I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house

(aubade P Larkin)

rallying Call

Risin up -- back on the street,
Did our time, took our chances
Went the distance now we’re back on our feet
Just a team and its will to survive --
So many times, it happens too fast,
You trade your passion for glory,
Dont lose your grip on the dreams of the past,
You must fight just to keep them alive

its the eye of the tiger,
Its the thrill of the fight,
Rising up to the challenge of our rivals,
And the last known survivor
Stalks his prey in the night,
And hes watching us all
With the eye of the tiger.

Face to face -- out in the heat,
Hangin tough, stayin hungry
They stack the odds still we take to the street
For the WIN , with the WILL to survive --


Risin up -- straight to the top,
Have the guts, need the glory
Went the distance, now we are not gonna stop
Just a team and his will to survive --

ode for the lucky man at xmas ?

He laid her on the table,
so white clean and bare.
His forehead wet with beads of sweat.
He rubbed her here and there.
he touched her breast ,
then drooling felt her thigh.
The slit was wet and all was set,
he gave a joyous cry.
The hole was wide........
He looked inside,all was dark and murky.
He rubbed his hands and stretched his arms.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Then stuffed the Christmas TURKEY