The hills are calling out to me
It's time i gathered my belongings'
I'm a young traveller,
A kindred spirit
It's to you I call out no more,
I travel alone
I travel the seas,
I travel the noise,
I travel the desert
I travel without a choice
And once I travel, there's no turning back
I am my own wolf pack,
I'll get lost in the woods and leave no clue

One find day, you'll lose my track.

One day I'll stop sending songs to you
And we'll retreat on to open fields
We'll dance with wrinkled socks
In the Artic between bears and seals

We'll find a way and paint pretty skies
I'll finally get to see you laugh with the sunset in your eyes

One day, I'll stop pretending to hate you
And hold you tight

I hope that one day will come someday,

And it shall last from morning to the night.

Beyond the east the sunrise,
Beyond the west, the east;
There is no wonder, thirst,
Only monetary schemes,

The traveler in me seeks no streams;
The mind only hops on taxes and pills
Scheme, Marry or ****

BLOWHORN, BLOWHORN HENRY!
Anne creeps up in your philosophical nightmare
The headless chicken,
The world is in despair!

My shoes, these shoes,
Not biblically on wine,
Give me another soul Balthazar,
I'm running out of time

Balthazar, my Balthazar
Dear, Dear neurotics!
A cat and a mouse shall not make the house!

Dear Michelangelo,
shape David again,
maybe my nose, maybe my head,
Maybe my eyes!

Tell Da Vinci I am running out of my mind!

I will float in the waters of Ganges till the end of time;

To be or not to be
A ratio in my mind

I'd like to ***** a needle
And run through burrows of sanctity
The alien nights of virtue
And pirates of Kashmir

My red, a colour of freedom

I wish I met you again.
Where the sunlight scorched and my eyes met yours,
It was unknown and new
But my heart had never beaten faster,
A horse pumping his pumping *******,
A stallion!
And the sweat that trickled down my neck
Longing to only make you mine,
All that adrenaline, all that sweat
I wish I met you again,
We could be foolish and dance in the rain,
Or make silly choices and hop on a train;

How I wish,
I met you again.

I have stopped listening to people talk
I just wear my blue fine dress,
I have sunken eyes that see no dreams
I feel no love during ***,
I have a green bottle marked mumbo jumbo
I will not sail for zero dreams
Although very often with my bruised heart I wake up from naps,
I make art out of blood down my nose
Tap tap,
I have stopped smiling in photographs.

I sleep walk through stars
A galaxy of madness,
And to think i would forget fetishes of the heart

Mother, I'm sorry

I shall sleep walk through the ruin of my rose
Plucked by none,
This is what i chose

I shall sleep walk, father
I bow down to none,
I'm growing young but growing sad

It's empty by the crack of dawn
I beg feelings to arise
And i shall sleep walk
through the night

In the midnight lurking, my deepest fears.

It *****.

And I asked her the fun and frugal
Who else hangs themselves on Christmas walls,
What do they wish to be an astronaut or a pie?
Would they breathe to live or to wake up and die

It is rhetoric in reply

They are all temporary:
Pop a Xanny and look at the sky;
You cannot play pictionary
If the board is full of lies.

My love is unconventional,
I cannot love thee to the depth, breadth and height;
I would complain about trivial things such as patterns of socks
Or the moral conventions of Czechoslovakia;

As If I'd love thee
Whereas my mind travels to certain clouds of pink

In imagination, I lose myself,
I'd not compare thee to a rose, or Victorian strategies of pleasing
the opposite ***;

I'd hurt you,
I'd make you a slave of my pain and pride

For it is how,
I love thyself.

Well surprise, surprise,
You were right,
drawers up my sleeve, move away from the cars
Do not step into the light

You were right

You were right about the Earth,
The grasses are fois gras and carbonated cats
The men were ghastly, they sleep on mats
The bazaars are noisy, the jobs are cruel

I am too broke to afford fuel

In these harsh economic catastrophic millenial hyperbolic cholera meddled opera of mice,

You were right father dear,
You were right.

I looked at my knees and knuckles of black,
I looked at my face, my eyes were sad
I looked at the ship sinking in the garden,
And just when I stepped in the road,
I saw these meadows of sheep and pubs of glee
Some drunk widowed man
Wanted to marry me
And I said to him
"My father was right, You are a disgrace get out of my sight"
And as he lowered his wife,

He said I had my father's eyes.

