Expression twiddles its thumbs
Waiting for observation to avert
So it can freely hang off the bones
Rest and decompress
With a bit of solice
It can begin to unveil
From a contented painting
Depicting a face of rest
It is an imitation only
I've crafted this mask
It has given me some peace
At first it did create something
Others wanted to see
But the layers of each new portrait
No longer give the old relief
They weigh on the authentic
My general countenance is not me

With each new cup
I worry the well is not deep enough
That I will go there, pale in hand
And find a rancid smell
A frayed rope
Peer into the enigmatic hole
And find I've nothing to tell
How will I placate you then?
If my fount runs dry?
What if your mistaken?
What if I am nothing inside?

"Dr Dr we need to amputate!"
I prayed for this
I cannot wait
The extention of you
Connected not by some meaty chord
But by some insidious force
Now I see it
And with it you
Exposed to the most obvious truths
Here I come to cut it off
Hack away
A hatchet job
Each new year my distance grew
And I've recovered without you
I found your secrets
I know the cure
Your words are poison
Spit on the floor
Hope springs eternal
Hope dies last
I'm not a part of you
Your a part of my past

Willow trees make me happy
I have them clocked
Two on my journey
I am begrudging if I forget to look
There's one in St Beaudox
Another closer into town
I sit up and watch them go by
They deliver me a smile
And as I pass them I recall the sensation of the slender bendy bark and leaf
The shade and feel of passing on my boaty beneath
And on this bus I realise
Five days a week
That I miss the waterways
The river and canal
I miss my boat, my water gypsy life
My heart is not happy
Without weeping willows

The solice cracked like a whip
Through my speckless squint
I see them coming,
& stomp the other way.
Across the lake I hear them,
high pitched screams of play.
Sounds your not adapted to
If you went another way.
And as I walk it dawns on me,
The canal is never mine alone
And it's the holidays.

Yer puddle of *****
Sqitty and not right
Always the same MO
Just off the towpath
Though still in sight
Always a puddle
Bog roll beside
The doggies go to gobble it up
Boke, sick, its feckin rough
Such a tiny bit of tissue
Never seems enough
You need a doctor
To figure out your guts
I hope you got stung
On your flap or your nuts.

I'm full I tell you!
Constipated by the human race
The brain ****
Won't work
In the face of your face

A verbose stream of nonsense
That needs the walls ears alone
To ***** up the word stew
Regurgitate the bones.

The words dry up
And so do I
The thing is processed
With a relieving sigh.