If the grass grows
on your toes
if you should move
If the grass grows
on your toes
if you should move
There is often a case of caution with plaice. Leave this fish be in the ocean. A hazardous race of engines at pace is done by the boat as precaution.
But a potion is drunk by the sailors who stunk of fish kept in ice like lotion. It comprised of rum and felt like fun but sleep became their eventual notion.
Furious rage woke from drunken haze as the night turned to day and all the fish swept over. No luck, no clover, the drunken seaman went over as the seas demanded attention.
The trawler was ruined. The seagulls were stewing their plaice with salt water and kelp. The fishermen died without help and the shorter straw was drawn by the fish and the men who passed with a yelp.
The sea calmed it’s waves and said goodbye to the days where boats would claim it’s bounty. The wind had dropped. All the corks had been popped by nature who never would die.
So goes the story of catching plaice and men snoring drunkenly into the night. Their vessel had failed because they drank too much ale. Natures debt was dealt without commotion.
And so this tale is sung as warning old and young to people at this charity. Don’t be greedy, reward the needy, and the world will find it’s own parity.
What can I say?
Great green swamps of the East.
Nutritious algae looks unappetising.
Sniff a beaker of soil, my friend.
The smell of Earth is your base.
Surely a rainbow would brighten your day.
It’s starting to rain.
We’re all in pain.
An empty stomach is a shame.
At the start of things the Earth eats the sun. It feasts and brightness is forever tarnished.
We then retreat into our minds and feast on moonlit imagination.
With each subsequent thought the darkness grows.
Reality dims to the point of the original source.
Hopefully we can send our selves there and dissolve as brightness reigns again.
Just so the mountains can once again eat all the light and grow trees on their peak.
The cycle goes on to this day.
Forever beginning, we are helpless, as the skies and the soil do battle.
99% of humanity’s tears are yet to be shed.
99 buttons in my box but no thread on the reel.
99 reasons for ice cream still I deprive myself.
99 carved decorations but I keep looking for the blank block.
99 possible outcomes started from the same place.
99 colours would make me go blind.
99 thoughts but I have to choose which to use.
99 steps but no dance, no stairway, and no instructions.
I could lighten your misery.
Your darkness would lift.
Shower you with brightness.
But what would you see?
Blinded by light.
Untouched by night.
Howling your ignorance.
Writhing on the floor.
Guided by faith.
It is always a sign.
When it’s convenient.
Otherwise it’s sin.
A cold touch.
A withered hand.
Weight on your lower back.
You could fall at any time.
Hand of God.
Whisper on the breeze.
Schizophrenia or holy spirit?
One pious rationale.
One debilitating illness.
A smile on the street.
A laugh and a meal.
The warmth in my heart.
Inside us all.
I woke with the moon in the west, a flask of tea in my bag, and a whole day to repeat. Day in. Day out.
The wind howls through my head
Shaking the edges of my vision
Taking shelter in a garden shed
Just doing jobs there is no decision
The dark and the light. Stories written of land made of cheese, of a man in solitude, of scars and holes.
The full moon just gone, see you again soon, cloud permitting.
The new stars are primed on their rockets. Set to be speeding across the sky. An awful musk lingers.
The moon will always be the moon. Until it becomes the property of few. They might one day own the moon but they will never have what we have. Tales and song. Food in our bellies and drinks flowing free. A cheer and a smile.
To the moon. To the moon. To the moon and back.
Pounce, cat, pounce
Catch a beam of light
Through fields and trees
You will win every fight
The smells you encounter
Wrap round your memories
You are loved completely
So do anything you please
The warmth of your coat
Will keep you feeling cozy
So I accept that mouse
In place of a posey
Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
I lose my choice, my identity, my name.
I see things that do not exist.
And occasionally scream in pain.
Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
But I’m loyal to life in the morning.
I look, I feel, I taste my food.
And smile at the day that is dawning.
We will all die.
