Afro Saxon Ballads

Drinking In The Cafe Alibi.

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Drinking in the Cafe Alibi

Auto Biography.

I was born badly

On the lips of my mothers last blood soaked cycle

Born with a Jamaican Genetic Code

I am my father's art

Caught somewhere between the double

Of a sublime helix

And other more fibrous material.


I was born as dead as nails

without the screams gift of lungs near bursting

And I was beating into life

by the mid-wifes life giving fists

And so like Orpheaus I escaped death's grip

Against all odds.


I Don’t Like To Be Touched
(that much)

I don’t like to be touched
that much
It’s not because, I don’t like to be touched,
I don’t know why
that this is this, that such is such
I don’t know why
It’s not because, I don’t like to be touched,
that I don’t like to be touched
that much.


Possible Worlds.

An old man with his stick and pen
And a connoisseurs eye for near virgin flesh
Strokes my cheek and whispers in my ear.

Have you read Euclid?
The fifth axiom is counter intuitive
But on the whole....

I say nothing about my hatred
Of mathematics
I merely roll his cigarettes
And adjust the newspapers
He lay upon.

He spoke mostly in cipher
Listen boy, to the true, philosophy;
Beware the leopard at night
Women in the morning
And never, never, bore God
With your life.

I left this bare-foot Socrates
Who walked the streets of Charing Cross
North of the River.

An extraordinary man
Born to the most mundane
Of circumstances.



Our little ship’s a table cloth,

of many colours, we drift upon the grass,

into the garden’s tranquil harbour.

Nature’s palette is vast,

but insects are coloured blind,

how are we perceived by wasps with their ultraviolet eyes?


Everything burns in light down to the last fractal

I brush the wasp away, with the sweep of my hand

Dandy lions keep the hours,

you feast upon the flowers and have a mouth full of petals, spitting

crocus, choking on geranium, you walk through the garden, high on

English opium.

Will you be my wild  flower? My mountain flower?

Dune flower on the lee-ward slope,

that effortlessly dips into the sea?

And here, on the sea tossed grass,

on our little ship of gamza, on this grape coloured boat, will we-

Will we be caught in the slip-stream of wasps

who have been woken from their long sleep,

by the Sun?

How will they see us,belly down on the lawn,

reflected in their billion ultraviolet eyes




For the sake of delight
we wavered drunk in alleyways
pouring scorn like a libation
over the city for the dead.

I am without sin

A clamour of heels
clapping of hands
fingers fit for castanets
I have loved a thousand women
but they are all one.

We were high on bird sign

There’s a lyricism in friendship
beyond all art and artifice
that stands a full head above
all the worlds riches

We float on amethyst coloured waters

Let the dead bury the dead
the wake is full of laughter
and night after night
we have feasted upon
more than our fair share of beauty.

Go tell them, what we have, we hold


Tracy the girl in a rubber dress
standing against a Roman pillar,
smoking a cigarette
has just, or so she said, landed a job
in a bourgeois bar up west
working as a hostess, claims it a bit of a racket,
but she’s earning a packet
I hope she’ll spend some on me.

Rhonda was raised South of San Francisco
in a whole different disco
she’s caught somewhere between
90210 and trailer trash
moved from the West Coast to the East
then left the ‘City That Never Sleeps’
to live in the ‘City That Couldn’t Give A Fuck’
she orders another drink
lights a cigarette for Trish
she got a novel in her back pocket
Title: Modern Life Is Rubbish.

Michael, walking over, smiling said:
‘Girls have you considered this?’

That between a flower gathered and given
is an inexpressible nothingness.
After that we just clicked


the absence of becoming
is fullness of Being
At Lambeth Palace
drunk we climbed over the gates
and fell into the garden
Tracy tore her dress on a railing
Michael tied the pieces together
with one of his shoe-laces
Rhonda toyed with Buddhism
laying on a bed of Dandy-Lions
I am Gautama of the Sakya Clan
I call the world to witness.

