As the leaves breathed relief
upon their fabled flight from trees
I kissed the feet of the former me,
(Or at least the one who bleeds)

For freedom is just a season
that changes with the wind
without a rhyme or reason
unless its a song that we all sing

Only You know your truth
and if your life is being wasted
yet regret is a bitter blade from youth
that most old folk have tasted

but only a coward flees from dreams
and only the lonely are what they seem
yet most slaves forsake faith in change
when its paved the saviours way

When the darkness harkens
in the light of the night,
do not flee or be faithless
to what ageless sages say
at the dawn of the new day
when mockingjays take flight

Those who have glimpsed the Truth,

can not hold on for long

before fate forces their faith to ensure they either;

break themselves upon the shore of seclusion,
in search for the harbour of their fortitude
in lieu of fables of greater fated fortunes,
which behold the gateway to the main vain for the space between the rain.

Or

wither into the weeds
with a heart filled with bliss,
whilst their inner Being bleeds
unholy woe to their smothered soul;
Its the price all must make
when they forsake becoming Whole

Just like a child to the adult,
so too do the mighty start as fools,
so long as the fruits of their truth are not rotten,

but take heed,
for rituals live long
when their reasons have been forgotten,
and within this space
is where the darkest devils dwell

When all the wounds and eyes have dried
and all that remains is ambition,

will you seek to speak, harken and find
the unheard heartbeat inside the mind?

Will you plea with your inner-seeker
to usurp your under-dued preacher,

as you sense the spectred seizure
of Lifes tender-touching fever,
weave within your inner-dreamer?

Or will you prefer the feel of dreams in the dark?

I spent twenty-three years
gathering my army of One.

So, on the eve of the dawn
when all inner-demons are born
and forlorn dreams all bleed at the seams,
the whip-snip of winters wind
will decimate the gold in the day
to proclaim the heir to my king...

and the sacrifice I must pay
for the essential exchange
of any ail-led aspirant
to annihilate any alinement
with the archetype of a tyrant?;

All unearned falsehood must never depart
from any sacred facade held in my heart
lest the lust for Pura Vida be the preacher
to my inner-creatures beseecher,

for adversity is the shunned sage
to those who prefer comfortable fables
and a prophet to those
who harken to heroes.

Thus,

it matters not
any amount of pain that you gained
from playing the truest game
you could play,
with whole heart,
in the wretched world of man,
when now all that remains
are the paint strips flaking away
from the walls in your room
with old age greeting the faith
concealed in your doom

nor, if the portrait of your greatest fate
has forsaken its grace
for the sake of that gorgeous
echoing bellow
heard within the hole in your soul,
for it’s the price all must pay
in the pursuit of being whole.

Theres a hunger for passion in this world
so devastatingly delirious
and paradoxically toxic,
that it can bring a starving, grown man to his knees to beg for more of his own hunger.

I’ve seen it in the eyes of those that never tried.
Those that could have held the world
in the palm of their hand,
had they only decided to do so.

Now their eyes shine a different way
to those of their golden days,
the way of hate,
the way of submerged fury,
haunting reasons to erupt at the world they could have held,
now their muse of beatings.

Never present and always hunting,
always festering at boiling point
from the moment they arise
to the moment they dream those dreams
of all that could have been

The dead fly sat sanitised.
Now,
with failed, clipped wings
he feasts with Kings
and he’ll never know the difference

At the feast for heathens,
I raised a toast to those
who raised themselves
in the fickle fallout
of human nature,
with pop-culture parents,
we chose our own fathers
and married our mothers.
For when the sacred lights of life
died out in the eyes of Apollo,
and Dionysus prowled the avenues
hunting out a new mirror for a mate,
the helping hands slipped away,
into the newly shadowed hollows
where all grace was laid to waste,
in the darkest depths
of the newborns day.

Now,
in this nuclear winter,
where all the Gods have died or been deserted,
I walk that razor ridge
of romanticism and ambition,
(where anchored dreams
are want to hide)
just to see how far I’ll fall
when my darkest demons
harken the call.
Humbled by the writings
on my skulls inner wall;
truthful hymns which
will mend the wings
of my inner poet and stoic
to see how tenaciously he’ll crawl,
to see his tendency for tender brawls,
to see him arise as the builder
within the razed rubble of Rome;
the only God I’ll ever need
for fashioning a home

So,
if you too have been abused,
and sacred love has left you bruised,
when searching for your answer,
seek out the dancer within your soul,
for the collateral is substantial my dear,
when you walk on broken bones

