The quirky wink of the laughing tortoise.
Too much silence, screaming loud noise
at the people so used to having bullhorns  
in their voice box. The tortoise talks of tickling
tongues with songs sung by an old irishman
after fishing for patience. Talking of whisky tasted,
and the faces of the woman who used to pull the
strings on his back.  The tortoise laughed and laughed
and the little lizards had little to say back.

Today I woke and had already let some things go.
It was a day of nothing, and It filled me with it.
I walked through the park and stopped on a bench
to roll myself a quiet cigarette. I looked at the life
in the pond and pondered the implications.  I thought:

" There has to be a poem in here somewhere"

Late night dreary- clearly should've shut those eyes.
Neck hold my weary head! I cant but I will try.
What use are the shoulders, boulders bulging on our
thinning frame.
Singing the same songs my mother sang when I was
Unborn and without a name.

I think I'll watch the dancers and remember how I used
to do the same.

The city is so tall.
I walk up and down the hills
as a vagabond.
I the creature that crawls,
clutching my drink till it spills
and runs beyond.

Beyond the suburban nightmares
of the single mother.
Past the hairs on the chin
of her eldest son.
My water runs on out this city's-
runs out its entire sprawling metropolis.  

It runs, always gathering speed.

Tell me how do I go about stopping this.

Mr Milgram keeps the social animals at bay.
Experiments on them, sedates then lets them play.
For he knows all too well how violent they can get.
And he knows that he is their council, father and vet.
So he takes his job seriously- well you would have to.
Imagine all the ravaging these savage animals could do-
digging around in side each other for love, lies and food.  
They would surely turn on him too-
At least thats how its understood.  

So with his big sharp needle- he injects each ones neck.
Dressed Immaculately in a suit, they don’t refute but show respect.  
You see by now they have all became so heavily addicted.
That they long for his visits, without him they are afflicted.
The need for authority, to obey, is so inherent.  
These fatherless children are faithless and need a parent.  
But not the kind that loves and shows warm affection.
But the kind that would ****-
Even themselves for their protection.  

So in their toxic psychosis they wander oh so blissfully.
Each moment is a marvel, their reality a mystery.
But Mr Milgram looks uneasy, his brow always furrowed.
Maybe its because he knows how deep the thought has burrowed.
For he see’s the world exactly as it is.
They see a construction, a realised bliss.  
Imprisoned he wanders in but seven shades of light.
And when darkness comes, he understands that it is the night.

He knows it’s not long till he can take away their being.
Turn them into brute instruments, blindly led to their freeing.  
To be relinquished of all guilt, but still able to operate.
To carry out without question, any demands he might make.
For their are millions of nails that he needs them to hammer.  
And hammer doesn’t question,
It just agrees with the consensus of the clamour.  
Then Mr Milgram can return to his simple carpentry ways.
Knowing that the social animals have been safely led astray.

It alway's starts with an ending.
A death. An explosion. A whimper.
Sending those into the sense of Impending
doom, as the fear of the future looms.
Descending further from understanding
We unravel as we are tangling
Up in the spinning world- to fast
to to just stay standing. We run
Knowing that it ended as it begun.
Handling our own- Two hands, one gun.

You see I'd rather bite the bullet.
than loose it or fire blindly. Aiming
neither at the mother or the egg- but the pullet.  
Standing behind me is my shadow-
He holds the gun steady- his aim narrows
And foolish he fires inside me.  
He's devilish in nature
But his intentions are pure and holy.
A strikingly dark creature
Who insists the world persists slowly.

He told me we all run fast when we're scared.
It's those who can keep the pace,
Even when the are not dared, that deserve honour,
recognition and maybe even fame.
But it' those same people who- when it ends-
Will take the blame.

I am the churning thoughts- turning
in the mind of the killer.  
You are but the stomach in knots-
burning with unease
as you watch the thriller.

I am the tension rising- the swell
to the dwelling mind.
You are but the audience- blind.
Fickly figuring the plot
as it begins to unwind .

I am the blunt instrument- and the brute
that wields the weapon.  
You are but the cross critic-
Cynically disappointed
that there seems to be no lesson.

I am the redemption of an eye for an eye.
I am the blind world it leads to.
I am the bodies left high and dry.
You are the mouth that this world feeds through.