Balls to The World

In My heart,
(My secret heart)
And in my mind,
(My sliding scale mind)

I am still ten,
With James Bowden,

The first of my friends,
Whose mothers told them,
They could no longer be,
A friend to me,

Note the first.
Not the last.

James was angly,
All tall and gangly,
A sinewy hawk,
On a couple of stalks,

And a melancholy struck us back then,
Though we were barely ten,
And, I suppose, an inner rage,
And mutual distaste for our educational cage,

And a longing to be free,
I wonder how it could be,
That we'd know all this at ten,
Did we even speak the words then,
Or was it telepathic empathy,
Or a melancholic osmosis from him to me,

Let's go to the fence,
He says, Give up all pretence ,
And shout "Balls to the world" as loud as we can,
And I remember now from a boy to a man,

The chicken wire clutched in our hands,
Too chicken to climb over, and off of the lands,
That belonged to our prison called school,
But it felt totally bloody cool,

To let rip, at the top of our voices,
Lungs open, against the all the closed choices,
Vocal chords stretched out and taut,
Eyes bulging at the unshed tears we'd fought
Back before life or hope had unfurled,
Heads thrown back, held high now,

BALLS TO THE WORLD!!!

The One who gave Me Life Is Dead

The one who gave me life is dead,
The one who rose, from yeast, this bread,
The one whose thoughts had filled my head,
The one whose body, for me, once bled,

The source of life from which I sprung is dried,
The Life-force spirit; gone from inside,
My Mother, who suckled me, has died,
The chief witness for my defence has testified,

The unconditional lover of my whole,
The shameless holder of my soul,
Who plucked the embers from extinguished coal,
Is descended into sheol ,

And the starred ring of thorny crown instead,
The nail marked hands, the spring of red,
So crucified, he bowed his head,
The one who gave me life is dead.

The one who gave me life is dead



M Joseph Burt (01.06.2007)

She Believes In Karma

She believes in karma,
And I in sowing and reaping,
She may hold out for Nirvana,
And I for heaven's keeping,

But we both see the flower
And both dream when we are sleeping,

What you do,
Can haunt you,
Can bless you,

Keep an eye out for life's beauty,

And tread softly,
With each others dreams,
And follow love,
Not duty.


M Joseph Burt (19.06.07)

When I Was a Child

When I was a child,
I knew,
How to protect myself,
In make believe,
In solitary imaginings, new incarnations,
And  beginnings,

A seal.
A tiger.
A polar bear,

Robin Hood,
Mowgli,
Tarzan,

Among other creatures,,
There was no incongruity,
Within this gratuity,
Of pretence,

It was real,
One hundred per cent,

No division between dream and waking,
But now, the nightmare of awake,
Encroaches on boarders that should never be crossed,
Invading my dreams,
Poisoning,

The fantasist, I must insist,
Has tasted the poison,
And there's no going back,
He must die,
(And anyway, who am I?)




M Joseph Burt (13.06.2007)

Catherine Graydon's Hand

I wish I could have held,
Catherine Graydon's hand again,
Stared at Melanie McCloud,
Whilst others read aloud,

One more time,

To sit topless,
Barefoot,
In the Derwent,
With Ruth Gray,
With her went,
My childhood dreams,
Of romance,

She grew up,
Became sensible,
And so should my dreams,

And so,
Should I,

But somewhere deep down,
Childhood refuses to die out,
It holds on to the coat-sleeves of time,
Stamps it's feet,
Incomplete,

The changing of the Guard is hard,
From boy to man,
from was to am,
And the essence of the dream,
Remains a theme,
That refuses to stay out of my story,

Escape,
Into imagined landscapes,
Of love




M Joseph Burt (July 2007)

The Footwasher

I worship the footwasher,


The leper toucher,
The friend of; sinners,
The fatters and the thinners,
The self starvers,
And the self feeders,
The self harmers,
The murderous,
The insane,
The corrupted, corrupters,
Collaborators, abusers,
Dope users,
Traitors,
Makers of documentaries,
Down the centuries,
The self flatterers,
The Nothing mutterers,
The vain,
The same,
Friend of all that's mucked up,
Sucked up,
Sold out,
In it,
But not of it,
walking through it,
Like there's nothing to it,


I worship the one with his sleeves rolled up,
His bread dipped,
With the traitor's,
Same bread, same cup,

I'm with the one,
Who was born on the run,
The calmer of storms,
The stifler of yawns,
The tosser of tables,
And all that's unstable,

The one who said the justified man,
Is the one who beats his breast,
Not the one in Sunday best.