Oh youth,

sweet dreams will be the death of me,
requiems for reveries are necessity
to resurrect that which has lived in me

I’ll tune in my inner vision
with fruition of ambition
that defies dead eyed misery.
I’ll fight to see you soon

When the world tries to tell you who you are,
but you feel in your gut who you REALLY are,
and all you can do is smile back at the world
and throw back your head
and howl in the face of adversity,

if you are liberated from deception
of all of which is inside your control
and outside your control
and readily accept the latter,
like a nonchalant savant

if you are a disciple to discipline
and know that backing down and submitting to the insidious insanity
of a day-to-day charade
is not even an option,
regardless of all the cool comforts it offers
in lieu of the heat of the coals you walk upon,

then and only then
will you become the master of your destiny

I want to change the world,
but I cannot change my mind.
Ten thousand years of bad behaviour haunts my DNA,
it’s going to take a coup;
The seizing of hypodermics of the working day,
its going to take a courageous venture into the mists.

For this brave new circus which the clowns all call CIVILisation
is only civil as far as the pig can spit,
it’s as civil as a civil war.
Irony is lost on the blind nestled within the dark,
harkening to the whispering shadow,
so fine-tuned they think it the light.

Its a bleak sunset of business as usual.
The judgement of some higher power on this
will be cast into the same sty where the enlightened fester,  
where all new thoughts are smeared in ****
where all the stoic poets weep.
But only if
We do not change our minds.

Liberation and love wait for the collective
we are One and One is all
The End must be rejected

Those that weep,
oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep,
where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine.
These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap,
whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat,
it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.

But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell?
They either submit to their anguished musings
or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings,
there is no compromise.
But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it?
and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?

Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden?
Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old,
of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul?
Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble?
Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine
whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind?
Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon?
Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon?
Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee?
Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life,
embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife?
Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages
of times endlessly cascading pages?
Will it be You in your pursuit
of what your inner vision holds true?
Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams?
None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys

I will fall in love with just about anyone.
Providing I see their dreams divine-shine explode from the dynamo within their eyes,
like a supernova on a celestial course of chaotic creation of colour,
cracking all dark clouds of thunder asunder,
I will fall

So long as I see the sacredness of hope in simple joys
emanate from their heart and out through the mouth
to infect the minds of those cursed with the dizziness of rational thinking,
I will fall

Even to hear the cathartic tremble in their voice
from all their inner ploys cut through the white noise
(The most transcendent of insecurities, stark and alone, a beacon of hope)
I will fall

The very second I can confide enough judgement in their ability to give love to even the most unworthy reveller
I will fall
hard and harder still,
down,
down,
down
like a helter-skelter or clown
in a circus of circumstance.

I cannot help it,
maybe I’ve been loved too little,
maybe in a world so dark, its simply a blessing to see all the colours of light,
or maybe my own soul just instinctively craves for the very best in humanity.
Maybe its all there,
coursing like ****** within my veins,
tho unlike a ****** seeking out his poison
I desire overdose,
No, I need overdose.
Mediocrity is reserved for unimpassioned swine, lost within the confines of their bitter minds,
critics and pessimists be ******.
For the gentle warmth of grace found within a friend or lovers inner beauty
must be relished and protected
lest regret later be dissected
when all that remains
are dust and memories.

But like all overdoses on indulgence,
there is a fee to be paid,
regardless if impassioned or bleak.
For when the faith in fate goes up in flames
the burning of Rome is all the more bittersweet.
Thus, when Nero’s fickle fiddle plays
to the tune of terminal velocity
the broken-hearted ache
on the fringe of terminal ferocity.

Love will always be worth this death,
no matter the devastating depth.
I will go down punching for it to my last, living breath

The curtain of Oz has been lifted!
The shadow pulls strings
perfectly supreme!
Free will is dead and so are the Gods!
Arise! Arise!
Raise cries for the paupers demise!
Liberty and livelihood are crucified!
Even the Age of Eden was forsaken
in the name of sacred inebriation!
To the streets! To the streets!
Do not cease the effigies for peace!
From the ground
to the mouth,
through the heart
to the brain
let us give birth to the soul of the Earth
let the age of lost wisdom reign again

There are 2 kinds of pain.
The first is the meagre feeling of being hurt.
The second is sacred.
It kills you with perfect articulation.
It decimates all of your foundations.
It makes the air stand still
and ***** white noise into the room.
It provides contrast
to the fruits of isolation.
It is the mistress of evolution.
It is symbiosis for conquerors,
for on the other side of that kind of pain
are all things worth dying for.
It’s the strength of survivors;
The breath of the resurrected

If you have yet to be killed.
If you are stagnant in your ambitions.
If you don’t even know, what you don’t know,
You are yet to fight your finest hour

The scholars say;
all scorched green land
soon grows back
twice as grand.
Well if thats the truth of it
my lover foiled her own ****** plan
it just takes a little rain
on a red-dawn day
to sprout into the fray again.