That the universe is a compounded thing.

This also can be true
some moments are so unbearably beautiful
you thank their passing,
who would be burdened with the weight
of such a diamond?

Like the fourth king you arrive too late
caught up in this thing call life
stumbling from crisis too crisis
kicking against the pricks
after all was it all worth it?
yes, it was, it is, it will be, yes
up to a point.

That night we slept on vanilla scented sheets

We spent the Sunday at Rhonda’s flat
a little piece of central Asia
Odessa, Tashkent, Samakand, Georgia
a small yellowing photo of Maria Callas
pre-anorexia of the soul on the wall
on the radio the world service,
for breakfast, filter coffee, eggs, bacon , toast
her hospitality, we signed a treaty
and there was commerce between us
perched on the window sill
Michael was reading Walt Whitman
proclaiming to the sounds of morning
and the Euro-Star passing
Tracy cuts Rhonda’s hair six months worth                        

falling, and this whole scene, cast in the available

light of summer,on one of those delicious, languorous days,

when the skies as clear as...
One note amidst the never ending song


What is it about these transitory intimacies
we share with strangers?
is it the duration or the intensity that matters?
I lay my head on Rhonda’s lap
Belle and Sebastian on the radio
her fingers on my cheek
play me like an instrument
Michael and Tracy lay on the floor and kiss
because of all this simple tenderness
God enters the room uninvited
and kneeling by our feet takes notes.

And Rhonda said:
If God were a time of year
what time would he be?
God would be Summertime in London
when even the cracks in the pavement
bring forth Poppies.

And if God were a sound
what sound would he be?
God would be the sound
of a child reading her Quran
on the 27th floor of Mandela house Tooting
a child singing her namaz
as the city beneath her unfolds like a flower
and aeroplanes above her
our tossed into the firmament.

And if God were a moment
what moment would he be?
God become a singularity
time would creep up upon itself
and then you could
hold God in the palm of your hand
he’s as soft and as small as a Bee
you could crush God between your fingers-tips
God is harmless, you could throw God,
into the air, into the endless blue,
God would fly away like a bird
the size of your black pupils
You would see that God is fragile


I have loved a thousand Gods
                               but they are all one.

We walked home across Brockwell Park
Michael and I, silent, like
two dots moving across the fields
above us nothing but the skies faultless monotony, broken only, by the occasional bird
Michael blessed our autonomy
with a burst of laughter.

We parted on the crest of Brixton Hill

And for the sake of delight
we said nothing of what had passed
but made arrangements for the ‘morrow

To be in London in the Summertime

kali 333

A broken wine glass
Cut palm and a Channi
Going down to make sacrifice
If you drink the next cup it means-
You love me
Blood on the floor and settee
Kisses, near misses,
Squeezing a life time into a week
Double concentrated orange juice-
For breakfast, nights vast-
Like a holiday in America
Making love in alleyways
High on crack
You broke the lamp light
With the heel of your shoe
We sheltered from the rain
under my second hand jacket
Drunken promises
Excepted on the cheap, on the delete
Two lovers staggering along the way
Both with a philosophy BA
Agreeing on the emptiness of  being
Vertigo, fear, wavering down there-
In the belly of a great adventure
In the belly of our love
Our happiness, our...

We gate crashed the party
We danced naked
King and Queen of the kitchen
Held-forth in front of strangers
We held hands ironically in the National Gallery
We had an undeniable longing after the impossible
The romantic gesture
Oh to be in love
Forever and forever and forever
I have searched out life in the filigree of things
In the smallest of details
A rose bud mouth
A crows footed laugh
Dyed red roots, shattered tooth,
A taste for extraordinary
This much is true
We met on the perihelion of Mars and Venus
Water and Fire
Your Scorpio to my Faun riding
The crest of a wave of neurotoxin
This much is true
I counted you as a shakti of Shiva
I counted you as an avatar of Vishnu
In a private language
When we first met
I had burnt so many bridges
I was like Korea in the fifties
A bombed out city
Always in the wrong company
A follower of Dionysus, a debtor, deviant
A communist with a thirst for Burberry
Completely at odds with the new thinking
A modernist, yes, still holding faith,
With the old meta-narratives
Liberty, Equality, Justice
Standing confused
At he cross-roads of all and sundry
Betting on the new century
Waiting on the birth of an uncorrupted ideology
Terrorism for all the family.