Money will become meaningless.
We will regret not doing nice things more often.
Nothing is more valuable than a smile on a loved one’s face.
Sliding down a valley.
Falling through a hole.
Tumbling over and over.
Lower and lower.
Next to my broken ankles.
Sleeping on green sheets, under two warm duvets, and a thick woollen blanket.
Me and my cat are mutual hot water bottles.
Serenity is in my body but my mind is distracted by the muffled radio sounds through the wall.
A double is fine but a bigger bed is an aspiration; indeed.
Heat trapped radiating in and around us.
The day’s gone contents being chewed up gently in my head.
Fleeced of a rest by some fool shouting next door.
He turns up the radio to drown himself out.
There’s always someone else but you can be settled where you are.
Until the next trawler dredges up old bedded muck.
I’ve never been as certain although at a distance is it both easy and hard.
Letting myself drift into fantasy I notice a change.
Voices cease; a radio off.
The greatest slumber will be here soon.
Trying to assess how I am
I frame a snapshot of my mind
Cropping out bits to make a good scene
This is how my sanity will unwind
An overreaching attempt to grasp a hot mug
Spillage and pain
A needed drink wasted
I put my head above a burst water main
A sea of movement
An elaborate dance
Feeling between us
Keep us entranced
I work to some trance
In vogue so I vogue
I take my chance
Next to a holly tree
The silver fox sat on the forest floor
Hungrily thinking about visiting the chicken farm nearby
For there worked the raven haired girl
The woods were on a hillside
So the fox skulked down to the low field where the farm belonged
Roosting crows flew from the canopy branches as he rustled past below
He made his way to the field verge
It was winter and all the girls were glowing in the biting cold
By the damp wooden shelter he saw the Little Soph with the midnight hair
Soph of the field would smuggle eggs for her silver furred friend
Just as he came to collect his treat there was a colossal bang!
Down by the small piers at the side of the river
There was a pompous buffoon shooting at the birds in the sky
He wanted their shiny things hidden away in their nests
Neither he nor they had the generosity of Little Soph
At the sound of the calamity Soph and the fox made their way down
The blustering fool by the piers was so involved in himself he didn’t hear them
The silver fox barked and growled and so shook was the man
That his feet fell before him into the air above the slippy water’s edge
Splash! He had blundered in a massive way
Wet and cold from head to toe in icy mire
Soph laughed and fed the silver fox some eggs
So the fox went back to the holly tree where he spent the morning content and well fed
My hyper sensitivity and extreme resilience are two sides of the same coin.
I have a lot of those coins.
I should learn to flip on demand.
Instead I want to spend them all on you.
As all my constituent parts condense into one.
As all memories of myself are gone and forgotten.
I learn the best days were the worst days
And the hardest days were the easiest.
Everything speeds up
There is no one who deserves to live forever
Through better thoughts and deeds
We can all become no one
So live well
Until you die
So we shall all become no one
Everything is burning
A spark in the darkest mind
He should have kept it in the ground
Now it’s nearly gone
The children won’t be able to pay
Trapped in his grip of debt
Created thanks to his greed
Castles of gluttony
Belong to families few
Their defences of riches
Will one day burn too
For times longer than I have known.
They predate on our emotions.
Feeding, gorging upon our fear.
Confusion they spread.
Misinformation is read.
They want us to believe in them.
We cannot. We have our sense, logic, and hope.
With that we fight back against it all.
We’re left alone with our books
Alone with our music
Our art. Our reality.
Alone with ourselves
Alone with the truth
Of all we can do.
So we listen and we listen.
Putting mind over mood.
Living every second.
Helping as many as we can.
I listen to the whispers from the rocks. “Don’t step on me. Step on the soil; it is silent.” The soil cannot speak but would it complain if it could?
The grass here grows long. Thick and dense. Stems snap and screams; more screams fill my head.
