I walk through streets of light and

greet people Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

on my blog world Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

my poet warriors from Bukowski to Blake and Whitman

Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

Poet warriors for my angry, resentful,

lustful, alcoholic, drug hazed friends,

Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

Poet warriors for all my peace and hate,

love, greed, sadness, madness,

Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

for  all my lust angels, deviants,

S& M Souls, Buddha, Buddha, Buddha,

for the death and birth walkers,

for the politico and psycho/spiritual,

for the darers and seekers of unknown worlds,

for the medicated, for the drink related,

for the Christian fundamentalist

versus the Muslim fundamentalist,

for the homeless and Wall Street greed freaks,

for the status quo and hoodoo gurus,

and if one laid down dear poets on the earth

with your ear to its heart you would

hear Buddha, Buddha, Buddha

and you would smile, and the world

would smile and Space & God angels

everything would smile and all that would

be left is LAUGHTER one big funny Chaplin

baring his arse to the WORLD.

How long…

How long are going to stay angry

You get up in the morning

pissed at the world; you frown

at the flowers and get wild at the



Been reading too long,

too many books,

too much desperation

too many poets


CRAZY as a Hurricane.


Going to lay down with Buddha

Going to make love to Jesus

Going to dance with Rumi


Its a fact , anger gives you

cancer, makes you a twisted sister.


Tired I stand at the shore of your

wild cunt ready to drown.



Born to fuck

I kept talking about love

but she talked of Henry Miller,

The Song of Songs, and the

Marquis de Sade

still I kept talking about

love but she talked of

erotica but I kept talking

about love, she was Mexican,

a Cundera, a healer,

she said , you should

take the Mother ayahuasca ,

it will help you

but I kept talking about

love and that scared her,

in reality I didn’t want love,

I wanted her cunt, and I

realised I was born to fuck,

just like her.

If I was..

If I was Neruda

I would eat your sweet rose


If I was Borges

I would paint your imagination


If I was Lorca

I would celebrate your body


But I am non of these

just a simple poet


who dreams of a girl

in a distant land


where eagles fly over the Yucatan,

and ayahuasca is swallowed in Iquitos,


looking for that perfect Yage,

the perfect Blake to enter

your doors.


A dangerous pleasure

there is something dangerous

in the stranger staring at you

a particular type of excitement

floods your erotic zones

a dangerous pleasure

makes you swoon as the

train pulls into the station….