I have fallen so much in love
That I wouldn’t mind
If Kali beat me to death
Can I say that?
Can I say that in all honesty?
I have fallen so much in love
I wouldn’t mind
If Kali shit in my face
Can I say that?
The times being what they are?
I have fallen so much in love
I wouldn’t give a fuck
If Kali told me
To jump off the top floor
Of a South London tower block
Oh such sweet slavery!
Can I say that?
Worshipping the blood upon the sheets?

Can I say anything about love at all?
That does not entail flowers, chaste hours,
The natural landscape, first dates, bad faith
All the things I hate
I want my love to be like
London, New York, Delhi
Raw and broken
A surfeit of energy
A love, balancing, on the edge of time,
A Jumbo jet of love
Exploding above the city
A catastrophe of love
A landslide, an earthquake, a biblical deluge
A primal love born from the protozoa slime
A demiurge of love
A viral love like a world extinction event
A myth making love
A meteor hurtling through space
A love that devastates
leaving nothing behind save the scorched earth
And council house estates.

Kali 333 @
I log on
And send her a message.

Mistress, you are in my heart and mind
I am lost in desire
Arrested and thrown into jail for your sake
Goddess of destruction
Shiva’s mistress
Adorned with rings’n’things
Soma drinker, eater of the mushroom
Priestess of tantra
wide is your far-flung fame
I sing your praises in the market places
Cut your name into park benches
Spread your word
Like bread upon the waters
You are at the back of mind
At the tips of my fingers
The taste of you lingers
On my lips like fine cocaine.

Kali stands before me
wearing an armband
In the shape of an Egyptian Deity
her hairs is entwined with Peacock feathers
(Peacocks are a symbol of fertility)
she wears a diaphanous skirt
in the style of Comme des Garcon

she smokes Silk Cut Ultra
and Lambert and Butler
above her head a halo of pure sugar
at her feet black men
holding their bleeding hearts
to her right lesbian hold in tribute
tinctures of opium
to her left scribes copy down her orders
as an army flocks towards
her blood soaked banners
When Kali dances the landscape listens
And the city holds its breath
When she goes it’s like the distance
upon the face of death.


Being Black Is Crap.
                  I am not an adjective.              

If it’s the future you want
the hypodermic issue stops all that
all your vain cries for hope
let those that suffer, suffer,
at a hundred miles per hour,
let them suffer through the sound barrier
let them endure the scream of oblivion
which is their ecstasy made manifest
speeding through the countryside
like a cruise missile
glory, glory, glory
to the scientist in the highest
blessed is not the worker
the cold steel of the engines
and the sheer walls of the factory gates
shipped across the seas to Asia
blessed is the blue knife abstract
burning in the belly of your family
time, time, time
is rocking to the latest disc of sense
and non-sense
everybody gets to number one
for 15 minutes
love costs 5 a throw
bought under pub tables
it’s fashionable to conform
the clock is ticking on the platform
they’re boarding the train to Auschwitz
and nobody resists
all a-board, all a-board,
quick or you’ll miss it
this is your last chance
this is your only chance
this is it

