When the old die young,
And the young never see the dusk,
Know there is something wrong,
When the living, die, over dried husk.

Couldn’t sleep well last night,
Decided to ride to Aylesworth Forest
My favourite place
Two miles from my Barkshire home
I needed to be alone
what I wanted to do...
What I wanted to be...
In this peaceful and beautiful land
Of oak trees , flowers and wild plants
Perhaps by thinking deep under a tree
I may find the answers...

Brought my lunch, a picnic alone...
I met a team of gardeners on my way here
Cutting grass and old branches of trees
For a second I thought,
I would want to be gardener too...
Plant tulips and colorful flowers on a flowerbed
Its cool to stay outside all day and watch things grow...
Hey... I don’t need to be so clever at school too!

Here it is... my hiding place ... the forest
The chirping of the birds on the trees
Grey squirrels chasing one another and
Once I even saw a fox too...

But today I am alarmed to discover
This forest has been invaded by strangers
Braved myself I approached the men
Who claimed to be land surveyors
I am devastated now , upon this knowledge
My precious forest is to be turned into a concrete jungle

Trees will be cut down in two weeks time
Blocks of Flat houses will replace my oak trees and wild plants
I feel even depressed now..
This isn't fair!
Where will the animals go?
I lost my appetite for lunch
I must save this forest! I must do something!
This problem is even bigger than mine...
Slowly I turned and walked away...

Spaces  all the same,dimensions but different
Ideas the very same rushing in to fill voids old
From heads stuffed of past Imitations dead
Straight walls ever rising up,closing places free
Square,stiff,solid,regurgitating hard, spirits staid
The same colors but in different places, limited,
sick,drained of mind,with an empty soul I wept
Dear innovation creative where are you my angel?
Staring at space blank unchained to past I pondered
The angels  came unannounced unknowing softly,
rushing to a heart,empty of mind,surrendered to an intent pure,
Dancing,guiding unfettered,intuitively fantastic,instinctively right
The walls falling away,squares smoothing to curves sexy
New visions exciting,opening to vistas of unknown hues wondrous
That very dead space now alive,conducting,guiding a design philharmonic
"I" was but a medium,absorbing,directing flashes from unknown
Driven in a flash flood of euphoria unknowing, to an ocean creative
Knowing not what unchained me,setting me free for that Destiny fine,
Of Innovation. May be love or despair,whatever, Divinity came.

This soul you gave
Has lost its way.
It doesn't know who made
It anymore.

This soul, supposed
To feel brought to life,
Feels numb, confused,
A little old.

This soul may be typical,
Or maybe outlandishly wise for its age,
Or maybe it's a rebel,
For all its rightful rage.

This soul in me's got
A little identity crisis,
With mind and matter tugging left
And faith in nature yanking right.

This soul you gave
May be ungrateful--
For all the life and love it has,
It still feels, oh, so hateful!

This soul needs help,
It's lost its way.
It doesn't know what made
It anymore.

Those words were haunting my skull last night;
Carved inside chambers of wild delight.
And the handles
of the candles
in the caves of the fight,
Were full of decay
And the tales of the pulpit.

How many wine stains does it take to appease
These spirits and wanderers with whom you
Traffic with ease?

Dark concepts in the fringes and the hinges
of the sepulchres of your eyes.

We sell two albums on itunes if you search loud with love


someday soon baby
your levee will break
all you'll be left with
is a big old mistake

someday baby
it wont be like this
your ocean will come up
like it already did

someday soon baby
it wont be like this
everything will change
its what time permits

someday soon
we will carry on
our beds
carry us on and on
someday soon
it wont be like this
everything gone
at the flick of a switch

i hope you carry on
the fortunes of your day
i hope that theyre well
thats what im here to say

if i cant have you now
bet i wont at all
someday soon baby
we will carry on

and someday
it wont be like this

sometimes i wish
i was one of Those Girls
with one of Those Bodies.

and i know that i'm
cute
and i
like me
i just
can't stop seeing
what model
attracts
i am damned
with sight

my tv
tells me
who to be
how to smile
how to be
and all the girls
that prance around
little sex toys
with insatiable hunger
and fake eyelashes
want to draw me in
so they can beat me
i am
pretty
but not
sexy
and sexy
is what sells

i think love is a nice idea
in books
and
occasionally movies
but i do not
believe in it
i am too old.

