Alive Alive-O.

Alive Alive-O, Alive Alive-O.

When first set my eyes on Molly Malone.

Shunned minds indiscreet, sordid and narrow.

Singing, want no hassle; leave us alone.


Death from a fever, but I still see her.

Could not be saved as she voiced her last groan.

In a long black vehicle, then, they drove her.

Was Alive Alive-O, with me, at home.


Alive Alive-O, Alive Alive-O

In a world to cock, takes more than muscle,

to get through bereavement, and yet still know.

The real her.  Real harrow-ing.  I recall.


Alive Alive-O, Alive Alive-O.

Singing, was with me by my side, my Mo.

‘Sorry Song’.

There’s no music or joy in my poems.

Just dull heartache and feeling of dismay.

It started when you said you were going.

Words with bright colours changed to black and grey.


It’s hard to re-invent those dancing lines.

Which could be put to a rhythm, jolly.

That music ended the day you called time.

Now all the songs seem to say is “sorry”.


But I’m determined upon a last try.

For a light, romantic, joyful sonnet.

That to a melody will again fly.

And lift your heart, and my heartache, from it.


So here goes. Spirit’s not to be denied.

To win you back.  Eerm.  I apologise.

Love Conversation.

What is it you think about Love?, I asked.

What do you think about Love?, she replied.

Are we talking present, future or past?

Whatever the time, for you to decide.


What about the famous lovers?, I said.

What about famous lovers? her retort.

Would you like to talk about us instead?

Is your mem’ry of hist’ry so at fault?


No, there’s Antony and Cleopatra.

And then Napoleon and Josephine.

But returning to us, do they matter?

In avoidance, taking it to extreme.


Well then, would you like to make Love to me?

Well then, would you like to make Love to me?

Death. Continuum.

Am starting to think of having no skin.

Dispersed ash or disintegrated bones.

Nothing about existence mattering.

Utterly irrelevant, what is own.


Poor Simon, gone from life, at that stage now.

A year since collapse and died at his door.

Without consciousness, what use is know-how.

For one’s purpose, seems such a fatal flaw.


For feeling one’s worth, it’s down to zero.

Simon’s file may as well be deleted.

Press key and totally disappear, so

that’s ev’rything about him completed.


Thought death must be a life continuum.

But a worthless, skinless dominion.

Good Night.

Good attempt to get you in the right mood.

Soft lights, soft music and delicious food.

In your personal life try to include

Me. By consent. Not coerce to intrude.


Be friendly and charming. Genuinely.

Converse about each other, happily.

Other things too, whether or not agree.

Find out we communicate easily.


Then after the sumptuous meal and wine,

which flowed as plenty and savoured as fine.

We’ll realize, my gosh is that the time.

Too late and too drunk to go. Stay at mine.


Welcome in the spare bed. The sheets are clean.

Your rights respected. You, held, in esteem.


Very kindly throughout life, and caring

health treatment given as if from a nurse.

A giving partnership filled with sharing.

No flawed condition allowed to get worse.


But decline encroaches on the living.

Disease enters and eats away the form.

Some times of respite, but unforgiving.

Can be plainly seen, the horrendous storm.


So the matron of the relationship,

when little is left that is worth the pain,

takes the caring on, just a little bit,

to escape from the worst thunder and rain.


Then, as comforting with a loving sound,

does the brave care, and puts her loved one down.

15 Minute Rap.

I’ve got ideas well above my station.

Got this song to give an explanation.

Not gonna be sidetracked by temptation.

Tell you that changing my situation.


Not relying on a permutation.

Don’t need lott’ry win for a sensation.

It will be a focused operation.

Raising myself in your estimation.


Writing some terrific rap, so to speak.

Classic verse, that at number one will peak.

Downloaded onto i-pods small and sleek,

or on to mobile phones where played discreet.


My plan – to give more joy by what I say.

Rappin’ right through to the end of my days.

Who Kills.

Who are these ones who die killing our troops.

What is the infrastructure that backs them.

Do they come from orphanages, in groups.

Or dead families. Want to avenge them.


It seems religion surely plays a part.

But not as much as we’re led to believe.

A cause spurred by hatred is where to start.

Suicide seeming the best way to grieve.


The west’s private forces mirrored by these.

Shadow army fighting as a proxy.

Exploding road bombs. Organised with ease.

Killing; Military orthodoxy.


For victims and loved ones, too much to bear.

Poverty the fuel. In thought, here and there.


A turn of phrase may make a difference.

Like my place in “will you be my lover”.

It’s my centrality, the inference.

Could change it to “can I be your lover”.


Or may be there isn’t a difference.

Still get very much what I want from it.

At least acknowledges two elements.

Wanting you to get what you want from it.


Yet, still may not be a difference there.

Prospect of passionate affair, the same.

Is it, who takes the lead or simply share.

Does it matter or is it a mind game.


Best solved by asking “can we be lovers”

Reply ‘No’. We’re equally anothers.

Put Down.

A Pit Stop in the middle of nowhere.

Comfort break where it’s uncomfortable.

Horror location for a nasty scare.

Desert so dry, it’s unfathomable.


Coach puts us down, then drives away from here.

Abandoned where there’s hardly a purpose.

Just the sort of place, you’d want to steer clear.

But in this grey zone, driver deserts us.


Air-less and colour-less, can barely breathe.

Such an oasis of ugliness too.

Driver to return?; perhaps self-deceive,

as it’s just nothingness that’s coming through.


Passengers faces grim; black with the night.

In the right place, for end of the world, fright.