All fickle friends decay
when the shot at redemption
is just a days grace away
they leave behind what should be said
within the prisons inside their heads

The manic depressive
does not believe
in the holy-light of love
if his brain can not conceive
but each day that he survives
is one day closer
to what his heart contrives

The proud atheist derides
with a rational mind
all priests demise,
but my dear friend,
if you think that silence
is waiting around the bend,
you will soon contend
that dark, stark trend
when your mind lends
all futile shields to fend.
You’ll see your spite
split betwixt delight
that which all knowing monks commend
and which your soul will soon amend;
that Death is not the end

I saw two silhouettes
standing oblique
in the dark mystique
of a long dead street.

With my path blocked
from the light beyond
I was denied the prize
from whence life absconds.

Were they lovers or threats?
Or jesters and priests?
As they turned astray to face me
With eyes of charcoal gold
They undressed their bones
to bare the holes
within the prisons of their souls.

Tattooed upon these wounds
were promises forged too soon
Shattered by the witness
of the ever weeping moon,

I saw ones fate soon marooned
with great fortune entombed in doom.
Although courageous by nature,
Folly is the prisoner of passion

The second wore simple linens,
and espoused poetic virtues
He spoke of poets long since dead
but said you can reach them if you choose.

As I drew closer to these phantoms
I spied familiar faces
One was young and one was old
They spoke of conquests long foretold

One spoke of ******,
The other spoke for Buddha,
both said life is what you make it,
Tho, when I gazed into this mirror
I was neither dejected nor elated

Take heed to the deafening scream
of silence echoing within the chasm of your soul.
If your muse chooses you
use it’s brute truth to fill in the hole.
Just don’t think yourself reckless
when its from poison you flee
only to run to
what calls you
from a banquet of vaccines
within the colour of your dreams.
Take heed,
take heed,
My darling
take heed
of all snarling beasts
that hold festering feasts
when your heart begins to bleed,
Lest you let loose with sick spry
the distinguished disguise
for you damp, saddened eyes

Paradise is the lovechild of courage and pain
but only when the passion
to reinstate pleasure
is birthed by dancing in the rain.
For all tenacious dreamers
serenade the Goddess of Blooming
lest the coldness thats looming
from their soon to be consuming tomb
swiftly seals their doom.
Yet when the Devil prowls the avenues looking for souls to ******
with a life thats deranged
by the day to day charade
of the virtuous ball and chain
maimed around hard, sad truths,
who amongst us can try to deny the pull of
temptation towards false salvation
of all nihilistic avenues of uncouth youth
and the bittersweet fruits of their brutal truth

If you hear the insatiable whispers of your calling
beckoning you forward,
within the dark depths
of sleepless attempts at slumber-
If it keeps you staring up at the ceiling
long past the dawn
with threatening thoughts
which only the pawns of failure spawn-
then use the fuel of the pursuers whom
came before you,
coupled with your own unique integrity,
passion
and drive,
to bring into being that which you cannot go a day without thinking about.
Believe in Yourself
as much
as you believe in your Hell
for You will be dead a long time-
do not dawdle.
Your Muse chooses You
as much as You choose your Muse.
You owe it the nobility of pursuit
in exchange for the simple comfort
which the essence of being offered a way out of meaninglessness direction brings.
(This is the gift all Muses present you with.
It is symbiosis in its most poetic form.)
Likewise,
You cannot prevent your Muse choosing You,
no more than your Muse can prevent
You from not pursuing it
with all the tenacious ambition it deserves.
So love and cherish your Muse as it were your mother,
along with all the hopeful dreams it brings with it.
It chose you for a reason.

