Ed and Arf

Ed and Arf

Ed has a toy truck

He likes to call it Ed

He vrooms it to the left

Then vrooms it to the left

Arf  hears thunder

Through slices of bread

He likes to stick

Unbuttered toast

To his buttered head

Ed has a place he sits

He likes to call it Ed

Arf  often joins him

He likes to squeeze right in

A Pidgeon came to rest

On the  bench where they both sit

She sings songs of triumph

Songs of maniacs

Ed has names for the birds

He likes to call them Ed

Arf provides  lunch for them

Pecked pieces off his head

They both enjoy the company

Of birds, of trees, and bended knees

They keep time in harmony

They sit and see what they can see

Ed stood up , he’d had enough

Arf blew a kiss goodbye

World War Two

The Greatest War

The one they both survived

Ed and Arf go to the park

They’re wheeled there every day

Ed calls his brother Ed

Arf wouldn’t have it any other way.

Owl

Owl

Outside the bathroom window

Norton heard a hoo

A bouncing baby snow owl

Bounced into a woodchuck hole

Woodchucks hibernating

Owl’s eating worms

Norton gets excited

Pulls his long johns on

Laid out in 2 feet of snow

He found the place, arm’s down the hole

Nothing nibbles, nothing bites

Nothings even close

Norton heads back in the house

Fires the black kettle up

Green tea in the belly

Green beans in the mouth

Norton found his yardstick

And an old reel of duct tape

Taped his plunger to that stick

Greased some bird seed

On the lip

Norton laid out in the snow

Arm again, down in the hole

Norton’s fishing, testing touch

Feels a bite, slowly pulls up …

Owls beak is hooked through

The rubber of the rim

Norton hears a yelping hoo

Unhooks the beak, lets baby go

Norton’s set the owl free

Heads inside , to drink his tea

With a contemplative sigh

Norton cracks a knowing smile

Soon the snow will melt away

Kettle’s whistling sound replaced

With birds and chirps of harmony.

Gutter Doves

Gutter Doves

Papa loves the gutter doves

He also loves the ponies

His money pays for drinks & bets

The gutter feeds his family

He repairs roofs

hooves in boots

high above

the filth of Stepney

When work is done

He’s at the pub

Drinking to drown
His losses

Papa loves the gtter doves            

He also loves the ponies

His money pays for drinks & bets

The gutter feeds his family

When the city’s dark with sleep

He’s back to where he started

Collecting all the Stepney doves

Who ate the bait, departed

It was all just fine

At dinner time

Dove stewed , dove baked

Dove meat pied

Papa lost large at the track

Let his maniac drink drank

Climbed each rung

With wild attack

Get all the gutter doves!

A cube or two

Always did do

The trick

For what was needed

He lost his mind

Laid 30 down

Then fungled

Down the ladder

No leftovers

Dove soup next day

Just spoons

And 8 dead bodies

The coroner said rat poison

Ran havoc on their bodies

Papa loves the gutter doves

He also loves the ponies

His money pays for drinks & bets

The gutter feeds his family

No Method To His Madness

No Method To His Madness

He's a sick little runt , big man out on the street.
With a gun in his pocket he can withstand all the heat.
He just slithers through the city on a homicidal spree,
Never thinking , never caring who his next victim will be.
With his coal black eyes in motion and his sweaty hands clenched tight ,
He coldly smiles in anticipation of the fun he'll have tonight.
His brain no longer functions, his world has turned insane,
His soul searches for freedom, through others suffering and pain.
He rebels against society, hatred burning deep inside
Towards success and happiness, and the things he's been denied.
He feels he is inadequate , a strange mistake since birth,
With distorted views of reality, he evaluates his worth.
Always struggling to survive, to overcome his endless plight,
He stalks the streets in anger, a creature of the night.

She sleeps down in the subways, there is no other place.
Her years of pain and misery explain her withered face.
As a naive child of fifteen years she left her broken home,
A stranger in a big city, she's hopelessly alone.
In two years she'd been pregnant twice and jailed for prostitution,
Her life a wreck and getting worse, drugs were here one solution.
As a hooker and a junkie, she sadly had no future plans
Her inspiration came from needles, her meals from garbage cans.
She no longer feels emotions, her hear is cold as ice
She is so hungry for love, but it always has its price.
At times she just can't take it, twice attempted suicide
To escape her social prison, but she'll never get outside.
She hates the life she's living, every day is filled with fright
Her prayers will soon be answered, by a stranger in the night.

He's desperate now for action, his patience has worn thin
He prowls with wide eyes glaring, saliva dripping from his chin.
The city is now silent, he can hear his heavy breath
He laughs aloud into the night, he wears the face of Death.
The moon is full, the wind blows strong, it's now his hunting hour
He feels the pistol, cold and hard, his only source of power.
His fingers dance along the barrel, a child with his toy
In using it he hopes that he can finally find some joy.
Obsessed with thoughts of murder, sweat dripping from his hair
He can't wait to pull the trigger, to smell the warm blood in the air.

She leaves the musty subway, her body weak and pale
To get some easy money, she has to make a sale.
She's waiting on a corner, her motives are precise
Men quickly pass her by, her wares aren't worth their price.
Rejected by the masses, she finds herself alone
Her fate has been decided, no time to make atones.
She feels two eyes are watching her from somewhere in the night
She senses an impending doom, she's lost the will to fight.
Would life be better after death? of this she's often wondered
The answer would soon be unveiled, her minutes were now numbered.

He sees a woman all alone, he know she is the one
His body trembles with delight, he reaches for his gun.
He moves in silence towards his prey, no plans will he create
His mind is drunk with murder, his eyes are blind with hate.

She slowly wipes her tired eyes and looks up toward the sky
What sympathy and signs of hope, could any God supply?
Her evil thoughts are rooted deep, her secrets hidden well 

She yearns to find her resting place, the fiery depths of Hell.

He points the barrel at her head, his fingers slightly strain
He pumps the trigger several times and rips apart her brain.

Her body hits the city floor, blood rushes from her eyes
The stranger calmly walks away, the sun begins to rise.


* written around 1980/81 as a 16/17 year old kid *

Tunnel Gravy

Funnel mud in my mouth

tunnel gravy

I've got a bunker by the beach

come and bathe me.

I've got some teeth

and a throat

dont forsake me.

I've got some treats

in my coat

dont mistake me .....

you see, it really doesn't matter much at all

the way I twitch, or gasp for air, or somersault

it's all shivers & dried up waterfalls

I'm just a monkey

licking flies off of the wall ....

E.C.B.

While you're in your cherry picker

looking for the Virgin Mary

I'll be rubber gloved and groggy .....

I'm embalming Chuck Berry.

While you're knockered on your knuckles

bleeding dogs, outside your Teepee

I'll be bleary eyed and foggy......

I'm embalming Chuck Berry

It's relaxing, it's immediate and true

It's like needlepoint fondue

While you're burning your library

and your legs are mine to chew

I'll be naked , in the alley.

I'm embalming Chuck Berry.

Sweatflops Fables

Jesus had a hot dog cart

he sold foot longs by the river

No shoes , no shirt , no problem

just kneel and he delivered.

The Devil had a taco stand

downstream, across the river

No rules, no church , no pablum

just eat and drink forever.

The ferryman , he hatched a plan

to double all his earnings

he'd charge roundtrip

to go to Hell

all possessions

to buy you're future.

So he got fat ... up on his raft

money from monks & thieves

he quickly sank

between the banks

& all the crossings ceased.

So now your fate depends upon

which side you are born onto

do you dab relish from your blouse

or reek of guacamole?