I had known little of love,
Only that it stung;
The valleys of Kashmir, chrysanthemum
And the child selling lotus leaves!
Have I all the carnations and tulips

Yet I admire the little cherub of my Garden's marigold,
And watch it grow to life.

I was wet darling,
The kind that bled rain from scents,

The end of March came as a bliss,
You were the chance I'd hardly miss

Little pottery pourie, naked in bed and soaked,
She realised on April first, she was the pretty joke.

My cat had 9 lives,
He gave 8 to my willingness to create impossible cuisines
of leek, onion, wanton, bone and whiskey
and 3 more to hand my flight to Dublin,

To meet the poets and see why they are dead,
To feed me soup that my grandmother made
A unique blend of garlic and potatoes that were green
And chicken broth and her picture, amongst other things,

She looked weary
As though it would rot
She smelled my soup
And said it wasn't hot

I can't make the soup
I can only pour a double shot.

Do I have teenage hormones?
Because the inadequacy is kicking in,
It's the same old hour, the familiar claustrophobia
Of a dead moth

As he pushes the rock against the mountain,
I too am the same
Familiar faces in new carcinogens,
Familiar tasks, familiar name;

A black hole for the soldiers
As between the Russians and Ukraine,
I fight with my livestock
I fight to stay insane

I seek no poetry,
poetry is for the dead,
Men still want a dead wife
And for his dinner his wife's head

My leaves of clothes of wool and nicities
Are my cunning way to lure you into the future
The future starts with I,
F is for fathers who are mothers in disguise

Dear men, Dear Sir
I do not seek to abide your faith,
To be women is not about my *******

Sit down young man, you sound like a cat cry for a wolf's tale
You joke around about my future
When you are a joke as well

You push a girl child into another man's eyes
And then cry about a feminists' tale
You rupture her nurture, make her La Lorona,
See her haunt you in your dreams

DEAR SIR, NO NEWSPAPERS,
NO BUTLERS FOR YOUR SEAMS,
No man's cry is a woman's dream!

Peace be with you and your picket fence of excrements!

"Et tu Brutus?" The heavens sighed
My soul was cast to depths united,
Where angels fell, with wings unmade,
'Twas her who held the serpent's *****

She called me forth to her dark bed,
Where shadows whispered of the dead.
I was the Lion, fierce and wild,
She was the lamb, a fallen child.

Yet in her eyes, no soul I found,
But voices that in madness drowned.
How dare she rise where angels weep,
And through my heart her poison creep?

The Mind, a storm, gate of fire,
Where Heaven's breath and Hell conspire.
The ancient ones, they wept and spoke,
Of mankind's curse, its sacred yoke.

My soul, no beast of earth's domain,
I cast aside the primal chain.
"Though art no man, but God's own wrath!"
The stars cried out along the path.

"Et tu Brutus?" the stars repeat,
As serpents coil beneath my feet.
'Twas she who struck with heaven's *****,
In innocence, my soul betrayed.

The rolling guilt in fiery flame,
The ancient war, the endless blame.
I stood as Satan's child reborn,
In light and darkness both I'm torn

I'd like to start with an I in this,
But we shall start with We,

We are not being philanthrophic,
There is no poetic gesture,
We are old and starting to grey
And we hope this ribble rabble be our new poetic pray.

Nobody reads our poetry my dear,
Nobody looks at the sun no more
We cannot write about politics
Or women scrubbing the floor

What should we write about?
We are a sad bunch, you and I,
We are not the romantics
Who will somehow make it about the daffodils and the sky

At this lunacy, it's a therapy session,
Not that we can afford being sane
Sane is for ***** willows,
We'd rather drink in disdain

This time it'll be about the penny
And about how we have none
It's not a man, it's not a job,
It's my selfish needs, it's about corn on a cob,
We are using negatives to affirm what's really runing our lives
Baby girl you had big dreams,
let's make it poetic about that lady who wrote about flies
I keep missing out and forgetting who wrote what about their pain,
All I know life's messed up, gambling's fun
But I am not new to the game.

/Here's to us, drama queen,
That's right, it's your new name/

C'mon, set your alarm, you have a shift at 7.