I have sold my skin to the leather tanners
my mind is used to line the kiln
my bones are dust in the funeral pyres
is this the ultimate?
the ultimate, ultimate?
is this the millennium?
ens summum, ens perfectissium?
is this the honour given to him
from the Royal House of David?
is this the second coming
from the Royal House of Ethiopia?
I’m the product of a million years of development
I’m the paragon of animals
I look upon the works of Man with awe
I look upon the Trans-Siberian with awe
I look upon the detonation
of the atom bomb with awe
behold I give you a religion of the will to power
behold a religion of domination and murder
behold a religion of mort main and massacre
en-block and whole-sale, to the slaughter
what is today’s battle order?
let time fall down upon my steel
let God fall down upon my steel
let reality fall down upon my steel
I pity those that pity
I weep for those that weep
let them end if they can end it
let them capitulate, if they can sleep
let them fall from the sky-scrapers
of East London upon
Commercial Road and Old street
let them impale themselves on the diadems
of the Seven Sisters,
let them be rejected
and like Kip Marlow, be found, dead in Deptford
or et a drift on the river nice and slow
let the Thames devour the bloody sails of skiffs
from Black friars steps to Putney Bridge
you pay your money and you make your choice
to know nothing or to be a Prometheus
you don’t know you’re alive
or you wish that you were dead
like a women who’s been circumcised
like a man who’s prick been amputated
let them take their chances on wheel
let them take their chances in the modern world

They raped my father, and my fathers, father
raped and injected him with a solution of nothing
so his body became bloated and stinking
fit only cancer and the grave-diggers songs
sung so sweetly in South London
we buried you, you bastard, you bastards bastard,
we are all involved in your downfall
didn’t you always say Daddy?
that complicity was the best policy
I throw a hand grenade into MacDonald's
while you worked at getting cancer on the factory floor, everyday they called you
‘Nigger, nigger, nigger’
your lungs heavy with asbestos
coughing up blood into your wage packet
you never told them daddy
your family spilt blood at Ypres
or how your brother stained-
red, the sands of Utah Beach
they never heard of them
and they wouldn’t give a shit
you worked your shift in silence
took your breaks alone in the streets
smoked your cigarettes in bitterness
so you could feed the kids
you bit your tongue for 15 a week
if I knew you did this all for me
I’d have cut my throat to set you free
we all loved you daddy.
‘You know what I hate most
is a nigger with a chip on his shoulder
but you’re alright Chalky your not like them
I ain’t racialist or anything like that
I vote Labour and I pay my union dues
live and let live that’s my view
mind you don’t get me wrong,
I wouldn’t let your son fuck my daughter
I’ll shoot the fucker then I’ll shoot her after
I mean that ain’t right all those half-cast brats
who take the flats that should go to our kids
if I had my way I’d have them all aborted
half white, half shite,
I don’t mean nothing by it
I’m sure the bible says something about it
though I wouldn’t mind a bit of Shirley Bassey
she looks fantastic and I’ve heard
those black birds go like rabbits
is your wife like that Chalky of a night?
I know how you blokes like to give it
up her arse with your big black prick
I bet she begs for it 
all 12 inches of it, any chance, that I can see it?

You came home tired and went straight to bed
mum was working nights so she said
in the morning I had to wake dad up
I made some tea and did everything said
Told daddy it was time to shake a leg
I touched his face and I knew that he was dead
I am the youngest of my fathers 7 sons
my mother said this meant that I was blessed
but I couldn’t bring back daddy from the dead
we buried you in Norwood cemetery
the month was May the year was 73
the hole was deep and cold
when we buried him he was 48 years olds
from then on I would not
play deaf nor bite my tongue
a kid said I was a son of a slave
I cut his face with a razor blade
because of that, they never let me back
to school
In Brixton a copper called a man a coon
the month was June the year was 81
we burnt the whole place down
the petrol bombs we made
put police cars to the flame
this bomb’s for liberty
this bomb’s for honour
this bomb’s for revenge
this bomb’s for my father
I threw the words of Christ into the fire
I am without sin and I’ve nothing to confess
I am the Devils new apprentice
I take my cue from the pages of Milton
protest is my banner
resistance is my emblem
I’ll live in Hell until I am yet
black of soul as well as black of face
if I’m told to bow to God himself
I’ll scream No and spit into Gods face
where was God when we were in the ships?
where was God at the gates of Auschwitz?
I have no master, nor do I have a lord
I will not pray to any of the Gods
humanity’s the only beings I love
in all the worlds below and above
nothing can compare to us.

