The things that I want to say I can’t as a breath cannot be taken when both are in full swing.

As levels rise, sickness in me builds and drops the ebb and flow linked to the too and frow.

As I watch with each word as it is drawn from the sheath, sharpened and bloodied.

So clumsily wielded, the words picked from their wide library of choices strips flesh.

A little more soul is cracked and chipped as loves edges starts to chare in the heat of exchange.

These sentient beings whom I dedicated myself to, detach themselves from the safety of my diplomacy.

Tears burst the banks, mine, not theirs at this early stage of salvos, repeatedly released, devoid of reverence

Years of mutual creation deconstructed before me with hammers in hands and chisels poised.

The hull of this vessel shaken to the rivets.

The private liaisons with myself in the quiet, shadowed parts of where we live. Sanctuary is sought.

Forever the negotiator with a shattered soul and broken heart as two women whom I’ve loved

Two women whom I’ve planned my happiness and purpose around.

These two who have dragged my frame from darker places, with each of their hands on my shoulders,

My heels scraping the road as they bring me to safety. They no longer see me.

They fail to see each other, a gap opens, a lacuna when breath is taken.  The temporary ceasefire, deafening.

Mist lifts and I hope that they recognise each other’s fragile frames.

I see them in all of their fragility and vulnerability, exposed. 

The noise, three dimensional. It is misshapen, distorted from the pain and anger,

causing the heartfelt haemorrhaging of patience. Bare and exposed the lash marks seep

Aggressively delivered octaves once ripped each other apart, still rings in my ears

With every delivery I move closer towards the shadows, where peace is found

This gap in time, this ceasefire, this amnesty a truce so loose is timeous. I dare to part with wisdom. Kindness and empathy fills my heart and blood, my adrenaline and fear. 

Yet all I see is the wrenching of separation.  Shared souls being parted with no finesse  

When can I start the re-build, and who do I start with first. Both are exposed and led by forces far greater than my forces can defend.

They love each other to the ends of time, amongst the chaotic debris which pierces their armour

 Like hot needles in warm wax.  I see you, I see you both my words fall to the floor the moment they leave my mouth. 

Mute as they exit, some fall softly to the ground, others are disintegrated with the fallout. 

They don’t see me, they never see me, when chemicals take hold

I continue to stand in this glass box, pounding the walls with frustration and fever-pitch love

The words they aim leaves doors between them, then locks and keys. If not checked and stopped those.keys will be lost. How will they find their way back to each other?

I want to be their distraction.  I cut myself open, in the hope that I can absorb their pain.

I walk alone at night,
amongst the Christmas city lights.

The youth outside with beers in hand,

Their banking is done, how beigely bland.

Music in my ears it que’s my mood,

The sights and sounds, creativity food.

Yet all alone, i feel the pain,

Despite my pen being synced with brain.

And as much as my poems written in pubs, they always flow like water,

I yearn to be amongst the heather, my wife, my son and daughter.

PedroBatPoet.com (c) 2022

We are all unique

Is there a path that is wild and not trodden,

Food for free souls, beautifully sodden,

Devoid of white noise and fear?

Is there a chord to be invented,

By a musician saturated, demented

Plagued with the challenge of being unique?

Is there an opinion yet to be cast,

Not dividing us all on rafts,

As we struggle with being indifferent?

Is there a play that’s yet to be acted,

Fire and passion, never redacted

Dissolving greed who own the limits?

Is there an adventure, new and bold,

Scaring the young, igniting the old,

As they count back the years that are left?

Is there an angle yet to be computed,

Vision to the blind, noise to the muted,

Releasing ambition that’s dead in its tracks?

Is there a poem yet to be written,

To warm the beleaguered and jaded frostbitten,

Which flattens the hackles on prickly backs?

The answer is yes to all of the above,

As we believe our hearts deserve passion and love.

Each mould we study, then break apart,

Admiring their finish, inspiring our start.

PedroBatPoet © 2022                                    www.pedrobatpoet.com

I lost a year, last year
Just went, as I lay there stuck in the sand
Calloused hands, skin thick, deformed from the weight of my forehead
Too occupied with providing a cradle for my cranium to start digging through soft grains

I lost a year, last year
Just disappeared, as I sank deeper into motionless living
My scarred mind, sick with over-thinking, about behaviours and the why
Too full of wasted lumps of morphing masses that shaped themselves into unhealthy living

I lost a year, last year
Just happened, as I worked at the same pace
My energy though, went from grape to raison, my vineyard ran dry
Too many, languished in safety and inebriated from my production, left my once fertile land, en-masse

I lost a year, last year
Just stumbled off the edge, the weight became too much
My shoulders and arms relented, the sunset giving more comfort than a sunrise
Too heavy, I dropped myself off the cliff, accompanied by an unwelcomed push from familiar hands

I lost a year, last year
Just now does it all make sense
Not lost, more misplaced, yes, I abandoned my year last year
Too important, my love for life, I took myself away to breathe, to walk, to find myself once again

I found a year, this year
Just as I closed the door to descend the cold concrete stairs
I turned to notice my loved ones, friends, angels and sparks to my fire
Too loud with their love, I had blocked their belief, and there in the corner my year sat, my tutor, my savour, proud of my journey

PedroBatPoet © 2022 http://www.pedrobatpoet.com

My Boudicca since birth.