Should your voice be different? Of course, but it isn’t, at least, not always. You say “hi”. I can’t hear myself think which is just as well. I’m scared of what I might be saying.
The cars go past my window far too fast. “Honk honk honk” someone toots. I cannot see out but it has been raining. I can hear the tyres slice up the water with a harsh crescendo that diminishes into the distance.
Leaves are falling. That’s nice.
I am writing nonsense again. Good. What to say? What to do?
Why I am breathing so loud? I sleep still. All but for the bellows squeezing back and forth. Until I turn and turn and turn.
She dances like dust in a beam of light.
Entranced, I’m a rabbit in the headlights.
I want to sing to her but I have the smallest voice. No one can hear me whether I whisper or scream. So I delight in my silence.
So today I wrote, quietly and alone, a message within a message, for once, without my phone.
The air is cool. No wind to speak of. Feeling my heart beating away in my chest.
Bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds. Every tree, every leaf, perfectly still.
My mind is buzzing with everything I’ve ever learnt. Not all at once but it’s all in there somewhere.
My cat is mellow today. Affection is going a long way. Thinking about last week’s confusion seems a long way off.
My flat is a mess but the speakers are singing to me and I have a cup of tea in my hand.
He’s got paper skin; peeling away, red ink and all.
The words don’t matter; he is what he feels.
He lashes out at those around him; so fragile.
Full of yesterdays news but he hasn’t read anything.
His paper skin doesn’t inform.
He won’t let you close; he’s so ashamed.
Not of himself because he’s always right.
Just ashamed of his words; it doesn’t add up in his head.
There’s a patch on his arse that once was page 3.
It’s the only bit he likes.
‘Not vulgar, this is moral instruction.’ Is it’s message.
Flesh on flesh and it just stinks.
In fact, all of his paper skin smells rather bad. Unelected and unwanted. A buffoon at 10. He’s a buffoon all day.
Life. Never to be the same again.
The last day of the week didn’t get off to a good start.
My alarm went off. I showed you my painting I thought it was red and you told me it was green.
You took me for a walk to your hills where I planted my flag. The wind was lacking but I could still feel a bite on my face. A tear. Your footsteps in the snow will be gone tomorrow.
Back home you sat by the crackling fire and sang the saddest song. I cried; became afraid of my actions and words or lack thereof.
Would it even matter if I disappeared into thin air? A faint trace of your smell left on my hands from the night before. You have gone now.
Emptiness. A new hole. The pain is back. Does it never cease? In my dreams I walked to your hills but they looked like different hills and my flag was gone. There sky was clear but there was no moon. The ground was wet. My face was dry. Something forgotten returned from the mist like a wisp in a woods. An old ghost drifting through the trees; weaving a path through the thickets. It was my worst enemy. A mirror. A chasm. Just darkness. My safe place.
I’m not sure you will like me once you have met me.
You will see I am a featureless dummy holding up a mirror to the world.
I hope you realise you are not so bad after all when you look at me.
You might forgive me for having little substance of my own.
I am the roughest stone on the beach.
Abrasion scrapes grooves in my voice.
Uneven wire towelling scrapes at your heart.
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. I’m sure.
It’ll heal because it feels good.
Keep me and polish me smooth.
There was a man in PICU who didn’t say a word.
He paced around in his underwear flinching at all he heard.
He went out for a smoke with a coffee in his hand,
then marched back inside for medication on demand.
* * *
(This was about a month I spent living with a mute patient amongst others at a Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit when I was 16. He had a tattoo of a small cross on his leg and I tried to shoehorn the blaspheme ‘Jesus!’ into something I said within his earshot. He was in his own world until I did. He got up from the chair and marched around for a bit. I felt bad for deliberately offending him but I’d never seen him react to anything other than smokes and coffee. I guess I was just trying to get him to say something… It didn’t work.)
You climbed a tree and looked down at me.
You spoke with your face.
I could see. You weren’t happy at all.
