by Keith Woodhouse





live spelt backwards is evil,

Evil is that which seeks to destroy the spirit,

Like some tired old flowers on the window sill

I am as tired and old as the bible.

He stands fifty four years a man,

Like the sea rolls it's tired head in,

Second hand shores that we believe and die in,

A wellington boot, a rusty bicycle,

Blue as my eyes as blue as skies,

The ego rolls in and rolls out

As proud as a pumpkin and pumped,

The world leans back on it's axis,

Flower pot chimneys on lego-land houses,

The denizens perch on garden walls,

Smoking and seeing the beginning

That starts where it ends in red eye death.




a black line



Adriatic House


May our worlds be protected,

Not government inspected,

In all of our faces,

Through spaces and places,

May saturn look after

The tears and the laughter,

As we swing from the rafters,

Damned and condemned,

The magic men.




a black line





I am not asking for love

But I'm praying to God above,

To help me get through,

To get over you.


I’m sick of your games

Your tricks and your powers,

I can't match your brain,

So I bought you some flowers.


I wish I could die,

I wish this would end,

You won't say goodbye,

But you won't be my friend.




a black line





I was dire in her hands,

She split into 40 syllables,

She looked like a giant tarantula,

Ready to inject me.


The truth of the ox floods through me,

Flecked in the undertow savage ridden,

Nothing exists except words,

Blacken the sun, salute the sea.


I been down every avenue of truth,

I've got tunnells in my head carved by M.D.M.A.

I'm naked and shivering in a phone booth,

But I'll be back again someday.


Aunty Mabel's on the crack pipe,

A rat's nest voodoo virgo,

Now I stand

In cloud cuckoo land

Sailing on the sea.


I am London born and bred,

I built myself a London head.

Some people are getting a degree,

Some people are forgetting a degree.


My existence is hanging on a thread,

I am one step away from death,

Who will be beside my bed?

When I breathe that final breath?


The mad priest with a broken chalice,

Is squatting in the ludite's palace,

Broken with our final breath,

Into the iron jaws of death. 



a black line


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