Through the tumbledown town the tumbleweed blown by the lateness

of wind that flew like a swan unused to stretching her wings, comes

a tattoo of the morning that rises with breakfast and brings hope with

the postmen and the howling of cats on the tiles.

I have slept, walked, burnt and burst a hundred thousand miles in my search for the questions to question each answer I get and I get nothing but more answers to question the questions and each answer cancels the answer before

I wonder what answering questions is for, but for questions to answer and each one the cancer, no kill and no cure.

The swan flys away, the wind dies away, the tumbleweed brown in the tumbledown town blows away and there is but for another day my life in a nutshell.

We’re daft and we know it

we’re daft and we know it  a short film by Daniel Baldwin featuring the voice of the pantechniconpoet

Circling Whitehall


Will you listen to what they are telling you?
can you listen to what they say?
‘the future’s not in tomorrow,the
future was yesterday’
and may god have mercy on me.
Today is blank
and who do I thank for that?

Time doth surely flee from thee,

(sod off Shakespeare this is about me)

If they are telling me this,then I know it is that
and they can wax lyrical on the world being spherical,
I point to a clerical error, a mistake in perspective
which makes what they say
(in one word)

And who might they be?

They be the grey men
the men who say when men,
the dead and the deadpan with looks that say,
‘no man’ and signs that read,
entry forbidden,
hidden from sight.
The only chance of reprieve from they who deceive is to leave and having left,there’s a fork in the road,a cleft,a right way,a left,
will you listen
to what
are telling you?

More serenity than Sainsburys


The church bells casting
religious spells
and the habitues of the pews 
can sit at ease or kneel
at prayer knowing that they’re
the untouchables.

Breakwater point

The giants know it is not the journey they make but
the first step on the long road
that they take to immortality which puts them
on the pages of history under the microscopic lens
of humanity.

The giants may slip and trip over giants who have fallen before but
some rise with their eyes set on the keys of infinity,unlocking the lighthouse to light up the pathways for us all to be

We break the mould and shoulder responsibility,it’s not easy to be
a giant,simpler to be a small man,tall men are targets for the sniper scope,the aim of dreams which lead the refugees that hope for new technologies to ease their burdens.
The giants are among us,the humble ones,ones that tumble,crumble,crumple and yet unravel mystery,unlock misery
to free the sad and the sick,pick a person any person and that person could be the giant,
it’s not really how tall you stand but how you understand and where the first step is and who gives you the helping hand,
we all have within us the grasp of the genius
we are all

Fading in


It is only the ghosts that hide in towers and
flap the sails,
through these railings
I still see
the ghost of who
I used to be.

In these towers in the town where everything is coloured damp,
lamps are lit and light flits nervously,
I still see
the ghost of who
I used to be.

The towers,
phallic symbols of a modern age where teenagers came of age,in an age where every turn they make,makes them rant and rage against authority and
I still see the ghost of who
I used to be.

No ghost escapes
just waits for their
slurping up the anger,hurt,becoming stronger in
the long term memory and
I can see what has
become of me.

Marine life


plotting course
off the North star riding
on the crazy horse,
a bucking bronco on the flow.
‘Go West’
but magnetic forces pull me East, the beast
trapped underneath the sea takes me where
it will.

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