Ties tighten on those who pass the gates as their eyes kiss the pavement and want to remain in its company until the bells ring 

Sins and sins and hearts concerned wave and praise and hold out their hands to passers-by as they turn their backs on those stood still 

The grins, chuckles and crooked pointed fingers remain in the playground from days gone by and circulate like chalk scattered by...

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A silhouette stands in the window, not sure if she’s there or just part of Hitchcock’s imagination 

An empty beer can marks the broken iron gate, can't tell if it says come in let’s have a drink or the good times have been and gone 

I count the cracks on the pavement, the weeds break them up so can’t make them out, even the concrete wants to pack up its bags and whistles by as it passes on...

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It’s that time again remove the cork from my skull,

Poor it in that liquid sin that silky friend of mine, 

It’s time oh time for that dance to take hold and see life through a gleam, 

So give me that smell of old ale, that burnt wood and shining glass, 

Give me that smeared bottle and that battered brass to prop up my woes, 

Give me that golden girl, those sparkles to dazzle and rat...

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The bold the brave, the fool who wishes to stay awhile, 

The cold, the canny, the man who demands your hat, 

The hiss and the mist, the shadow of light that dims your eyes, 

If the shelter is home, then it is hell where I roam. 

The path, the glass, the wall which crumbles as you look, 

The screen, the flashes, which dance your imagination of the stage, 

Some maths, some flowers,...

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By the click of a boot and a tip of a hat I am seen. With the tick tock of a pocket watch and a rattle from a hip flask rhythm becomes my beauty. Take heed no words dear passer-by but grooming beyond measure. The point of my moustache will guide you to my cane and streets filled with cheer. Eccentric you will deem my pleasure but do not paint your despair on my white starched shirt.     

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Home is where the hat stand lives 

Where the brandy toils and the fire spits 

Where your dreams are shared with a slobbering dog

Outside where the werewolves roam and whips crack on brittle bone 

Filling their carts yet never to the brim 

Know your castle is perched away from smiles hidden within the dirt

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Home is where the hat stand lives 

Where the brandy toils and the fire spits 

Where your dreams are shared with a slobbering dog

Outside where the werewolves roam and whips crack on brittle bone 

Filling their carts yet never to the brim 

Know your castle is perched away from smiles hidden within the dirt

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It becomes, shackles moulded by old hands fade

Risen for most to see yet, eyes create prisms of glass

Reflecting images that pass through rushing feet

Only for those who stand still will know being as a thought first thought and carried as a friend

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It becomes, shackles moulded by old hands fade

Risen for most to see yet, eyes create prisms of glass

Reflecting images that pass through rushing feet

Only for those who stand still will know being as a thought first thought and carried as a friend

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‘Tales of a Shattered Monocle’

To see a hill, looming without voice or notice

Wonderment patched with time may take you there

Stand still, finding all knowns isn’t knowing at all

Facts can be made by those to lift a grin, raise a hand

But let that shape remain as it is

A mind within a pocket may take you there 

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