In my desire to be a woman I chose to become one; My new identity consubstantial and indivisible; My features having moved to the feminine; And I am arrayed in the likeness of the deity Ardhanarishvara; My transition celebrated at Mardi Gras, conjuring feelings of ecstasy.

There was referenced in an allusive poem the culture of the corner shop; Into the package came spangled themes of some T S Eliot fairy dust; The diversified poet tantalizing the concept; The poetry becoming self-lyrical and organic; Self-sold as words minced inclusively as not-yet connections; The ego referencing itself in the allusion.

After death, Heaven is the destination place for the atoned souls; There they search for their earthly bodies and consubstantiate; And as pure children, they prepare to congregate for eternity; A father and mother figure live there; It’s like kindergarten; Like child care; Like a playground; A happy place.

  There he goes swinging by us. His daily walk looks intense. And we crane our necks to get a better view Of this obviously troubled soul, One shirt sleeve up, one down One foot booted, the other sneakered. He gives us the punk salute: This greying galoot.   There’s a scroll of words On the back of his t-shirt. My hubby got it on his phone one day. We read it after he’d gone by: ‘All I think I am is a poet This world hosts my piddlin’ self Tolerating my diffidence That heralds my difficulties; Whose childhood failed Having no idea of life And since I am still alive In my defenestration I thrive.’   And we took him in one day. Taught him about decorum. For one must walk with dignity; And the neighbours will think There goes a man with a purpose Even if it’s to get the paper. And then it clicked, We like it personally delivered.

I Say I Say I Say I haven’t had a half bad old day, Tell us why; Tell us why! Well I…… Resnatched my bag from some scummy snotty bag snatcher, Put the power into no when no means no, Deftly removed infected needles from a host of drug user’s arms, Unravelled knots of words politicians like to articulate, Said my prayers, And kissed my sweetheart goodbye; And…… Found a one way alley, the right way, and escaped a traffic jam, Ate my lunch slowly and thanked the sandwich hand kindly, Snuffed out all the nuclear weaponry between my thumb and forefinger, Listened to the hurt felt by a neglected lonely child. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough? We ask of you great hero! No, No, No! Patience my dears I haven’t finished yet; You know those miracles that happen at the grotto, Yes, Well I had a hand in helping the maimed out a little, I extended the expiry dates on jars in battler’s run down fridges, And I airlifted wasted supermarket food to the starvin...

He’s my best friend….. Wobbie. I’ve known him like since he was a star, He looks after me Whenever I get this mental rash. His body’s stuck over my bedroom ceiling So he can look at me in bed. And I’ve got a cast of his hairy bollocks Filled with his happy tadpoles. There’s a sausage sticking out of it And it’s tucked underneath my satin pillow For when he wants me…… my Wobbie. I don’t go out much Except to see…….Wobbie. The barbed wire doesn’t hurt so much now Thanks to the prescription pills. I’ve got his autograph Tattooed all over me body like. When my feet smell I wear my Wobbie inserts. I’m not thinking of anybody but Wobbie When I’m finger polishing my purple pimple. My mind goes glassy sometimes It’s not an obsession like I do have a life….for Wobbie.   I dunno, I never knew me dad His name wasn’t Wobbie It was Arthur, He’s dead now. Me Mum looks after me, She’s in a nursing home. I’ve got a sister in Dagenham....

The poet thinks Of language: If it ain’t fixed Flex it.  

In his new steps sprung, in lighter spring, He picks up his sword and dances and sings, His dad falls into a rightly furious fit, The son now dares, his authority he dares. In odd directions this father fired praise, Dad taught his son to fear and to fight, Neither conscience should benefit within, Nor the need to honour fragile skin.   The boy dances his venomous jig. Dad's ranting falters, bereft of a seas roar, Barely a pip from a soapy bubble. His authority's gone asleep on a warm couch.   Do as I say, it's been your miner's curse, Other heavy words peal the boy's ears, At war again, fighting yet a weaker war, The son is feeling less afraid with more. Safely higher than his deepest fears, An in-between half man who is averaging up, Now near deaf to his old man's angry mess, The boy is confident and less distressed.