I could be happy,
I could be slow,
I could be weak,
I could be cold.

You could be sad,
You could be quick,
You could be strong,
You could be hot.

Sweet La Rossa;
All I want is you...

I could be closed,
I could be noisy,
I could be me,
I could be better.

You could be open,
You could be quite,
You could be you,
You could be sweet.

Sweet La Rossa;
AlI I want is you...

This song of love, was always meant for you.

This song of love, was always meant for you.

Abstract writing;
Using figurative words with no objective.
Writing streams of consciousness, that simply documents a perception of the now;
without ego or restraint.

(((Just write now, and make sense of it later;
It will always make sense when you give it a title.
(((A label)))((( A meaning)))

Despite being the centre off our own known universe; We all have a sense that what we don't know, may possibly still exist.

It's wise to remember that our opinions are nothing but a pimple on the back of mainstream society.
You wouldn't want to be too much of an irritant, and get popped like a spot.

The mob is single minded!
The more people feel justified; the more likely they are to commit extreme acts of cruelty.

Conservation lol...
We continue to **** the natural environment for little more than vanity and prestige;
The clever culture of taking what we need from our own sustainable environment, has now been replaced with greed and a class system that's based on:
FALSE PROFIT- (imaginary figures)

Inevitable the day will come, when there's no one left to boast; who killed the most fish, cut down the most trees, dug the biggest hole, ground down the largest mountain, or who ****** up the most oil.

And our small place in the great scheme of things will have become untenable;  a few fossils may remain as evidence, as to our meaningless, childish and destructive pursuits.

However natural justice will eventually prevail, as the world continues with its 50 million cleaning cycle and our petulant place within the world will have little or no meaningful significance.

(So my advice to you is: forget all this social climbing, find something that you enjoy doing, and do it till your dead)

Armadillo has it’s world,
It’s heritage soon unfurls.
Coboys started smokin' dope,
***** Freeman takes a poke.
Lyle Lovet never had a job,
Guy Clark still knitting fog,
***** Nelson croons a tune,
Waxing waning with the moon,
Mickey Newbury pens a song,
Wilson just cracks on and gone,
Steve Young the dreamer has a plan,
Van zant the future past is man,
Waylons forever riding on,
bless them all and every song.

Like inquisitive children looking for a wormhole; attempting to discover and measure the infinite in bitesize chunks,.

armed with tiny numbers to crunch the infinite number; which is simultaneously  expanding into yet another infinity ...

We must tanscend the rules of our mathematical consciousness; for our perception of reality is incomplete.
By filling in the details with our minds eye, and expressing our souls, in search of a harmony and greater understanding, we become as one with our function in this seemingly infinite universe.
(No longer empty but replete)

I see a billion black boot soldiers
Marching through the dawn
In a ****** up ****** sky,
With thier standards standing high.

There’s a tale in every colour
And a line through what’s been drawn,
That depicts the hurtful images;
Of the things I can’t describe

I see a single dove amongst two spires,
Flying high above the crowds,
Calm within the sweet warm light,
With her wings spread wide; she glides.

Now there’s poetry in motion;
With her head up in the clouds;
A good soul in quiet repose,
And with her angel eye she spy’s.

A foetus in its Sunday best,
Travelling through the birth canal,
On a joyous bed of hell;
From betwixt two ****** thighs.

A brand new storey does unfold,
It’s said all’s well that ends well,
Its place of birth here on Earth;
That’s where we hear each child’s first cry.

This painter paints for me
An image I can’t perceive
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

Soon another will pass by,
Lying in a box too cold.
In a cemetery up high,
On the top white lily’s lie.

As-if in quiet thinking,
Four corners of a box men hold;
Within the body’s final fold;
A simple sky the mourners cry.

This Artist paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive;
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

This painter paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive,
And I sense that as one enters life;
Another light shall die.

On stage; my conviction creates the illusion of charisma!
Off stage; I'm like a fish out of water waiting to be baked or sautéed!

We require desire, ***, love loyalty and compassion, but we also require honesty, commitment and consistency.
If we can't communicate these things or reciprocate; then we must remain alone but not unloved.