I had risen my voice. It didn’t feel like my choice.
I walked away. Like this was a play.
But this was no act.
You didn’t want to know. What you already knew.
My temper had torn our bond apart. Left holes in our hearts.
So I wrote to you. ‘We can see this through.’
There was nothing to see.
You built yourself a new home. A new start.
So in the heat I lay. Wishing for a new day. By the tree where you looked down at me.
Time makes the highs low and the lows high.
The esteemed are just the flavour of the month. Change occupies all.
Ambition at an all time low but I feel bliss sat next to a cat.
Adapt to the situation don’t try to change it to fit you.
Water dips and flows into every crevice of the rocky sea shore but is slowly shaping the hard, strong cliff wall.
If you are like that, you are life sustaining, the lowest of low, making all those around you feel high.
Feed your friends and treat them well and they will return the favour. A painted glass teardrop can mean a thousand things. It can be treasure. It can be crap. The value is not in the pieces you hold; it is inside of you.
A tic is an sudden, repetitive, voluntary response to an unwanted urge. It is our way of measuring time.
Sitting by the lake. You are by my side. Looking at the cotton sky mirrored in the fisherman’s playground; a thought enters my head. I turn to you to whisper my idea but you are not there.
I watch the grass grow at the side of my blanket. Bees and flies pass by; secure in the summer’s plentiful bounty. I can’t help but feel powerless. Possibilities number too many and decisions too far away.
A cold breeze blows so I pack up my things. Leaving all as it was. If I could get you here would you even share this pleasure that hits my chest. Short and sharp, painful like a spasm, yet warm and reassuring. I feel better.
I thought I heard your voice but it is just a bird alarmed that I am nearby. Walking on the way back I see a kaleidoscope of colour on the graffiti mural on the side of the shop. I am steps away from you and my heart begins to pound.
Key in the door and the room lights up. Cat greetings with a purr and demand for food. Although just a roof over my head; the place smells of comfort. This is your welcome and I am back inside you once more. I am home.
Take me away from this night sky I’ve inhabited for so long.
Withstanding wind and all kinds of atmospheric tension.
A shout from my past scars seeping works of sap into being.
I will leave a bare branch but it is in my bark my legacy lies.
Textured hope and virtue exceeding a butterfly’s beat.
Leaving the deceptive darkness let me live through the pure spring breeze.
A two fold cycle we’ll ride until we are within each other.
Laying my roots down in your garden. I’m sorry if I’m irresponsible.
I feel like I’m dreaming. Stable and still. In silence I’ll think of you.
Trying not to upset your environment. I’ll breathe oxygen if you need it.
Will I get visiting wildlife? Maybe that will change my course. Certainty is distant.
Cold comes from the North and East in these parts. Memories will come and go.
The sun can heal your trauma. I don’t want to cause you to suffer.
Though trees bleed and leaves fall down life pushes us forward again and again.
Is it enough to share and appreciate the good things that happen?
Endings are inevitable. As the new day rolls in; I do not know what will be.
I fear few know you. But what it is to be known? To hold faith that this dream is no dream at all. Possibly.
Your golden potential unravels day by day. An untouched block of wood being carved notch by notch. It is my melancholy pleasure to watch this process. It gives me life.
Such a gift is yours to give. But does it loosen our ties or make them stronger? That depends on my stubborn mind. My ongoing boredom and hypnotic drudge.
I want some motivation to continue my activity. You provide this. I am receptive in spurts. Like a bird flying high for a view I leave the shackles of this land momentarily. Wishing you were up here with me, you are, you are the sky.
(I want you to tear this to shreds.)
* * *
I can be your nothing. The thing in your life that doesn’t really matter. A background feeling. An underlying thought pattern. A goose with orange striped eyelashes.
While your everything comes and goes I am there. Washing dishes on a cold day. A cooling breeze on a hot one. Repositioning things on the mantle. A horned lemon with a sweet sweet tangy syrup dressing.
