A child’s daydreams;
They come, then, go,
They crystalize,
Then melt, like snow.

The young child plays;
She knows no troubles,
Her daydreams drift,
Like clouds of bubbles.

Her life, so simple now,
No stress, no strife,
May this remain so,
The whole of her life.

I first met her at the market
Right in front of the butcher’s bench
White skin she had, a bit scarlet
Clucking a lot, she wore a trench

Little and silky Hermès scarf
Horn-rimmed glasses laid on her hair:
Money came from Canary Wharf
Her home was surely in Mayfair

Immediately my plan was made:
I’ll soon get her tossed in my ***
- High standing geese got to get laid -
I would then take her whole jackpot

I got her laughing and dreaming
I did apply all the secrets
Allowing us the besieging
Of pretty chicks with no regrets

In Hertford Street, where she opened
Her house, her heart and even dress
I swept the board of what she served:
Both her reason and prudishness

Then came the time for robbery
- Bit of a rush before she twigs -
And it began to be scary:
The goose was working for the pigs

In a very special unit
Where they do learn some useful things:
The fight, the gun, how to hit
While putting on fishnet stockings

With headbutts, pengs against my fame
She got me stuffed like some fall guys
I cried a bit and I became
No golden eggs only black eyes

i climb the scaffolding
look down below
spirit faltering
will i die in the blow?

caffeine swirling,
dizziness whirling,
truth obscured
devil-lured

dry darkness,
unfeeling eyes,
dropping, heartless
out of the skies

failing, falling,
faster than water,
missed my calling,
embracing slaughter

but i'm still here,
didn't dare,
risk the fear
of devil's snare

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

Beneath the sallow,
At break of the night
He waits,
The moonlight dusted upon his pale
Fickle
Skin
Periodically, of course
For no longer than a second
Does the mark of silvery light
Linger in one place,
Most of it pushed aside
By the gambolling tears of green
Wept by the weathered
Old
Sallow’s skeleton grown up into the sky.