Where do I begin with this, To express myself with rhymes and words,

And thrown in a mixer, delivered and heard.  

A beat that emanates from somewhere deep, my angst is felt from head to cold-feet.

I felt mute, and deafened, suffocated and sick, At the lack of compassion and the cut to the quick.  

What happened to us on the day we turned efficient and less elastic, with our endless recycling and our obsession with plastic.  

Have they got us so distracted by the degrading plight, of oceans and seas in far off lands with not a bin in sight, Whilst our homeless by day, are never in the frame, But their freedom’s sadly plagued by their exit from the game.  

Expeliamous to old scenery, to fit the bastards plenary, as we all sit glued to glass and lights, Switching off rainbows and turning on the nights.

The increase of cameras on corners as we turn, And watch the pure of our youth compete and then get burned.  

Our history is littered with nostalgic wonders, Yet we repeat the errors of plagiarized blunders. Perception warped by a tangy distraction, With pencil in hand, I know but just a fraction.  

Yet I do see our concentrated core of pent up energy, being diluted and replaced with dead bile green complacency.

Mental dumbing, cranial numbing, our continual consciousness lazily thumbing,   through pages of someone else’s on social media, then we replicate the parts that feeds us all greedier.

A lost belief, we can’t be great if fat too thin or small, Can we not think of contentment, beyond wifi in the hall.  

And I sit there at night just before I sleep, 15 minutes of a digital creep, not searching for people or a long lost friend, but an inspiration quote with an image to quickly send.  

Send to someone out there who’s a lot like me, Yearn for quiet hearts and safety for the bees! Yes… the bees…ahhh the bees, now we truly love bees, With all that is linked to life and of honey, But those backbencher wasps just see swarms of pure green money.  

And they’ve been with us all for a millennia or two, So it’s not a surprise to us when they do just what they do, But these lessons are not new, but distracts us all from war, As our nectarless voices fall mute on frozen floors.  

Are there people out there who can’t see the link, Of all the connections and attachments at the hip, From bees to the trees to plastic in seas, As the oil in these ships brings bees to their knees?  

The people with no schools are happy in their huts, respect spaces more than us, and they don’t ask for a cut.

No hang-ups or afflictions that bite them in the night, or trauma based addictions that loses every fight.  

And the base of our problems, in this modern of all worlds, where equality is still void in today’s boys and girls, As they navigate their emotions not through parental calm and empathy, But parented by social media, entitlement, debauchery.  

What chance do we have when we want to say, it’s right to be confused, It’s ok to be overwhelmed and tearful and bemused.

And this functioning adult before you, with skills but many flaws, has a path that lay behind me strewed with fails and battered doors,   Was confused like you too, but I just kept on swimming, and never accepted breathing as a single sign of winning.

When perplexed and wronged and hit off course by parental misdirection, No consumption of apps and sites could hide my perfect imperfections.  

And who wrote this new book where labels categorised the drama, You can see them stitching stars these days on stripy grey pyjamas! And if you don’t think for one minute that we are almost at those gates, with a rail line, steam and fog, the birthplace of all hate,   Can we please wake up from our coma, safe from alacrity, more stench than aroma.

Horrors and our nerves desensitised, the intravenous distant apathy, sterilised.  

And i’m standing here with nerves in my belly, And tired with most that vomits from my telly, And I’m wanting to shout ‘what of them over there, What have you done with their walk, hopes and stares?  

I can see them, and their hope it burns my eyes, as it forms everlasting patterns which no-one can disguise, How shocked I am that I walk past them every single day, and do nothing to lift a finger and simply wish to say,   “How can I help, what’s your story and where did it al go wrong.

I’ve seen some stuff on Facebook, it’s why I’m here, nah that’s just feckin wrong? I mean is that all it takes to drink a quote and then to make a change, like it was always just so simple, to sugarcoat and glaze?  

And these social media vultures pedal phrases for two goals, Their cult wrestles with your money and strips gilt from all our souls.

And it’s all fluffed in a package no frills or depth or mess, with quotes, tunes and pictures to work with false pretence.  

This wonderful world of opinions and a million subjective clauses, Where I am keen to cause what offence I can, as my neighbour just withdraws his.

As he can’t think for himself, dress, walk talk for himself, And this passed down point of poisoned worship, It disinfects him, sublime and worthless.  

Who will take to the streets and be free like gypsies, And copy the actions of students in the sixties. And listen to Dylan eat his words and chords and rhyme, So film yourself, your militant thoughts, go viral with your vines.  