With all the potential I stay still; rarely showing any form. A shadow flickering in candlelight. The feeling of ‘what shall I do now?’ An unexpected hand gesture. A silken scarf with an image of Delia Derbyshire riding a resplendent golden moose represented by colourful sequins.
What is this chaos?
I didn’t choose to be born.
What is happening?
I see patterns that are destined to go awry.
My brain is not clear and calm.
Driven by a predetermined tick.
Pushing through the things I do and am going to do.
An addiction is holding on: Don’t stop me yet.
These stories start with a moment of intense change.
Curves flatten out and plateau.
You can be the catalyst for me to refresh.
A starting point in every moment lived.
To feel loved is to forgive yourself.
The guilt the blame the shame.
Start again and learn.
A wobbling cycle where the circles slowly get more unstable.
What is this chaos?
A dream. Nothing more.
What is happening?
Something worth experiencing.
Walking, wishing, wondering.
Seeing, smelling, savouring.
Hearing, handling, healing.
Being, balancing, and becoming.
Gotta comb my opalescent goat hair budgerigar to get it to lay some eggs of pure wheat flour.
Then take the elevator to the goose sky hideout above the mountain top cave where I live for the summer.
Pick elderberries before the cuckoo spit rain wets my obligatory Whisk Day gingham check shirt and shorts combo.
Finally get sweet slumber in the cave with the cat bear violin player playing lullabies into the deep black.
Bend the Angel’s will. Corrupt her pure heart. Steal her divinity for your creation. Oh my dear old thing; unholy perfection is at your fingertips.
Protect your processes. Nurture your weakness. Curb your strength. For once life is not absolute truth; subtlety is awakening.
God is infinite. Your lifetime is not. Nor are all words ever written. Unlearn everything you know; virtue shall lead you further than knowledge.
Everything came from nothing. The nameless empty. The unperishing void. Not bleak nor sad; for nothing is in everything.
Create something beautiful. Crude but complex. Naive but fully layered. Give your all; save the world. Go forth.
Tries to see good in the negative.
Whilst experiencing difficulty in the positive.
Music, painting, drawing, writing, reading.
Sport, running, walking, playing, taking part.
Often anxious. Rarely judgemental.
Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad.
Tries my best. Likes a rest.
This is me. Down to a T.
Sitting down. Drinking tea.
Fear is a cruel imposter, a charlatan, a crook of the mind.
A false reaction or part of a disingenuous conversation is a recipe for a circle of tiredness.
Cookery is playing with fire unless you have a prescription for success.
Sour is a taste that is needed to feel sweet.
Mental dexterity is needed. Requirements move the mind.
Numbers can help us understand the physical world around us.
Two people trapped in love is the best and the worst.
Keep extremes conceptual. Nothing is as it seems.
Emptiness is invaluable but so is some other stuff.
What I am worth and to who does it matter?
Grief is the bite of the wind on your cheek. Life is the brace of air against your face and your hair standing on end.
Intertwined like two strands, they stood at the bus stop hand in hand. A familiar memory stood next to you is still there years after you saw them last. Look after your mind. Reign in fear and hate because you might be alone at the bus stop one day.
The breath goes in and out. Your breath becomes someone else’s whether you are on your own or not. Keep breathing, that’s what living is.
The things of the world hold sway over us all.
To be free from this influence is an illusion.
To be aware of it is the path.
Objects, feelings, and creatures are all included.
You are part, a mixture, not all this or that.
Position your intent well, this will point things to the path.
Relative to extremes, no absolutes are real.
Happening and moving in flux.
Change is the route the path takes.
There is a place of nowhere. A realm within everything.
Where your creation exists peacefully in balance.
This is the where the path leads.
NONSENSE, I’M OVERTHINKING. EVERYTHING IS TOO MUCH. NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT. ABSOLUTE DOOM PERSISTS. Or does it?