It's on you both to fulfil this promise, these vows!

By Purcy Flaherty a.k.a. pig man & The Rubber band
(Intro single strums)

(C) Put the bog-rolls
(G7) down Mrs Brown;
(G7) for it's time to sing
(C) along.

(Verse strumming)
(C) Sing a song of freedom,
(D7) Sing a song of love,
(G7) people sing together,
(C) to fill the air above.
(C) Sing it from the rooftops,
(D7) sing it from the street,
(G7) sing it to your neighbour,
(C) and every one you meet.
(C) Together we are human,
(D7) together we are free,
(G7) together we are able,
(C) to set our spirits free.

(Repeat verse over and over)

A small group sociopathic economic organisations and individuals, that advocate, or push by virtually any means possible; the production, distribution and consumption of things that you're convinced you want; but you actually don't need.

Things seductively labelled and wrapped like a gift in expensive everlasting triple plastic; to be opulently torn discarded like nothing more than mere consumer pith and peal, every day by you and yours truly.

*** noodle anyone? Would you like a bag with that?

Lumps!
I fear that my ***** are infected with a cancer that love can’t resolve!

It takes so much strength to suppress that yearning,
To step back and let the thing you love grow,
It’s bittersweet, crushing and revealing;
Going with the flow,
when everything inside you says:
No,No,No!

Let's make music with the blue flute,
The beef whitle, the fruit shoot,
the horn of plenty, the disco chick,
the quiver bone, the rhythm stick,
ding ****, a wing dang doodle,
ding ****, a wing dang doodle,
tug that rope and ring that bell;
we're gonna make the whole thing swell.
And as we make sweet music; my honey says to me; i love you, je t'aime, ich liebe dich!
oh you're such a clever ****.

Breaking news!
Donald J Johnson withdraws releasing a startled Boris Trump.

Is it ignorance or apathy; that's destroying our place in the world today?

Nobody knows, nobody cares?

The son of love and god scratched the surface of humanity, only to fall in love with a kind soul, for every night I slept, the monster invisible crept, naked with feathers and a bow loosing arrows blow by blow; Busily chanting songs from its celestial throne, songs that transform; inspire love, arouse jealousy and invoke war!
Please, please, take pity on these the windows of my soul, for when the son of love is seen and the temples fall, the earth will howl with the trees, the birds and bees, let sleeping dogs lie with the serpents of blind faith and beauty;
Place in a box the nectar to protect her, untill the earth grows young again, voluptuous and born of pleasure.

The value of a good artist or musician.

Artists rarely make back the hours and cash invested in their trade.

A lot depends upon them, and the how much their culture values their particular trade, and art form.

Globally art, literature, music and song is deeply embedded within cultures; as such: an artists trade is often valued highly, similar to that of a plumber, electrician, painter, doctor etc, It's a craft, a skill with positive cultural significance. (A real job)

Here in Blighty, it's not regarded with the same significance.

My mother often said:
"Sitting in church doesn’t make you any more Christian; than sitting in the garage makes you a car!"
(Some old quote)

We are judged by our actions and by our beliefs.

Understanding this combination reveals ones true spirituality and personality.

I never read the newspapers! or have any confidence in the news or it's politics.

I don't see any point voting for a government or a system; in which a corrupt media spins personality over principles for its financial gain.

I have little or no interest in watching a politician dance, stumble, have a bad hair day, tweet the wrong message, or buy a new sweater!

The media is not, and never has been in the pursuit of truth; it's about spin, political power and financial gain. (Selling papers)

Do you really think that newspaper moguls present enlightenment to the masses? Seriously?

The Daily mail & The mirror is owned by:
Jonathan Harmsworth the 4th Viscount Rothermere.
His net worth is: 1.19 billion.

The Times newspaper is owned by Lachlan Murdoch
His net worth is: 23.2 Billion.

The sun newspaper is owned by Sir Rupert Murdoch, Knight Commander of St Gregory.
His net worth 22.4 Billion.

The Independent is owned  by Evgeny Lebedev
His net worth is: 1.1 Billion
Sultan Muhammad Abuljadaye
His net worth 100.3 billion.

