What do you do?
No, really,
what do you do
when your soul won’t fit your body?

I gallop with pooka,
fly with kooka,
get drunk,
fall in love,
write poetry.

I have to 'cos
my soul won't fit my body


 

in time’s gentleness
and its ferocious passing
 butterflies dancing

I won’t let the bastards cut me
Not to save my life
I could die on the streets
at the end of a muggers knife
But I won’t let the bastards cut me
If the cancer grows
from my head to my toes
I won’t let the bastards cut me
I could be torn apart
by a wild boar
or dissected by a jealous whore
but I won’t let the bastards cut me
Not to save
or stupidly waste
 my life

Year in, year out
Year in, year out
I still don’t know what its about
drink it down, piss it out
drink it down, piss it out
I’ll probably end up with the gout
stick it in, pull it out
stick it in, pull it out
like a constant wrestling bout
I don’t deserve this gift of life.
but bright souls surround me,
goodness astounds me
I’m not lost yet

I gaze into the abyss
I suspect many  do
the idea of falling is terrorising and tempting
but I can’t
love has hooks in my flesh
holds me above the abyss

THE DRAGS
D’you remember? d’you remember the drags?
It was great d’you remember E.J. Potter?
The Michigan Madman that bike oh man that bike
you think yours is big ha!
That bike, that bike had a 312 cubic inch
fuel injected v8 corvette donk ha!
When That mother did the quarter
oh man did he do the quarter!
That wheel never stopped spinning,
man they had to hold up the races for ten minutes
for the fuckin smoke to clear,
wow, not the fastest mind
no not the quickest
but the biggest
and the meanest

He works,
outside the window
a dialogue of tide ebbs and flows.
He works,
a paradigm of clouds tantalise triumphantly in procession.
He engages with the polemics of a ceiling’s defects of character,
beauty happens.
He finds the line and talks with a wall’s memories,
beauty happens