If dreams are the harbinger of life’s great serenade
then I either spent 20 years deaf or 20 years afraid.
To live our days dreamlessly is to live in grey stained shade
so if you don’t stray from the colours,
you’ll see we’re all brothers
but were asleep in a fevered dream

Why is it,
the best of mankind’s minds all dwell
on the tortured side of hell?
For those within their high ivory towers,
far from the tortured toiling
of the boiling broth below
hold the keys to change
but fail to unlock that
which the doors of hope bestow.
Granted,
not all those that survive the swell of the Devils ****** spell
become patron Saints
through their pain,
but the very act of survival
means that their miraculous revival
can put life into those long dead
with that earned wisdom
birthed from the dungeons within their heads.
For Dantes rocky road
is for those alone
whose abodes
are bestowed
within the land of no mans code,
who bare the weight of tomorrow’s load,
until they don’t

Ivory towers only seek to alienate;
The ones who cherish an elephants grace.
For those who build their homes
out of the bones
of a dying world
will proudly play their fiddles
as all of the chaos and riddles
of a burning Rome unfurls

There are those who live out their days dangerously
and walk along a knifes edge in search of electricity.
They abandon known reason within decisions
for their inner vision is addicted to ambition.
If they find their soul is far from fully grown
they’ll bravely set out upon that road alone
and mystify cemented minds with the gravity of their finds.
These are the ones who will change our ageing-ancient ways
with a saviours grace unlike those who are growing within their graves.

nothing can escape death.
not even the stars.
the universe itself will one day tremble it’s last.
it is just a form of change.
do not cower from it.
in its simplicity it is just a transition.
if stars cowered from supernova there would be
no star dust,
no life-lust,
no truth,
no you,
no love,
no me.
and what a tragic cosmos that would be.
nothing can escape death, least of all life.
it paves the way for the newly young
with more space
and steeled hearts.
don’t allow your sweet, short life to be hijacked
by fear trying to hide from this hard fact.
a change.
something comes next...
something comes next.
it will always involve you
and me.
consciously?
that remains to be seen
but
it always will
involve you
and me

Sunrise on the summit of Snowdon
a young vagabond breathed
there was a wondrous road ahead

Re-wild your inner child
and with that the World;
Lest we fail to be worthy of our so called “wisdom”
For the fate of this beautiful blue marble
that we have the privilege to call our home
is held within all of our minds and actions-
and ours alone.
Those who look upon the mystique of nature
with childlike wonderment
and tearful disbelief
of what mother Gaia has birthed;
Those who stand and heed the call to arms
with Spartanesque custodianship
to see what the courage of their souls unearths-
Those and those alone
will be our saviours.
All others condemn us
to a future house and home
unfit for the darkest devil in hell

I was a boy in chains at home
I was a boy upon the road
Years later, I’m still a boy within my head
Trying to let my old dead dreams be fed
The only truth I know;
There was honey in my hair the day I had to go
When sparrows **** the crows and fire starts to snow, I’ll be born that way again.
As a suicidal lover of life I was dreaming with intention, seeing visions of fitting my soul into a pack upon my back
With a hatchback, foodsack and Kerouac my poor rich heart would never lack
Lest all the colours in the world wilted and died like dogs in the dirt

**** the saints with salvation!
**** the gladiators with gasoline!
When truth corrupts a nation
the sick will spit on vaccines!
Do not look to accrue this fruitless pursuit of youth
for the Gods will deny you attention all the same
like a beast of burden whose load has left him lame
you’ll never be pleased until you cease to be a pawn within their game

The neon lights have burned too bright,
my wings have been singed black.
I flew too high and failed to find
all the feelings my heart lacks.
Fleeing all my sweetest demons
in the deepest depths of night
I found faith during my darkest days
and praised my futile fall from flight

Cold coffee goes down too easily;

But only when
your day-to-day
is not estranged
from the truth of pain

Whats a bitter taste
to the feel of rain
within the brain?

The modern poet folds in too frequently;

But only when
the pressing nature
of the truth of life
refuses to use
their trembling bones
like a burning knife,

So lament if others exult in that which you mine
from within the confines of your darkened mind,
if the only light you seem to find
only serves to make you blind.

All unhopeful seekers lie to themselves too easily;

But no one ever said that life would be
true to the sweet bliss of reveries,
even if you feel healed by Satans kiss
do not allow him to twist your wrist,
for even within the deep abyss
you can still defy all those that missed
descending into the long goodnight,
without a fight of drunk delight.

Far better to live a life so brief,
doing all of which you wish to do,
than to live the longest life
but every un-lived dream
you’ve come to rue

Mushrooms and wine
on a rainy day inside
the juxtaposed intwine
to rhythms so divine

The smartphone is a portal
to progress and possessional obsession.
To behold all knowledge of the beauty of the human experience within the palm of your hand, yet to also behold;
brilliant tutorials from false idols on how not to live your life,
that captivate and obliterate all free-folks minds.
Ahh yes, freedom-the fickle *****.
monkey see
monkey do.
The smartphone has brought us closer than ever before
yet, when this little tablet of infinity shows you only what you want to see
(like a mirror to the soul)
pray you keep keen eyes upon your shadow
for even hugs can crush and families feud and through opinions and tribal captivations
we become more divided.
It has made us spend so much time looking down, that we no longer look up;
For it hurts to stare into the light.
Nobody looks into each others eyes anymore for the same reason.

Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again, we'll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I'll drop a line

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

I’m afraid yet amazed
by the stain of your grace
and the bittersweet taste
it has left on my brain
of distasteful disdain

But if all life is suffering
am I right to feel strife,
when my heart can’t depart
that which has haunted my nights
with the stark darkness of life?

That knowledge alone
can only be known
by the savants of the Road
after finding a home
where only the lonely can go

But the common truth thats now grown
alongside wisdoms new throne;
is if you can’t bury the hatchet
You must exhume the casket
for the dead are only as dead
as the ghosts within your head

Its been a long lifetime since there was any life left within the lexicon of the living; monotonous careers and the absence of passion has shackled workers to the weekend, blinded the naive and suffocated all innocence and hope out of adolescent dreams. As the last light of beauty and grace of that hope is finally smothered, another slave to the mundane is born. Welcome to the 21st Century, where our leaders are the least amongst us capable of leading, our false idols are idiocentric idiots and money and power are as obsessive as oxygen.

The greatest mystery in midst of all this acclimatised confusion, is that the majority of Western folk fear death yet do nothing to curb completely wasting their lives wrapped up in these all too familiar horrors. Its the greatest crime one can commit against their own integrity, the crime of wasting unreclaimable time of their lives. For time is the eternal enemy of all life regardless of the quality, and it is yet to lose a fight. The greatest paradox within this logic is that it is only when you accept death as an inevitability and make peace with it, then you truly start living like you are actually alive.

When in the face of this great unbeatable foe, a certain new breed is bred whom are want to revel in the bittersweet, cast of the bowlines of morbid conformity and leave the shore of security. If that means abandoning luxuries, living rough and embracing hard times with a harrowing embrace then so be it, any fight for freedom will never be an easy ride. They know to take risks and follow their passions unapologetically, if that means a certain level of priorly perceived recklessness is invited into their life then so be it, it is kept in check with bohemian form of order, a rational dash of rationalism and honest self assessment. For any day could be the last they draw breath and death be ****** if they don’t seize the opportunity to relish their short dance in the sun with all the strength, patience and gratitude you can call upon.

In brief, don’t allow your short, sweet life to be hijacked by those made bitter by a system so vampiric in its very nature that those hopelessly addicted to it are so drained of the great virtues of life that they may as well be long dead. If your heart still holds an impassioned beat, swing heavy punches into the dying of the light, for this life was made for all to revel and excel within. So if you’re young in heart and lost, theres no need to despair as you’ve hardly been born, but please be aware that all Gods weep for the un-bloomed and forlorn.

Like Christ I was betrayed by a kiss
The best kiss I ever wasted
The one delayed with a wish
The last I never tasted
Twas the sublime decline of the un-divine find from the mine within my mind
My new muse fused with pure white beacons of truth;
It was love.
It is love.
It will always be love.
Until the bodhisattva’s of bohemia are free to leave in peace,
Until the unbloomed seek what their enlightened prophets beseech.
When the the ****** find nirvana by practice of kinder hearted karma
Then and only then the world will know peace

As you pour your morning coffee and take your daily vitamins on one out of two of your weekly, much desired days off. Think of the one who forsook mundane obligation and expectance of the crowd-mind, who unapologetically pursued that which they were willing to bleed for in the face of absolute failure and the absence of comfort. If, for some strange reason, the essence of your routine still amounts to any sort of meaningful sense and fails to haunt you in lieu of this apparent enlightenment; bless the bliss of ignorance, count yourself lucky and relish that sip of coffee. Then, just maybe, put some serious thought into which condiment you’re going to spread across your freshly baked bread.