A trickle, a pore.
Sat together and bored.
Nervous energy and a hot sun ray.
Exasperated tension that lasts all day.
Droplets form in the same place, no less.
Expending nothing still a sticky mess.
Thunder brews high above my head.
Atmosphere darkens and thickens to lead.
Excitement builds inside and out.
A response so primal it sounds like a shout.
A roar in the sky with light and a boom.
Synchronised with a release pent up in the room.
Pilchard Paul washes his wellies in the rushing river.
The skies sadden as the wintery wind keeps coming.
The sodden soil is certainly saturated this stormy stroll.
The loud lion roars raucously as the gloomy grey clouds close in.
A clap and a crack as frightening fracturous light lands on the loam.
Lion licks his colossal coat, wringing wet from the ridiculous rain.
Suclulent scent sniffed by the Lion’s lust for fantastic food.
Pilchard Paul runs and rushes toward the car on the corner.
Crafty clever cogs Lion lives not far the pride in from the periphery.
Low lionesses spring sporadically seemingly out of nowhere now.
RIP Pilchard Paul. Fishermen. Father of 2 bonny boys. Tim and Todd.
Things aren’t all bad.
Things are mostly bad with some good.
Nothing is absolute.
Everything can change.
Relativity and uncertainty.
Are how I understand.
Focusing on the process.
Not the result.
I remember things I do.
I forget things I’ve done.
Improving without knowing.
Happening by it’s own accord.
Seeing with my eyes open.
Doesn’t halt my dreams.
Holding you with warm regard.
I am living with my cat.
It was raining in Fishguard for what seemed like an age.
She lived in an old wooden hut that had been built in days.
From a distant land, she was a raider from afar.
Settled down with a lobsterman she met at the bar.
In an outpost quite ancient – it had it’s own ways.
Their calender would deal celebrations on different days.
Blue rocks lined the valley – significant this stone.
Used to build henges and circles unknown.
She knew of this tradition but was a warrior by trade.
Settled dispute without force, with the wit that she made.
The lobsterman was abusive – he took her by force.
So one day she killed him – self defence of course.
The next day the sun shined and flowers did bloom.
Yet she was put in a prison to face her ultimate doom.
The shadows of the leaves
as my face feels the breeze
The sky is as blue as it gets
My face is flush and warm
Momentum carries me along
Breath feeds my lungs
The rustle of the trees
as the birds do what they please
One foot then the other
I’m feeling light and free
Bounding across a stream
Happiness heals the past
Dreamlike imagination stems not from a wilderness, but the void. All ideas come from this same source. Ideas may arise from each other yet can remain separate concepts.
Memories exist like lucid footprints in the snow. The fall of expectations meets the pressure of a successful
In the present I’m a star seer looking out through the window at the night sky. Enjoying the moment for what it gives. Sadly, this will change, but I must accept it. Acceptance is the root of all self improvement.
*I apologise for this monstrous sentence of pretentious twaddle in particular.
Sitting at my table drawing because I don’t want to pay my TV licence.
Everyone’s overdrawn. I’m lacking inspiration. I’m losing patience.
Draw the curtains because the night is closing in.
It’s too cold to go out. I’m sick of living in my own skin.
People are being encouraged to do it for themselves.
Where has the community gone? Where do I belong?
Not knowing what is going on in the age of information.
This is the new normal. Caring is becoming informal.
Pandas are solitary creatures,
who sit around and think until it hurts.
They feel stress more than most,
as they ponder over problems and worries.
There is a place where pandas gather.
Together stronger, not facing the world alone.
Sharing hope, helping each other recover.
They keep in touch and give one another hugs.
Attempting to heal can be simple.
Support can be the smallest thing.
In their minds, they begin to thrive.
In their hearts, ever closer they come.
Pandas are solitary creatures,
who sit around and think until it hurts.
Never will they suffer alone,
For all pandas help those in need.