Handing all you had to me, at first sight.

Your tender age allowed but one possession.

Regardless, selfless, you gave you, to me.

Iceni and all of your worth.

With every fall, your prompted catch.

Your eyes recharge my energy.

Only you fathomed my expressions, my afflictions.

Effortless, priceless, your touch, your elixir for me.

Locked in, you picked the latch.

Maid of Orleans, your radiance blinding,

Armour, soft, warm, perfumed and safe.

Personified symbiosis.

Fearless, doubtless, your belief forever protected by me.

Your power, untamed yet unwinding.

With every mistake I make, you appear,

Never to judge, the infinite reminder.

A reminder that errors, form character.

Nonetheless, fatherless, you carry me to your plate.

Effervescent memories with no fear.

The Earheart to my Bader, skies now touched.

Faultless dreams are mapped.

Love is consistent, persistent and light.

Irregardless, possessionless, you carry me and leave all you value behind.

Reflection I now love, even if smutched.

Your two score and ten of compassion,

Stored, awaiting your brother.

When perfection is felt, the flower briefly opens.

Frictionless, symptomless, your tears never lost in the rain.

Petals will close, but your energy is stored, your endless belief, your passion.

(COPYRIGHT) PEDRO BAT-POET 2019

There are many empires that the world has witnessed.

Now we can name them all and I must confess

That before I worked, where I once worked, I thought I’d seen the worst of an Empire’s mess.

So it was a place of law, development and a hive of all things great,

But there were 2 elements of this concrete heaven, which I can’t help but still hate.

You see they were all in the same boat, rowing at the same pace,

but not knowing it was all a race, set out by their superiors,

which used sacking like a weapon so to blind all of us inferiors

Now this mess that I mention, just there in the last verse,

Often leads to blue language, I will try my best not to curse.

So can you imagine if you will one ship, many oars and everyone is pulling,

Now imagine further between each rower a wall, to stop them all from fulfilling,

Their quest to be the best they can, as they are told that they all lack,

Is the fortitude and dress sense to get themselves promoted to the moon back.

This was true on some accounts as there were some who moaned that they were a slave,

But the difference is that they avoided work, watched the mayhem unfold, and always took their wage.

Decisions were always made at a level slightly above my own,

By people who saw this as their playground, and were deaf to the pleading moans.

Of those like me, who could always see that us pawns were being played,

In a Jumanji style existence where instant sacking made many afraid,

To speak up or challenge these two corporate-paedophiles, these barren vacuous crows that patrolled all of the offices,

Who prayed on young trainees to force-feed cash into all of their abusive orifices.

But, with all things in life there is a turning point and my first came after just 90 days,

When we were told to meet in the board room at 8pm, the main paedo had something to say

He asked us to look out of the window and asked us what we could see,

We were all quite pedantic by then and said, “Errr cars, the Court house and a river that leads to the sea?”

His face went red, the buttons on his undersized slim fit shirt started to bulge as flesh filled each gap.

“No, my Porsche is there and if you don’t make more money, and I have to give that back, I swear as I am standing here, you will all get the sack!”

Another 30 days passed, probation done, so contract in hand I went to see,

These two predators of juniors, as I had a young family and this job however bad was money.

I closed the door, and I remember it well, I was asked to stand and not sit,

They mentioned my dress code first saying my suit was cheap and didn’t fit,

So I had to retort that working 80 hours a week for such a small salary,

Leaves me nothing for my wife and kids, we can barely eat their recommended dose of calories

The emotionless response caused my teeth to clench hands formed into fists,

And then they delivered their final blow – you see we aren’t keeping you on because since you’ve embraced this new fad of facial hair when in Court, well you resemble a rapist!”

Now, not that I needed a connection, but they weren’t to know that in the past a dear friend suffered the trauma of rape,

Which brought the red mist down beautifully over my eyes as I walked back, my heart filled with hate.

I turned and locked us all in that room together. They both froze.

He reached for the phone to call reception asking for the police, no doubt,

But before he could utter a word, I ripped the phone from his ear and muffled his startled shouts.

