When I realized
u were a waste of
space I put a
chair in ur place

On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go

Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Though the risks are higher
Amidst the heavy hitters

Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive

                                     By Phil Roberts

What fires burn in this feverish mind!
And from the ashes spring ardent words,
Like the phoenix rising up to heaven,
Leading flocks of diaphanous birds

Mimicking the tides, thoughts ebb and flow
Ceaselessly, as those of the ocean;
Like one possessed, I surrender control,
Jotting down every whim and notion

Angst and rapture mingle together
As I ponder each new assignment;
Vague concepts, dispatched from a remote source,
Invade my mind, seeking refinement

Transient verses perch upon my pen,
Now my minions, I must guide them home;
With care, I place them upon the blank page --
Trumpeting the birth of a new Poem!

Dare I hope my words be remembered
Immortally, as our God must be,
Bringing joy and comfort to burdened hearts,
Like a prayer recited faithfully

My words cannot be held prisoners
In a box meant for decaying remains;
But rather, these poems I lovingly pen
Must soar alongside heavenly strains

I care not if few sad tears are shed
For my folded hands and eyelids closed;
But when Death commands that my voice be still,
Grieve for the poems that went uncomposed!

the first time I pulled a little girl's
pig-tail she freaked out; it was love
after long hindsight; the first Greek
to set foot on the shore; where
all of the answers come flying
from a golden box; seven times seven
& the world is mostly water & void;
there aren't enough witches;
lies spread by old women living on pins
in China believing in Christ
in the marketplace; meanwhile
the first time he threw acid in a girl's
face she was fourteen & he forty;
she was ****** in the middle of the village;
happiness reined in as mothers wail at sunken graves;
the stone pile up quickly eyeless egos
going red sun becoming hotter
than flames of higher metaphysics
in a comets tail; spitting through space
collides & crashes smashes & explodes
in the center of the purest of hearts
urs & mine our sand slipping
through an hourglass of science & belief