A bacterial snippet of what we all think, We are buried beneath the bodies left by media greed and stink.

And it’s you my gorgeous daughter and it’s you my lovely son, my gift to you is fireworks and don’t accept they’ve won.  

Because as happy as I seem, in my suit and ageing dreams, when not with you my happiness, is coffee and sides of cream.

And when away from all your quirks, and crafted wit and charm, I’m alone but filled with hope that your strength will cause no harm.  

It consumes me, the unfiltered, that presses on your brain. But assured that all I placed there, dilutes the acid rain, Which leaves you with the truth and all that really matters, As i focus on your palette as your colour makes them scatter.  

Protect what is authentic, be labelled as eccentric. And the disease that they all fear, Is your infectious hope when near.  

It will make you see solutions, when problems are on fire, and you will fight them on the beaches, They will say that you’re a liar.

As you simplify their greed, and question roots of wealth, Hold your ground my young Horatius your power it lies in stealth.  

Your numbers they will multiply, a million score and more, Go use their tools against them, with insta tweets and more.

So fight against their loans and their mortgage laden debt, As every penny you hand them sinks you deeper in their nets.  

And try they will to convince you, to get yourself just deeper, You will know that all they pedal is linked to all that’s cheaper And has no worth in life, as you search and as you strive, Of how to run in treacle to simply stay alive.  

I don’t fear much these days, as I look across the ocean, and see what humans have become, and what is now in motion.

Yet this stance we take with courage, and belief in all that passes, And it matters not a jot, if you come from different classes.  

If none of this resonates, and feels a little awkward, I ask you watch these monsters close, their hate is quite straightforward.

Don’t divide or judge or hide, just join with us in unity, Let’s stand in line, and once we’ve won they’ll demand immunity.  

COPYRIGHT 2019 PEDRO BATPOET www.pedrobatpoet.com

I see you choke on bitter flame,

Rationale with the vitriol you spit.

Your fermented quagmire vines you to your pit,

My flame justifies your blame.  

Crisp intentions ignites tensions,

Spawned from your lack of vision.

Rigidity you use in milky collision,

I approach with apprehension.  

You provisional intern, you baulk of foul air,

Your meaning, a chasm.

Your integrity, a spasm,

You promote spewed bland fair.  

Haste ye back to your mucus cave,

Cracked putrid fettered bowl to consume.

Deafening stench, your failure exhumed,

Your vacuous skull, my words do stave.  

Copyright Pedro Batpoet 2018

So there I am on the train, commute home, no seats looking at what not to look at,

Whilst the motion of the steel wheeled ocean gets into a rhythm, I stare at all who are sat.

None looking out of the window dreaming of adventures to plan and see,

Instead faces sucked into a screen, thumbs muscles at their gym repetitive strain injury.

What happened to sitting and talking on the train?

When was it taboo to talk to a stranger, and the victim not look like they’re in pain!  

Was it just in the 40’s when our future was being bombed,

Did we gather around a piano and peacefully succumb

To some unity, community, uniformity, conformity and out and out sharing,

With no fear of a negative comment, judgement or analytical destruction of the caring.

With no platforms in which to ridicule and mock,

and what happened to MLK’s con of your character,

Why did we stop believing the rainbow, compliment him, be pleasant to her?  

Is it so wrong to celebrate the new birth, holding up Simba as if he were unique,

Why is it so right to embrace the negative, and flourish in the oblique?

The cynics are winning, you need to take a stand and express,

Counting on some to keep trying, exploring, experimenting, even if the outcome is a temporary mess.  

Reality check!! verse 1 chapter 1 – if you’re trying, you’re winning,

C’mon folks if you’re on Facebook or LinkedIn you see endless quotes and sayings, which repeat until you’re spinning.

But you’re happy to be told to open that door, lock it behind you and sit in the empty room,

And after some time when the long-handled bristled thing is thrown in,

you’re happy to sweep the dirt with that token broom.

You see what we have created on Social media Is the false impression and veiled fake criteria

Of a life well lived, with happiness and balance

When we all know the glitches we live with, the unacceptable acceptable… valance

Covering up the real structure, shamed by societies strifes

Which leads to the taking of another tragic life  

And some have become strutting castrated peacocks,

Trying to attract a barren mate who knows not

Of what they want out of life now, are they too old?

But the choice is yours my friend, stop waiting on being told!

You have become Bowman on your own ships,

Whistle, mutiny, overthrow the coxswain, the stranger, engage and burn the whips.

Take control of what you want out of life,

Listen to the reptile, grab that apple, drive through with your knife.  