I remember standing on his desk, with my contract scrunched in hand,

Now shhhhh, sit down quietly” I said, more calm than a demand

An instant thought came in could I kidnap this guy tonight, buy a blow torch and rope and take him to my shed?

But that took planning and effort, I had constantly insomnia, I needed wine, night nurse and then my bed.

But I took a more professional and lawyers approach, lent in and stapled the contract to his head!

It really did work too, as I opened out the stapler, it was all in the flick of my squash players wrist.

So he sat there, his red toxic blood gathered around the staple then dripped down the page onto his light brown Chelsea boots.

I turned to boss number two who had frozen against the law books.

All I could find was a black marker pen, and with ‘gangster’ now filling my head,

I copied a film I loved so much and wrote ‘MUG’ across her forehead.

As I unlocked the door I lent back in and with intensity I wrapped my hand so there were no gaps

Around the one thing he loved religiously his chicken ceasar wrap!

For added drama and affect,

I opened it slowly in front of him and started on his lunch, I was now the prefect.

And these two chastised kids, Mug and Staple boy didn’t move an inch,

It was a first in that law firm, a trainee had some balls and didn’t flinch.

Sadly this is mostly a true story, and I left my favourite vocation,

But some good news came a few years later at that same location.

You see it wasn’t just me who’d had enough, later I got to hear,

That as I left, and smeared the remainder of that caeser wrap on the window of the Porsche, 6 other lawyers behind the glass gave a black panther cheer.

They all left within the year and lodged a mass complaint,

The content of which I hear made the Chief Registrar in the Law Society faint.

Karma has been served now, to see is always fun,

As one faces charges of fraud and the other is on the run.

So the moral of this story, is simple and relates to you and me,

Always walk away with honour and a Caesar wrap, to protect your integrity.

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

Draft, link,

At one time meaning.
Drift wood, jounced.
The toll on my fabric irreparable,
Expensive.

Write, reach,
At one time clearing.
Booms, ruthless in their confusion.
The pain of my tranquillity, temporary,
Ruminant.

Polish, connect,
At one time preening,
Coral, bleached, concussed.
The finality of my mental demise,
Ex-Pensive.

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

Are you takin’the highland piss!!

Ok this ends now and stop that hiss,

Swanning aboot all day and nicht

Your ignorance is at its frickin hicht!

Your body language clearly shows us,

Your sweet miaow? Is a Glasgee cuss,

As ye spray ma rug and miss your litter.

With middle claw raised you leg it, you’re clearly much fitter!

And here’s a question, you bonnie big rat,

With your kitten mentality in the body of a cat.

Do you actually hink it’s awfie braw to claw your host,

Ya needles hit ma ‘bits’ like a willie scratch post!

And what the hell do you do all day?

Can you naw wash up, iron or is it aw just play?

Coz that crazy two oors o’ zest

Needs to end, it’s bedtime…gie me a rest!

Here’s a final hing, ya smart arsed feline

Dinnae use the litter and then make a beeline

Towards me like a hoachin’ sleepwalker

To wipe your toilet paws, ya fury daft stalker.

And when did ye get so frickin’ fussy,

Aboot wit meat ye eat, ya stuck up hussy?

So noo it’s Whiskers, the cost n bloody stress,

Has Gordon Ramsay been roon the hoos, no less!?

I know you hate me with a ginger whiskered passion,

As ye lie, top o’ the stair, ya fury stealthed assassin.

For ma two in the morning pee, och i’m auld and so unfit,

But bare foot hits fur and there’s me erse o’er tit!

On a final note, miss smartest o’ the species,

When you’ve finished chasing fleas and playing wae ma keys

Go grab the brush and get yersel pretty,

Coz ma kilt noo resembles ginger coat o’ a yeti!!

(copyright. 2019) Pedro Batpoet

My thoughts on how Burns would deal with a modern-day problem.

My life is like a tangled hose

That’s sprung a leak in June :

My hose was left all winter long,

Outside and now it’s doomed.

As screwed art thou, my green green pipe

A drouth my plants have and I :

I’ll need to replace you now, my hose,

Afore they all gang dry.

Till a’ the flowers gang dry, my hose,

Ma lassie is hoofin me up the bum :

But I cannae fix the leak in ma pipe,

So the tap o’ life can run.

And fare thee weel, my only hose,

And fare thee weel de noo !

As Amazon’s been with a new green pipe

To feed her flowers and save a row.

(Copyright 2019) Pedro BatPoet

I’ve never lost mine…and it’s careless if you do, in this world of recycle, keep fit, get on your cycle and go vegan! I want it to stay put…

Which it needs to, in this world of judge me judge you, get your opinion out there whatever the damage, but don’t expect it to be heard.

