Raindrops falling on the windowsill
A lone man standing in front
he's got not much to offer
Jack frost on the tin roof
Old Man blags his finer days
Alley cat roaming the other way
Hot shot comparsions sometimes soon
is about to happen

The note said
loves a nest,
there's this incessant need,
rising in your dreams,
the art of listening
to your heart,
crying in your depths
Pigeon man,
garnish your love,
and then he vanished,
like a stone
into the world
torching the night.

Half the world is contrite
the other half wanton
I hope to make it some day
in the bright lights

I tried to talk on the telephone
the silence was too much
I tried to read a letter
but I could only do it between the lines

For the good times have come to an end
I've got to find relief

Cynical platitudes.
Burying your head in the sand.
As an empty space.
You have to understand
be like  the Phoenix.
Ready to rise,
into my new space.

Self satisfaction as garish as a stalk.
Now I'm carrying the truth,
why waste yourself on vanity,
be sincerely  glad
into something better.

Cynical Town,
knocking houses down
to be made in flats,
except when there's a colony
of crested newts.

A thwarted town regeneration,
tombstones of empty shops.
Voting on the 5th May
for a consensual mayor
Goodbye Labour,
you have unnerved Croydon.

In April somewhere where
sunbeams and Carousels glisten.
He was happy to share in the clover.
The sun was pouring
by way of a morning breeze,
and his plate was full
belly up he floated,
in the shallow water,
where the moon wanders.
His dreams lay sheltered,
against the cove
in the body of another.

I want to be lazy
down  to my shoestraps,
see the jackdaw
scrounge my sweetpeas.
If you cast a spell in my direction
I'll be surprised.
Each night I dream the nectar of sleep
and by sunrise I'm trice arised