On the other hand, if the failure or success of this spectre and dream weaver keeps you staring at the ceiling late into the night and long past the dawn with thoughts spawned of ruthless poetic justice; use the fuel of those that came before you, coupled with your own unique integrity, passion and drive to bring into being that which you cannot go a day without thinking about.
Its the good fight we’re all searching for- the only one worth fighting

A soliloquy of disharmony from the maimed-unnamed soldier foretells so well
that the rhapsodic roar of war is a chorus of the purist gore from the chaotic choir of hell.
This is for You who betray the universal truth
of love,
death
and youth.
How dare you preach of ceaseless peace when the peace you reach for
Is beseeched by deceased chess pieces upon the beach floor.
Naive but brave boyish pawns with their heads and their knees in the sand,
who faithfully faced the hellfire that razed their grandiose last stand
into the scorched nightmare-land for your abyss-seducing plan.
Not even the darkest Devil in hell could quell the ****** surging swell.
They’re the lost stanzas of a forgotten symphony
conducted within the cacophony of a coffins divinity,
the pawn pieces on a puppet string whose grip they can’t untwine
from the very least among us;
the desirous tyrants with their puppet-master minds.
If their dark fantasies should not cease to feast upon the nature of the beast,
better to betray the bark of false amity lest the hex of vanity refuses to decay,
as the trivialised archetype of destruction is the civilised man of modern day
who is sleeping on his sanity with eyes of pride brightly wide awake.
With pipedreams of eternal peace at the feet of our blood-stained door,
visioning winning with a checkmate or a dead queen on the floor.
Only when the once wilting wild-flowers grow free through the cracks in the board,
will we see through the eye of the beholder the first morn of the freely dreamed dawn.
And in fairness to the youth, whom uncouthly search for truth,
with their own dreams that gleam of drinking water from fresh streams,
sleeping in a meadow of bliss beneath the bereaved stars.
Their time has finally come to strike in the nail of change,
to see the coffin lowered with the ageing ancient ways,
but we can’t have faith in change lest its paved the saviours way

Most people are intolerable
Most are campaigning for their ego’s to be stroked
Most null their feelings with chemical intoxicants as a hobby
I can hardly blame them
But
I can hardly stand them
Most people are incapable of understanding their truest truths
Those age-old truths which can pierce the holiest desires of the supremely uninspired
The fallout of this brutal cruelty shouldn’t disgust me as much as it does
But it does
I’m cautious of being kindred
I strive to not be most
I strive to find the Others
But
Beyond this there is hope
For my idea of a single mans bohemian utopia doesn’t rely upon
economy and chemicals
as the stimuli
of ecstasy and bliss;
Practice kindness,
Unapologetically pursue your dreams
Dissect the darkness
Live via rational minimalism by any means
Freely sleep in the wilderness beneath the stars
This is what it means to truly live
Its the only truth you need

As I gazed upon the face of my enemy
I saw warped reflections of all that I used to be.
It forced a fleeting ponder upon my fate within the Great Yonder
and a feeling too absurd to declare;
Whether the ****** or the Buddha emerged
after I fought with the demons submerged

Feeling estranged from my shame and all burdens of pain
I finished my shave, declared myself sane
and went downstairs to get breakfast.
Musing on the strangest 15 seconds of my life

“In the age of the cage its hard to not dwell on your self imposed cell,
Yet the best dream of heaven is conjured through living in hell”,
Before this find from the mine within my mind my soul was frozen-cold and unkind,
It exhumed a plague from within that had infected my will to live,
If it spread to my heart or spread to my muse
the gloom soon too would have reaped the collateral,
Hark there is a way for you through the blue hue via the lateral,
Its the search for the grail,
through the frail hail on the wings of a nightingale,
To be writing lightning,
To elaborate what the bolt of a thunder-strike tastes like,
To scorch your desires with the fire of a passion that wills all,
When the electricity of your spirit is the fragrance of evolutionary madness,
When you abscond through the great beyond to attain the fated state of bohemian vagabond,
When you show the brute truth of delirious flow to finally know where naked thoughts grow,
Its to find yourself riding down the rabid river with one eye to the broiling sky,
In dear desire of living a step past the ledge of where angels dare to die,
So take what you need and leave what you grieve without protest,
Lest the grotesque reap the best of the souls sweet zest.
Such is my idea of living whilst you breathe

A home is never far from the heart
The dark can tear a home all apart
A hero with hope lives in a hole all alone
To beckon back a light from afar

A pauper once pondered if he would ever fall in love with life again,
after feeling the rain during a chance encounter with fate
he abandoned the lottery,
with the tenacious ferocity
only a vagabonds prophecy
could stake to his faith

For he’s fought his life with losers and uncouth career choosers,
he was the splinter caught between a hellfire and winter
after Papa State eraced the grace from a once true and youthful face
he found the hunger birthed by adversity is a lethal fuel for change
So now he’ll never rest upon a steadfast crest lest he can can feel his dreams like pain