I sleep less on vacation,
In case I waste time.
Everything must be in excess.
Even when she reins me in.
I have to make up for,
Every mundane working Monday,
And Tuesday,
And Wednesday,
And Thursday,
Even Friday.
For the average person their work is their life.
They believe it is fatal to be idle.
And yet the average person,
Can’t even prove they not just that,
Mediocre.

The memory of my Father
Is wrapped within me
Like a schoolboys lunch
Covered in greaseproof paper
Waiting to be unfolded.
And then like a sailor's voyage
It seeks out that beloved port
That has been left behind.

The secret drinker stays up at night,
Watching those dark programs,
On a blank screen of a turned off television.

The secret drinker listens,
To the ticking of the mantle clock,
As it times life away.  

The secret drinker measures the numbness of the pain,
By the counting of the bottles,gills , half ones,
Until it all seems sane.

The secret drinker,
Lifts the last drink.
Holds the liquid to the light,
And dies in life the same way of many a cocktail.

The greed in me buys a ticket,
Only when it’s over 50 million.
I wouldn’t know what to do with 1 million.
All that week I avoid the news,
Just to prolong the illusion.
Lost to imaginary purchases of Islands,
Yachts, houses, parties, paintings,
I can’t make up my mind.
I check the Sunday Times Property supplement,
What can I afford?
Then there is the property tax.
The security, insurance, indigestion.
What if the new car gets scratched?  
Everything I don’t need.

Eventually I check the ticket.
Relieved to avoid all that work,
And thankful I haven’t won.
But the greed will still get the better of me next time,
A Dark powerful magic.

I never put a banger,
Through an old ladies door,
At Halloween or any alternative time of year.
To the best of my knowledge.

I never bought those X-ray glasses,
For looking through girls clothes,
As advertised beside the Sea Monkey’s,
In the back of the superman comic.
To the best of my knowledge.

I never wanted to go,
When my mother broke up,
Our cowboys and Indians game,
On Saturday to send me off to confession.
To the best of my knowledge.

I never quite told the truth,
In the coffin room with the sliding hatch,
In case the darkly hidden man,
Dished out too many Hail Mary’s for penance.
To the best of my knowledge.

So,
I haven’t used pyrotechnics to frighten old women,
Nor used X-Ray glasses to spy on girls,
Nor told the truth in confession,
Nor I’m the most sensible of people,
Is this best of my knowledge?

What is this life experiment,
That we take without choice?
A tour through the material world.
Our spirit undertakes this journey,
Our soul experiences it.
We dream awake.
Some people have a great dream,
Which they fail to realise.
Others have no dream at all,
And fail to even fulfil that.
What we see is not what we see,
but who we are.

My shadow follows me everywhere,
A constant companion in the light.
Sometimes striding ahead,
Sometime pushing behind,
Often to the left ...or right.

In the dark playing hide and seek,
Appearing just to scare.
Just when I drift past some street lamp.
And then annoyed I stop and glare,
Standing there with arms folded,
Like it's rude to stare.

Often there to entertain the kids,
My shadow on the wall.
They squeal with delight,
As my shadow makes  dragons tall.
In the end I suppose,  
I would be lost without my shadow,
Nothing to link me to this world.