I worship him.
I want to stand with him.



M Joseph Burt (19.07.2019)

Bitter Pill

Like a fool,
I promised you everything,
A lover's declaration at ecstatic breathless heights,
And now I am equally blessed,
And cursed,
Like Jesus,
I thirst,
For the righteousness I wrongly thought was mine to give,
I cannot live,
On bread alone, Father,

Don't give me stone,
Or snake for fish,
I made a vow,
But  I also made a wish,

For you,
To come,
To me,

Daddy,
Don't let me down,
Don't watch me drown,
Mill stone or not,
Your curse is better than your silence,
Your punishment and violence,
(I know you heard my cry once),
Is better than my kindness,

So I eat this stone,
In faith that it is your bread
If my heart be dead,
You can make it live again.



M Joseph Burt (18.07.2005)

I am Icarus

I Cannot fly
I am not Jesus
Or even a bird
I am Icarus

And so it seems
My feathers are lead
Faith cannot breathe
And work is dead

And here is the altar
And these my prayers
That crash to the earth
That you put there

I cannot fly
I am not Jesus
Or even a bird
I am Icarus

From this tower of life
From Worry-Tree's bough
As I hold my breath
I take a leap now

But I fall every time
I land on my head
And a shrill small voice
Cries 'Your God is dead'

So I dust myself off
Don't make a fuss
And climb up again,
I am Icarus

I cannot fly
And I'm not Jesus
But almost an angel
I am Icarus

A falling Angel
I am Icarus



M Joseph Burt (01.06.07 with edits from 09.10.19)

From the Dawn of Time

The time?
Dawn.
The place?
East of Eden.

Who knew?
Caine knew.
Who drew
That hoodoo?
That you do,
You hoo,
You who,
Once slew,
Your brother.

Premeditated,
Or a genesis of jealousness,
And rage?
Off of the page,

The murder weapon?
A rock? A club?
A tool....
You fool!

And there ever after,
Mankind has devised more efficient ways,
To kill his brother.


You no longer have to bash away,
At skull with rock and bare
Blood spattered hands there,

You can instead push someone ,
To push a button,
On your behalf,
And 10 million people you have never met,
Will die,
And your children will be poisoned forever,
we're so clever,

But like Caine,
In absence of pain,
Though it took much of brain (to go nuclear),
We never really thought about it.

Ugly (24.05.07)

It's funny how,
The most beautiful faces,
Are only a touch away from ugly,
That a beautiful girl who knows it,
Is the ugliest of all,
But damn,
You'll want her for it,
And then....
It all gets pretty ugly

The Shelf

Lying in a green and golden haze,
Sandwiched by lazy summer days,
Cushioned and cocooned in time,
The cotton padded walls of sublime,
History: Behind
And future lines,
Neither has a place in this spot,
Just here,
They can come,
So far,
Only so near,
But no further. No
They cannot encroach,
On this perfect moment. So

Just so; This warmth on my skin
             This stubble on my chin
             This breeze across my face
             This cloud of grace
             This meadow. Look!
             This gargling chocolate, babbling brook,
             This life about within,
             This horses hoof,
             This fishes skin,
             This song of songs of summer lark,
             This moment knows nothing of the dark,

And it exists,
All by itself,
It is all I want of wealth,
It is peace and life and health,

It is on the sheer cliff face of time..

A shelf.



M Joseph Burt (28-05-2007)