An old bear paw, sitting in a jar.
Under a tree that never grew any leaves.
A light blinking through the branches.
A clouded mind clawing at the calm.
Wandered towards the timber,
bent and twisted.
Laying there in a daze.
Next to chlorophyll
functioning in the grass.
Every blade as important as the next.
Together creating a habitat.
Storing hope for new roots.
Sparking aspiration to be well again.
You can really find yourself, in losing your mind.
I like pencils and pens,
writing materials and paper.
Lions and tigers,
cheetahs and leopards.
I like jumping and puddles,
getting muddled and confused.
Plants and flowers,
flour and bread.
I like eyes and ears,
sensing life and feelings.
Thinking and reversing,
negative photos and drawings.
I saw a photo of someone and I want to smoke a cigarette with her,
just her, just because…
Well because… She looked lonely as me, she was a pea in a bowl trapped under cling film, I was a glimpse – an image, a moment in time, seemingly screaming alone in an unspent void!
I don’t even smoke anymore.
Take a seat, I’ll be your chair for this evening.
Tired, it won’t be long before you’re leaving.
Take some heat, I’m highly strung tonight.
Giving off warmth, you might, just might, just might pluck my branches until tomorrow afternoon. So let’s fight!
Tomorrow afternoon, we can play and have a sight of the sea, draw the rocks on the beach, weigh up options, how much balance does it take to say thanks for being a snapshot.
Lass, you move differently to how I guessed, but you leave me shaking, dissecting truth from my words, you are everything I need. Of course you might never know if the mirrors aren’t set up well. If the angles are wrong and the camera isn’t set.
The place is cold and empty.
Lying on the floor with six white bowls, in them remnants of rice or a partial crust of toast. I can’t speak. I have no intention to. All the complements I give are thoughts. Instead I give you a shiver or a tear.
The first time I saw you. Your face said bring down the monarchy. It said we could live in a world of equality where we need not worry about war. It said disarm all nuclear weapons and spread joy to the disadvantaged. It said meow. You were a cat.
A long drought in winter.
A fly trapped between two panes of glass.
An unlit fire.
A ghost of a forgotten person.
A sea lion.
A very vivid memory of a lampshade.
My mind was spun.
Faster and faster it was pushed, a mad oscillation. It learnt too young, too quickly. Turning anti clockwise, a jarring, silent tick.
Too soon this top did wobble, like an unstable blur. As life became clearer. I became thick.
Slowing, unsynchronised and spiralling from it’s source. You’ve won a window. Why not take your pick?
Do you ever notice that people paint their problems on others they desperately want to relate to?
Every time I let out a sigh,
I begin to see little birds fly.
Yet, I can catch one if I move quick.
Or is it about choosing one to pick?
Too late! My chance has gone.
Now there is night where the sun shone.
If they were dozing by day and sleeping at nightfall…
I’d just pick one up and then I’d walk tall.
But no, awake, and with wings they fly.
Every time I let out a sigh.
What goes on behind a stare?
I don’t know but it’s hardly fair,
To blame me for your lousy mood.
I just can’t help looking at you.
What can I do to cheer you up?
Should I smile at you as I look?
It occurs to me that you are free.
So help me see what puzzles thee.
Once I knew a girl whose hair was curled.
Kind and smiled like she owned the world.
But she only made me bitter and twisted.
Like an ale mixed with lemons or something…
Write: wrong or left.
Wrong or left. I wrote.
The ramblings of a so called addled brain.
Controlled by medication not to go insane.
You have good looks and knowledge deep.
Counts for nothing when you’re asleep.
Certain that there’s no perfection. Things seem mundane.
In the absence of this, there’s a aroma so sweet. These things from the void light up his face. The light, the everlasting glow. The love, the fountain of original gifts.
So remember Miss, when he approaches the lamppost, he cannot decide which way to walk around. He’s stood, just waiting.