So, two people who haven’t lost their bottle, but who affect mine, are Putin and Trump,

Who not satisfied with the smooth road of life as they continue to build barriers and humps.

As they dance the waltz around the Crimea, a foxtrot in Syria and now a rhumba over Nuclears.

And the worrying thing is, as I live in this dilute the news to soften your views, we’ll dumb it down for you facebook-crack clowns…., is that this is hardly MAKING news.

In the 60’s when the Cuba missile crisis was in full flow, do you know people in the UK, if a bomb dropped knew exactly where to go.

If a bomb was dropped right now, on the edge of your city, you wouldn’t hear panic and screaming,

You know fine there would be thousands standing, Ray-bans on…filming and bloody streaming.

Experts for years have all too often warned of the negative effect of shoot ‘em up video games,

Numbing the sensitivities which gives us compassion, empathy, I mean the games…we have something to blame!

Don’t we?

Of course not, this isn’t down Activision, Volition or Rock Star, trying to influence the shape of the world from afar.

They are just filling a gap to corner a market and make absolute money,

We are bright people and know the difference between bacteria and honey.

So as the power dance unfolds and the world has become numb and far less caring,

Of atrocities, bad behaviour, happy with fights, because for their life…this has no bearing!

The leader of the free world announces that he will rescind on a major peace pact,

That stops the stockpiling of long-range nuclears which will lead to a ‘My pile’s bigger than yours..fact!”

31 years this treaty has stood, and all the while it has done much good.

I mean it stops missiles being launched whose ranges are between 300 and 3400 miles,

Which ensures the longevity of a Russian, American, European and Far Eastern child!

Where is the UN’s intervention to calm down two men who thrive on contravention?

With two mammoth egos dictating this living death, quasi Baader-Meinhoff intimidation.

This is a repetition of the same stance that these two always take, yet here I am penning this in yet another wake,

Of more news about something so big, and it’s just in, but at work I heard more colleagues talk about the lady which threw a cat in a wheelie bin?

Britain, WAKE UP, you are sleep walking!!

You’ve stopped thinking, questioning and critically talking.

You know the news is too often biased, makes up facts and simply lies,

As amazing and on-point as he is, isn’t it a shame we get our facts and views from the character that is Jonathon Pie!

Satirists are the justifiable lynch mob of all political wrongdoers, and we need to give them airtime,

But as well as this, we need our own opinions, and to give them more credit, militancy can be fine!

If you are fighting something which cuts against your own grain,

That would possibly incense you to be chained to barbed wire and railings in the rain (familiar)?

You remember those women who had a bee in their bonnets and something, who can forget!!

They did the same for what they believed in…who were they again….oh yes THE SUFFRAGETTES.

I mean c’mon people we have a history of EVENTUALLY doing the right thing,

standing up for all that we, in time, thought good,

From legalising same-sex marriage, votes for women’s to abolishing slavery because we knew we should.

Or are we actually closer to how the world perceives UK?

These ex-colonialist, empire hunters, culture-crushers who are morally far from OK.

And deserve all of the bad that comes to us, as when things look rough we historically head for the exit,

And we’re repeating it now with some wind in Victory’s sails with the mess we’ve all dubbed BREXIT.

But no-one here believes democracy is undermined if we went for a second ref vote to get us out of this mess,

When we all know the first one was only won due to a lie about the NHS.

So please UK, wake up wake up and set that alarm for 06.00 a.m,

Because the seas we’re heading into, if you’re not on the bridge will lead to Spanish Armada style mayhem.

We need to alter how the voice is heard and a change in accent and translation,

Because the current model has us back in trenches, the wait for the whistle with sombre anticipation.

We are the Immigrant British after all, and know where we all want to go as one,

And being a beautiful myriad mix of a hundred plus races,

We aren’t governed by our inflated egos we all bring from different places.

So let common sense prevail, abolish all parties and make just the one quite soon,

An ethical dictatorship as it were, we just need a catchy nom-de-plume!

Because it sounds like communism which is pretty bad and also something nasty that Libya once had.

But maybe…just maybe this once great engineering and industrious nation needs to think outside the box!?

The answer for the UK could be clear and for us to just create a series of communes

Where we all become self-sufficient, a community, abolish currency and whistle a different economic and fiscal tune.

Mortgages scrapped, what’s the worse that can happen then cancel all external debt?

When we embrace our sister and brothers from a nearby village and start to barter with veg and bread.

Our chief export would be, how to live a more simple life with peace and acceptance being the things you’ll see.

With happiness and balance being the language of choice and our non-exploitable, but please do plagiarise, future currency.

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018