Savour the flesh as you hold on to two things in your hands – to preserve or destroy

Wake up, agitate, debate, challenge, plan and annoy.

Let me bring you back to the train… So all of this advice is grand if I’m an inspirational guru peddling my trade on youtube,

But as I type this, me as a lower-deck-what the heck-see it and poeticise , half faking it, giving advice and clearly not taking it,

I look up from this verse and see someone doing the same as me,

Looking at all of the discontent commuters, sitting hypnotised by their crystal meth computers   We catch each other people watching and clearly thinking the same,

Assessing grey 9 to 5 faces battered by the corporate rain.

As we look again we manage an eyebrow crease and a collaborate smile,

I’m now dying to ask her if she’s been noticing them for a while,

But I’m not gripped with the same ‘non-communicado

we can’t engage in chat modern kinda style.

Maybe it would’ve been a perfect time to use the medium of communication,

When you are sitting next to someone, talking is weird, move to snap chat, WhatsApp, social media mastication  

But to my generation, it’s just odd to strike up with texts with thumbs up signs and love eyed emojis,

Every time we want to say “Hi..good day?” or if we’re just a little commuter-timescale-lonely

You see I know you want to talk to me, as you sit there, you feel the same way

Instead of wishing for the nights to last and dreading day

So what has got people gripped with this fear for change,

The paralysing paradigm that limits our range.

I truly believe many think that if we try we won’t hit but miss,

And that they don’t possess the skills and belief to make their own chrysalis.  

To me the only regulator, and a common denominator so to block out the cancerous negater,

Is the ability to say, every day, without upsetting the cart or causing affray… “I am alive, my family and friends are alive and today is a good day…”

Everything that comes after that is a bonus, with the main focus and onus being to smile during that commute,

So to at least just refute the two strangers who stand in the carriage trying to work out how to un-mute.  

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

I can’t tell when it’s going to hit,

I don’t even know what causes it.

All I hope is that it isn’t me,

That leads to you feeling a little prickly.  

I mean, we have the perfect life,

No debt, and happy, free from strife.

So please let me know what now eats you,

I cannot fix, if I cannot reach you.  

It’s male default to think I’ve done some ‘thing’,

A question that sends you into a spin!

But with nothing to go on, to give me an answer,

I tiptoe eggshells, like your private dancer.  

My male gene tells me that I might have caused that frown,

So I’ve cleaned the house, cooked and a bath awaits to turn frown – upside down.

Candles are on, soft music mixes with the steam, Soak,

I’ll keep the door closed and get wine…you go have a damn good scream!  

©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? It’s a pure cat cuss,

As ye spray ma rug and miss your litter.

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

And here’s a question, you bonnie rat,

With your kitten mentality in the body of a cat.

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

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

And what the hell do you do all day?

Can you wash up, iron and naw just play?

Coz the batshit crazy 2 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, no less!?  

I know you hate me with a whiskered passion,

As ye lie, top stair, you ginger stealth assassin.

For ma two in the morning middle aged pee hit,

Bare foot hits fur and me erse oer 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 the coat o a yeti!!  

(copyright. 2019) Pedro Batpoet

The loss of one’s community,

The shard and splintered unity,

Beleaguered, they sink a fraction lower,

Bad fortune repeats, the energy slower.  

As the masses lose the will to cope,

Consumed and blinded, the loss of hope,

Which groove fits body, soul and mind,

What influence ceased being so kind?  

Is desperation new, or ever-present but stealth,

The spiral rusty staircase of the world’s mental health?

On icebergs, in storms secluded, their connection is collision,

Drifting, unmoored, deluded, suicide is no decision.  

So eyes open, embrace the rocks, those brave Spartan carriers,

The compassion warrior spirits, hacking at your barriers,

They’re there to be seen, standing tall, no shadowed enigmas,

The crutch to you in need, no shame and no stigmas.  

And believe this as you stretch, for hope in all their armour,

That they were once where you are, but now their lives are calmer.

As someone reached out for them, that person made a stand.

So move towards the light, and don’t lose grip of that warm, hand.  

©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

Your cotton touch, to soften the spikes

My caramel thoughts, to launch our kites.

Our satin looks, to smooth our brows.

The feathered words, to warm us now.  

Your silky promise, bound in gold.

My velvet belief, to love and to hold.

Our sensational life, we created together.

The connection, the kiss, us birds of a feather.  

Fog blurred the path, life tried to out run us.

Forged albatross we glide, to consume the wanderlust.