I choke to death on all the things I’m not
My history, My country, My race, My family,
My friends, My health, My wealth, My class,
My politics, My prejudice, My taste in art,
The books I’ve read, The things I’ve said,
My style of dress, My height, My age, My sex,
The colour of my hair, My eyes, My skin,
These things are mine but I am none of them
visibility’s a battle to be fought
I choke to death on all the things I’m not

The doctors are coming out from the laboratories
dressed in the white of the lamb and nuclear flash
all their solutions are 7% their coming to cure you of cancer, wash from your mind the hate,
the rage and despair
that is incompatible with the state
when they have finished with you
all you’ll be fit to do is to beg
outside Brixton Tube, with the rest of the prophets, alcoholics and the socialist
you’ll be selling your arse to all and sundry
a penny hoist, a pound you’ll go all the way
because you’ve lost your mind
no, not lost, you’ve had your mind
removed by government edict
the truth is no one gives a shit
they can’t understand why the fuck
you do.

I throw my ballads from the window
make my manifesto like so much confetti
I want to cover England with my songs
I want to cover England with the works of my hands
I want my songs go out to the unhappy and lost
I want my songs go out to the rejected
I want my songs go out to those without hope
I want my songs cover the men on park benches
I want my songs comfort the children of the poor
I want my songs to say that you are more
than just the colour of your skin
to be described like that is crap
always say: I’m a Fucking Human being.

Walking Home From Suzy’s House.

And walking I saw
the Sun dance above the roof-tops
and the birds making love on the wing
and I listened to
the conversation of the branches
whilst caught in the gaze of asthmatic pigeons
dogs pricked up their ears
to the roar of cars
going no-where in particular
the whole world seemed to giggle
like a cat drunk on cream
the day woke hysterical with laughter
astonished by it’s own being
the grass was purple with pride
the rubbish was beautiful
ancient bag ladies sitting at benches
shined like diamonds
the sky was drawn out in tension
the clouds buzzed with electricity
and people walked the streets
like newly reprieved convicts
everything in the world shimmered
as free as dust in a sun-shaft
police men passing by say: “Good morning Sir”
I reply: “Yes, it is, it is a good morning”
and then addressing the open sky
I say to myself: “I’m so glad to be alive”
and I considered it priceless
to simply stand and witness
the ordinary birth of the universe
and to kiss the sweet morning
on her soft, red, mouth.

Drinking in the Cafe Alibi.

Where were you are the time of the Crime?

I was with

Kiters, drummers, joey-kickers, dippers

Pushers, users, rent-boyz, cruisers

Creepers, blaggers, safe-crackers

Brasses, perverts, tappers

Forgers, con-men, liars, bigamists

Arm-sellers, murderers,


I was with

Painters, poets, philosophers

Miracle workers, doctors, astronmers

Scientists, musicians, clinicians

Psychiatrists, sellers-of-bliss, speech makers

Lovers, generals, workers-in-metal

Women, men, children and angels.


I was in the cafe Alibi

drinking with some friends

When they took castro Jones out

And put a bullet in his brain

But i heard he had it coming

He was treading on some toes

with a man called: Dionysus

On every corner of the road

He was dealing in meta-physics

selling the secret of the rose.


Where was I at the time of the crime?

I was in the Cafe Alibi, drinking with slime.



The bowl was cracked along the center

and she had cut her finger

I had licked away the blood

holding her hand to my mouth.


In the afternoon I had cut her hair

the fragments gathered about our feet

bending I kissed the nape of her neck.


We shared another orange from the broken bowl

and lay among discarded hair

laying there we squeezed the juice into eachothers mouthes

you licked it's moistness from my cheeks

I was wet with.


I am wet with you

I am covered in your hair

I drink from you

Am I you?


You took another orange from the broken bowl

and tearing open with your hands

you wiped the flesh across your face.


