Erection

Sometimes,
When thinking of you
As a symbol of my affection
I get an erection -
Correction -
A stonking great big boner.

When I was a boy
This projection in my pants
Was embarrassing.
Red-faced, not yet red-handed
I would arrest the upstart
And uptuck it up my belt.
Like a BIG GIRL in a sports bra.
Sometimes he'd peek over the fence
Enraged by his incarceration
But othertimes he'd subside
Once tied up.

Now I am a man
This projection in my pants
Is cause for celebration
That three years in
I stand to attention
When you call me
Still I rise
Still I rise
Still I rise.

Dead Centre of London Town

It was autumn and ting
No need to set the scene
You've seen this scene before
You know?
Trees shedding skin
Rogue leaves no longer in vogue
September Issue out of fashion
The baton passing from
That season to this.

Stood at the gates
At the Dead Centre of London Town
Highgate Cemetary thought it was done
So I broke in
Scaled the wall
Unseen and wandered around
Chaperoned under full Lunar Patrol.

Through this minor act of criminality
Philosophically
I learnt a pertinent thing.
I learnt that No-one Ever Really Dies
Because I'm telling you that place was alive.
I heard
bristling
rustling
restlessness
creaking and croaking and weightlessness.

Whilst I had the temerity to jump the wall in the first place
I'm no Billy Big Bollocks -
I'm not ashamed to admit that I was spooked.

But as I pondered, I remembered that
No-one Ever Really Dies
and that this place is alive.
So I danced with graves
the whole night through
consoled by that thought.

Untitled

Captain of my ship, When I'm on the mike,
Clocks went back, but I shines a light
With my lyrics I exhibit a fierce kind of might
My pen v your sword if you want to fight
Poetical like sleight of hand
No trite words 'cos my shit ain't bland
Prick your ears up right so you understand
You can't test me 'cos I'm the man.

The Banker's Crisis

We plumb the depths of degradation
We surf to supplement flagging imaginations
We leave deposits in the bank
So when you're buffering or offline
You've got your memory to thank.

The King

Gaddafi,
Colon-El, Muammar
In his shiny, shiny Ray-Bans.
He's the first dictator-cum-rockstar.
Like Elvis. The King.

So if Gaddafi is King
Then Mubarak is Judas.
And if Mubarak is Judas
Then Silvio is the Priest.
And if Silvio is the Priest
What does that make David Cameron?
James Blunt.

At Mark and Charlie's

I am the epitome of mobility
Riding hands free along the canal
High-fiving low-hanging trees
Cat's eyes watching me
Knees pumping like pistons
As I breeze through the breeze
Terminal velocity as my
Velo
Extracts me from the city
My olfactories spy the genesis
Of good old Scottish whiskey
Half Moon pricks the sky
With perfect geometry.

The Bus Stop

Stood in my spot
At my squat
I'm the big shot
Looking down from atop
My high rock
To the Bus Stop
Where I wave at you lot

With my willy.