Our wing tips tease the waves as they crest,

We own the ocean right now, love needs no rest.  

(Copyright) Pedro Bat-poet 2019  

And I stood and looked and stared,
At the texture, lines, grooves and furrows.
The smooth parts as they embraced the rough.
Was this the canvas, the page, the instrument for a quartet?

Ok, so it’s meant to be poignant and meaningful and real.
I am supposed to see meaning, direction, cartography?
But it’s just weather and a beaten track.
That’s all that stands out, fatigue.

But you see fatigue is grand and splenduous and authentic.
It tells you that I’ve sat behind the wheel,
Or changed the tyres and oil,
So others can finish the race.

And yet I still just see lines and waste and questions.
Time, life, explanations and rationale,
The excuse to whom, of why the baton was dropped.
You see all of my batons are dropped at the second or third leg.

Next season, next season on the first meet,
There will be my name called again.
More leathered, smashed and crushed.
Prediction…to drop at second or third.

But this one year, maybe this or next.
You will sit, surprised, smacked and dashed.
As the line will be crossed as will my t’s.

My reflection with you, like my connection with you will be complete.

2019 COPYRIGHT PEDRO BATPOET

Hashtag lift the ban!

Work? Of course you know I can.

And will, if given half the chance,

I wouldn’t give it a second glance.

Back home…home…where is that now?

Well back home I wasn’t skinny in rags with a plough.

My city was as advanced as yours,

Before the blood and loss and corporate wars.

And I stand here now in front of you’

My life and story in full public view.

You’ve mapped my future far way ahead,

No work and poor in need of your bread.

But you know I was a teacher way over there,

And bloody good too… you losing interest and care?

My poverty shames you but my pride it surpasses,

As I try to fit inbetween layers and classes.

No drink or links to prescriptive drugs,

My guilt is wanting shared feet on your rug.

And here lies the truth of denying my work,

It’s because it’s linked to my rights and my worth.

Lawyers can use that with Article 8.

Which leads a step closer to us at the gate.

Where we could shine in shared love and unity,

Our kids holding hands to strengthen community.

So the reason to deny is linked psychopathology,

Why wouldn’t you want me to help build our economy?

But I know I’m a target, an electoral gem,

The subject of hate, “don’t let them all in!!”.

But with no work, my sanity i start to chase,

And try not to fall on the spiral staircase.

Which pulls me deeper in cycles to spin,

Can I not work and prove…please let me in!?

You need to take ownership…of what you enquire?

Well I’m probably here, due to your failed empire.

You came, stripped and left so much room.

For the horror of men and the power vacuums.

So listen, it’s easy I’m really quite clever,

And my sanctuary here might not last forever.

Unless I prove my worth if I can,

Which will happen if we hashtag lift the ban.

2019 COPYRIGHT PEDROBATPOET

Muffled, mugged, misunderstood and now muted.
I know our voices ran like church bells,
To warn about the impending colonisation
And they all stood, comfortable in their inertia,
And with bowed heads turned to re-join their path.

You’re forcing me to oxidise, crystallise and fossilize
My apathy, civility now feeds my micro extinction
The need to focus rises like lava
And what makes little sense is your interest?
Interest in this landscape you always thought barren.

Peace is so ultimately apocalyptic
It turns protected steel to ash
Chars the core of civility
And out of this complacency, bacteria grows

You don’t need acrid oratory
Acid To cleanse my presence.
Acid To terminate my thoughts.
Acid To dissect my soul ,ideology, theology and love.

All consuming we cannot stop the spores
The idle gardener once proud, stands by
And watches the mould grow, mesmerised
The history of what once blossomed, is now bleached.

Yet the tragedy lies here
I am you in four score or less
As your bow weakens and bark cracks
Roots will be consumed by the blind hunger
You will fall from mode, trend and acceptance
Once a proud empire, now shamed and hidden.

The growth forms a movement
The movement casts a method
The method protects the change
And now..am I not a part of this vision?

Bygone hate will be rinsed
Slates will be cleansed
Tools will be stabilised
And new gardens will bloom

Those new masters of flora and fauna once proud of the bloom,
Will too lose interest in their lot
And with backs turned new mould will creep from the dark.

And so occupy my land, my home, my culture.
I truly give this to you freely
And in this hollow victory, borne from putridity
There will be a bright dawn
That will attempt to shine your rusting vessel

And my world?
Well I will be walking in new fields among the accepting clover, wild beauty and sanctuary.

COPYRIGHT 2019 PEDROBATPOET.COM