The Outdoor Life.

It's good to fuck in the open air

laying our coats down in the wood

one warm summers afternoon.


The astonisment of feild mice

makes them run for cover

but we don't notice.


I covered your belly with leaves

and called you Eurydice

but you had not heard the story.


So we lay naked in the stream Sun

and I spoke of her,

and who she won among the trees.


The story ended we did it again

leaving a trail of clothes across the grass

like a wedding train.



An urban prophet, schooled in the old testaments
has calculated the probability
of a chance encounter with the Nazarene
at the favourable odds of 10 to 1
enough, I guess for a bet on Christiantry.
Teenage black-girls (who have never seen Jamaica)
are talking outside the Cafe Alibi
they rock slowly back and forth to the music
spewed from contraband stereos,
they say: "Fuck this, fuck that, fuck you"
interspersed with the occasional
"You know what I mean mate"
but no-one really does.
A bored middle class white-girl (with an indeterminate accent)
is disappointed with her art degree
at number 11 Plato Road
she has turned her one room into a shrine
suitable for the comemplation of the ZERO
at night (or so she said) "I make love to the Buddha"
as yet, no-one, has believed her.
When the Afro-Saxon poet
finally dumped his racially pure muse
she said: "So what, I was gonna fuck off anyway-
with your poetry, you was always such a bore"
later that night, putting his pen down,
he burnt volume upon volume of poems
but thankfully, none of them his own.
Myself I'm Not Convinced.
Suzy converted to speed
as a pick me up
but it never put her anywhere
Around the corner
"We need more myths"
was spread haphazardly across the Ritzy Cinema
now they want more of everything
they want to dine on mysteries.
I have been writing the notes of bird song in a book
I have been plotting the stars dot-to-dot
I sent them to suzy
she lives at number 11 Plato Road.
They say she doesn't want to be touched
which to her is a kind of defilement
how could convince her otherwise
not being convinced myself.
I sent her the silky fur of the under-dog
which I killed out of pity
I sent her the symbold of my craft
letters arranged into rubies.
But to her this was not enough
and quite frankly I grew tired of her purity
as if her auto-tragedy
surpassed all the grief in China.
But now she's high on art, dialectics, speed
they say she won't go out
that she hates the World
how could I convince herother wise
not being convinced myself.
Reading the Classics in the Afternoon.
Two mounds held back by jeans
are the more improbable flowers
in the pub garden
like two furry peaches among the leaves.
I am reading Plato in the afternoon
but her arse makes my metaphysics seem absurd
the line of her waist, her hips fine curve,
though obscured by trousers
are no less elegant then the theorems
of Pythagoras.
Her arse makes my sensibilities ache
when I consider the shape is all so transitory
all thisngs being one
I knew that such a bum
among mortals deserved ever lasting glory.
The lines of her body does not speak
the so-called truthes of the Greeks
nor do they spout a new philosophy
there is no real mystery about a girls arse in jeans
but it still remains a classic of the 21st century.
Gross Indecency in a Public Place.
He took his trousers down
in a public place and started to masturbate.
Go bring me a cup and I'll drink it.
He poured a demi-john of wine over his head
so his face burning and dripping red.
Go bring me a cup and I'll drink it.
Women arrived to take tinctures of sweat
driven made by smoking opium.
Go bring me a cup and l'll drink it.
Here he will annihilate the old church
his sacrifical rites will be blessed by hymen.
Go bring me a cup and I'll drink it.
The men in shit stinking alley-ways
shall be drunk in ways never dreamt.
Go bring me a cup and I'll drink it.
That, or be arrested, pissing in the Serpentine
with a fist full poems, recently rejected.
What ever you have, bring me a cup, and I'll drink it.
The Walkers.
Two dots moving across a field
above nothing but the skies blue montony
broken only by the occasional bird.


Summer annouces herself

by boldly running naked across the lawns

stupid on wine.


New York City Crossing Delancey Street


all rites ill deserved

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