just gone sooner, forever.

Recalled, with this record of him interred.

Amongst all those stones, once grand now fading,

Is Jack’s little rememb’rance, parading

Beyond Death Process.

A corpse, then, no consciousness forever.

Nearer and nearer each passing moment.

Knowing it’s a certainty, not whether.

Cannot survive whatever my intent.


Just the faintest hope of a miracle.

Although I don’t believe it will be so.

That it won’t be the very worst of all.

My feelings spared a little as I go.


Painless, of course, but then totally numb.

Break down and absorption not be too cruel.

Not horrific being what I become.

If it’s sort of natural renewal.


What it is beyond feeling, unaware.

Just hope the process not filled with despair.

Song. (Discreet.)

A song to be sung alone, discreetly.

Its tune and words, from my mind deriving.

Unable to create it completely.

Although the prospect is tantalizing.


A private melody and sentiment.

I will just say ‘love for you’ is in there.

Indeed, a solitary compliment.

Singing of it shows I secretly care.


Can say, its music that’s captivating.

The themes mellifluous and lyrical.

With my heart, what is sung, resonating.

The meaning of it, as clear as a bell.


It is a tribute to your loveliness.

This song about it; I wish to possess.

Execution of Saddam Hussein.

The moments before the drum roll is played.

Quiet; keeping at bay trepidation.

From any point on, may show that afraid,

As the fact needs no elucidation.


Brief solitude used for contemplation.

Allowing thoughts to relax in stillness.

Dignified attitude, aspiration,

not to reach end overcome with distress.


The brevity of the remaining words.

A gen’ralised religious expression.

And, although insulting abuse disturbs,

set to leave bravely. Human connection.


Last thoughts must be of crisis, physical.

Mind’s lost consciousness; saving miracle.

Memory. (Ghostseeker.)

Am expected to be a ghostseeker.

Meet misty forms without any substance.

Be grateful given the role of greeter.

Only imaginary, this makes sense.


These are non-beings I’m meant to contact.

A remnant, or figment, of a past life

that, in the present, think it’s a way back,

but is too vague to be a fact of life.


The thinnest, finest, muslin sheet covers

a wisp of air that surely is nothing.

Existence? How can this be anothers?

I’m supposed to discover if something.


A life wished for without hope to attain.

The shadow of a thought across the brain.

Brain on X-Ray.

Her brain as a dark shadow visible,

covering not much space on the x-ray.

Each side, central behind skull. Integral.

On the print, showing up a blackish grey.


My first thought, how small it is to function.

Each half barely the size of a pea pod.

Yet, it drives the dog’s life into action.

Numerous life responses get the nod.


Consciousness linked to what she is feeling.

When hurt, it is felt. She’ll utter a scream.

What she wants; how presents; is appealing.

Even when asleep, I am sure she’ll dream.


Her tiny brain connects to her ‘big’ heart.

Unlimited, the love she does impart.

Sight whilst under torture.

An image from my imagination

that, to myself, needs no explanation.

Beautifully disclosed illustration

unrevealed under interrogation.


Could be a magnificent work of art;

photograph of someone dear to my heart;

or a sunny coast that’s a world apart.

Or from happier times when dressed up smart.


Focus on picture, which comes when bidden.

Enjoy the feelings, but keep them hidden.

Incarcerated, as if in prison,

my mind’s memory; sight seen. Not given.


Torture techniques through pain and fear and worse.

Resistance, thinking of the universe.

The Candidate.

News of her death came as a text message.

She’d been favourite for the selection.

To a new life, that would be her passage.

But health seriously failed inspection.


Had to withdraw from that glamorous race.

Condition, not one with which to begin.

Shows, only do anything by the grace….

The whole thing was truly awful timing.


She had so much to give; such potential.

Would have merited elected office.

Cross of cancer against her name, was cruel.

Only important campaign, to resist.


Now defeated. Fate’s power over her.

Sentence. About a brave woman for sure.

Community Work Benefit Crew.

The community work benefit crew

come marching along in the town near you.

They’ve been told it’s the tasks they have to do.

It’s not really an idea that’s new.


Working on a chain gang. Going around.

Picking up the litter. Please throw some down.

Breaking up rock if big enough ones found.

Under supervision, they’ll cover ground.


Sure, they’ll be doing other peoples’ jobs,

but only low value public servants’.

“Hey, if you want your money, shut your gobs.”

Bullied and despised welfare dependants.


No real employment, they can undertake.

It’s the chain gang instead, for pity’s sake.

Origin of The Blues.

There it is, the origin of the blues.

From the hard labour songs sung by the blacks.

When slavery was the horrible truth.

And punishment could lash across their backs.


When the work was physic’lly arduous.

Hour after hour in the hot sun.

Maintenance of good health was tenuous.

One day, then the next, would see comrades gone.


Was large part of poverty existence,

the effect that could be put to rhythm.

The men harmonizing their persistance.

Singing about that imposed perdition.


From there, “woke up one morning with the blues”.

In hell, if in those originals’ shoes.


Song to be Loved By.

Let’s listen to a song to be loved by.

Let’s hear it whilst the kisses are exchanged.

Together we can kiss the blues goodbye.

Rhythm of our love sexily arranged.


Music to accomp’ny our caresses.

Sentiments sung, explaining how we feel.

Like a dance, body on body presses.

The desire expressed, it becoming real.


Passionate while the love song sweetly plays.

You’re the most precious imaginable.

Your beauty my mind will never erase.

The tune we’re playing, incomparable.


Let’s listen to that song to be loved by.

The sexiest moments, adding a sigh.

Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto.

‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor’

within second piano concerto.

It is far from a glorious failure.

From my opin’on, I can report so.


The initial allegro in the piece

crackles along. Played at a fair old lick.

Safely and surely, got passed the thought police

with fast waving of the composer’s stick.


What follows is a sublime slow movement.

Then another allegro to finish.

Not think there’s much there that needs improvement.

Artist’s reputation undiminished.


Some allusions to military might.

Slightly not right, like a sailor who’s tight.