The Evening Standard is owned by Byam Shaw
Net worth 37.1 million.

Your local rag offers storys about knife crime, and what's happening in the soaps, interspersed with elitist policies; fed to you in bite size tabloids;  by hungry billionaires.

Fish & chips anyone?

The mob is single minded, The more people feel justified; the more likely they are to commit extreme acts of cruelty.

My favourite flowers are dead,
dried up by the sun,
clutching the ***,
the last of the lot,
from whence the spring has sprung.

So I bought fresh flowers from the shop,
adorning the ***,
the best of the lot,
I love perennials.

The mystery of love,
Spits with desire,
Watch it evolve,
Ply it with fire,
It came from above,
Higher and higher,
A riddle to solve,
Awaken the squire,
Upon a winged horse,
Virtue and vice,
As lust takes its course,
Sugar and spice,
A terrible force,
Colder than ice,
With little remorse,
Naughty but nice.

I'm a standby lover,
with all the duties of a partner;
but with no assurances.

I'm that safety net,
a dollar in your pocket,
the bump ugly,
the yoyo on the bench.

You can ghost me for awhile,
lead with breadcrumbs,
make me smile,
save me for a rainy day,
tuck me up and play away.

When you've found the one you're after,
and swapped the years of fears with laughter.

I will rejoice; eventually ;)

Simply scoop lots of Vaseline into your hands and rub it into a small fluffy cat; work it in all over and slick it right back!
you get what looks like a very convincing otter, and at a faction of the cost!.

I went down,
to the Holy place,
to make amends,
I broke out the silence,
I let out the lambs.

I built them a wall,
I divided the land.
In God's name,
I did it all for you.

I set fire to their temples,
I tore down their robes,
I poisoned their hearts,
I beat them with stones.

In gods name;
I did it all for you.

I bathed them in tears,
I made them forget,
I filled them with grief,
I plied them a debt.

In gods name;
I did it all for love;
For the love of you!

Above the rain below the ground,
the leaves hide her blooded shroud,
Soon her folks will sense her plight,
Through the tortured dead of night,
They’ll ring her friends, the cops, and every-one,
They’ll search for miles until their done,
And when she’s found 6 months later,
once again she makes the papers.

Insects once restless below the bark,
Now skit across the torn dress that hugs the sweet flesh of my honey,
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby,
But she’s my honey just the same.

My hands clench this the object of my desire,
Six legs stride to and fro escaping this murky mire,
Perspiration runs the length of her shirt,
While fluid fertilises this ever evolving tide of ****** consumption.

Her scent inhabits the soil,
She’s breaking down from corner to corner silently in alternating triangles.
Love is written here within the beauty of her frame.
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby but she’s my honey just the same.

She comes to me in dreams In dreams, in dreams.

The desire for chemical relief, playful, wilful abandonment, stirring the ***, awakening the physical urge.
Both stripped back, longing for the oxytocin fix, the serenity of melatonin and the minds hush; as our bodies push.

I want to feel worthy, to be known and understood.
I want to feel relevant, just like every ******, on every socia media platform.

But here i am feeling insignificant along with all the other dreamers.

First they sent me flowers,
Then they sent me gold,
Then they stole every hour of my life
When they sent me down that hole,

First the ground began shake,
Then the roof fell in,
Then came the unholy silence,
That spewed the darkness from within.

The family sent down flowers,
sent down pictures of our kin,
They ticked every box on their forms,
From this place of filth and sin.

Not even a drop to drink,
Not even a mobile phone,
Down in the stinking city of rock,
Pleading for our homes.

We used to mine for copper,
It’s true they owned our soul,
Now we simply fight for survival,
as three rigs bore the holes.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

A billion eyes are watching,
As we’re pulled from the ground,
Despite the dust... the blood and fever,
The circus comes to town.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

My favourite flowers are dead; dried up by the sun, clutching the ***, the last of the lot; from whence the spring has sprung.

You shall remember the departed; shinning in the sun, adorning the ***, the best of the lot, from whence the spring has sprung.