You're sixteen years old, and you know
                                             how to write an essay in under an hour. You know
           how many paragraphs you will need, and what part of a text you need to
                  rip apart,
                                        just so you can
                                put it back together like you want (need) it to be.


                             You've been alive for sixteen years and
                                                         you've smoked everything your parents
                                      told you not to,
                                                             ­          you've felt the ache in your lungs and
                                                             ­                    the burn at the back of your throat,
                                                             ­                                        you've woken up in pain and felt regret
                                                             ­                                 and you've made it passed that (mostly).


       You're sixteen years old and you know why half the world
                 is starving, but you don't know why you're not
        allowed to give them food, you don't know why
                                           your parents wont let you race
                                   across the world to (attempt to) save a starving child.


                                                   You've been alive for sixteen years and you know
     what it feels like to be left at the supermarket while your mother
                                rushes of to get 'another type of pasta'
             or 'just one more piece of fruit',
                                                      you learnt (learning) pretty early
                                      what being alone
                                                             ­        felt like.


                                                             ­               You're sixteen years old and you've memorized
                           more songs than you probably should have
                                                             ­                                             and you fell in love
                              with the idea of love before
                                     you had even truly
                                                  felt it for yourself. One day, you promise,
                       you will escape (be at peace with) this body
                                                             ­                          you have been so unwillingly trapped in,
                                                             ­                you will visit cities you didn't even know existed
                                                        and watching sunrises with a stranger that you love,
                                  you will tear them apart,
                                                             ­                  pin them down,
                     forcing your love into their dying lungs.

Mrs Milton became concerned
when Benedict slipped
and cut his wrist on the beach.
How did you do it? she asked,
fussing over him like an old hen.

Slipped on the pebbles on the steps,
he said. She looked at his wrist,
blood seeping, the handkerchief
he’d tied around it soaked red.
Best get you to the hospital,

she said. Her brother-in-law
drove them to the nearby
hospital and a nurse (some pretty
girl who oozed sexuality like a gently
squeezed lemon) washed and stitched

the wound up and bandaged it with
her gentle hands.  Mrs Milton was
silent in the car back to the beach;
she stared out of the window, muted.
That night in bed, after an evening

of few words and cold stares, she said,
I saw the way you looked at that nurse,
taking in her figure, watching her hands
all over you, your eyes out on stoppers
each time she bent over you, her breasts

pushing against the cloth of her uniform,
reeking of some very cheap perfume.
Benedict laid there, his bandaged hand
over his chest and gazed at her.
She was nursing me, he said, that’s

her job. I was just looking at her working.
Mrs Milton, who was lying beside him
turned and stared. Doing her work?
She was almost molesting you; I saw her
with my own eyes, she said, spittle on

her lower lip. That’s ridiculous, he said,
she was just going about her nursing,
cleaning the wound, stitching me up,
bandaging the hand, that’s all. All?
she said, there was nothing all about

that girl, she’d have had you in that bed
working you off given the chance and if
I hadn’t been there, I dread to think
What the heck might have happened.
Benedict sat up on one elbow and frowned.

Are we talking about the same thing?
You were with me in the hospital while
a young nurse stitched up my hand; that is all.
I was there all right, she said, getting out
of bed and standing by the edge, I saw a

young bitch trying to get off with my man.
It ought not to be allowed to happen,
she said, hands on her hips, her faded
blue night dress failing to hold in her
40 year old breasts. He sat up, shook

his head. I’m not surprised your husband
walked out on you, Benedict said. He didn’t,
I kicked him out, she said. I bet he was
glad to go, he said. She was silent and got
into bed and pulled the covers over her.

How’s your hand? she asked. Benedict
looked at his hand. Painful. Much? Stings
more. Maybe if I kiss it better it might be
better, she said, childlike. Might do, he said.
She kissed the bandaged hand gently.

Yes, feels better already, he said.
She switched off the light. There was
an owl far off. A movement of the bed.

n lungs, growing
up, wrapping around
knotting with nerves,
veins reaching
for the rest of me.

pulling me apart.

inside I am old
ancient, crumbling
building with shattered
stained glass windows
bursting panes, bats
in my eaves, dust clinging
to surfaces stirred
with breezes rattling
around my bones.

beautiful.