Is there another way over or out?          
I can’t seem to find patience, she’s gone
and fallen from before me. I could shout
but I shouldn’t wish to disturb anyone.  
Their ears have been twisted rotten, I know’t,  
And so I’ll save my sore throat and tongue
and let my lungs breathe from the back of
my head. I'll stop to start as we slow’t.  
             What a disgraceful tongue I have here in
my mouth; It shouts foul words and breathes in sin.
It utters thoughtless thoughts just as they begin.
And without a man sharpening their edge,
They run up the hills to the knife of their peak
just to fall into the hands of a better mans pledge.  

He takes thought and flies far off with it.
Out past the poets and the puppeteers,
Where words softly sing busy heads asleep,
Where the young puppets are bought and sold fears.  
He does what I cannot and does so with pride;
He takes thought to the sun so it can shine
on this world.  I only ever curled or ran to hide.
              Now To myself I ask questions and with answers I confide.
But every question’s like glass left on a stove,
and soon fragments fly in every direction,
sticking in the wall and cutting those they
cross, they're filthy, they soon spread infection.
These questions leave men gasping as they pray,
They leave mothers crying over corpses every day.

Strange how the same thought thought out by him
instead of me turns those laying corpses
into dancing puppets- Cold staccato limbs
flinching from the will of their old willer.
Find me times killer, I’m sick of this cold.
Find me his hands- He has a world to hold.
I want to show that what I do does have reason-
                    I want to hold him before us- to watch “ Change” season.
"Yes its ‘change’ now, strange how it changes
how you think ‘bout things that are thinkers
but stray to sinful little ******, alchi’ drinkers.
I’m not apologising fur ma tongue
son, I’m not following a ridged line
nae’ ******’ mare- I found my spine. “

But that voice- mine! Not mine now to own.
Change was robbed by fearful old neighbours.
The fabric came loose but back together now is sown.
Old men wept, young men slept, their saviours
found their secret and now its quietly kept alone
between villains. And maybe we need villains.
Or does this arrogance deceive me?
        Perhaps it blinds me in my walk? Others talk
too loud amongst themselves to hear or believe me.
I conceive sweet thought and nurture it
till it turns rotten, infected, weak and sick.
Then I look for a cold arm with hairs to *****
and run off only for another thought to retrieve me.

I have a gun,
I keep it under my bed
and just for fun
I decided not to tell anyone

But it weighs heavy

Now when people
get under my skin I don’t begin
to unwind and
let my patience wear thin

I just think of my gun under my bed.
I think of a hole going straight through my head.

My Heads just a borrowed mess,
I’m just a high liar, dire trier
trying too much again.  
You see friends
in strangers but behaviours
vary, yes its very scary times indeed.

I took my gun
out for a walk or maybe he
took me for one
when the sky showed sun.

And it weighs heavy

My feet still shifting, my stomach still
swelling and contracting in itself.
I cannot look down. I cannot look down.
I can almost hear the steep fall below me.
The echoes of birds haunt in the their
fading song. But I stare out high.
High out and above this city- across its tops.

The peaks somewhat cheapened by the red sky.
It falls over them like a blanket, tucking it
in and keeping it warm for the night.  
The bricks, steel and concrete are weak
in their worldly nature. The sky swirls
and spins colours to the wanders of my eye.

I want to scream but words betray me,
My foul tongue and dimly lit wit stick-
stammering and fail to wrap around a thought.
I’m caught between a point and an apology.
I beg for symbols to tumble, for angels to
lift me from this roof and show me truth.

But they drop me back inside myself,
I still sit staring bare at this city.
Smoke sticks in my throat even though
its a few miles down from here.
Fear falls on me with the night
and the city’s soon enveloped completely.

But bright lights from high rises,
twenty-four-sevens, taxis etc. Blind
in their boldness. Their grotesque in nature.
People seem to be simply just match sticks.
I can only see them as far off as the Tesco’s.
By then my sight blurs and I dizzily have to steady

To keep from falling off the edge.

We are the witless wanderers.
Pondering our own existence.
We are Thieves to time and his borrowers.
The future that makes the past get tense.
We are common without sense,
sentenced to life in the prisons of conscience.

Oh conscience, conscience, where would we be?
He Said:

“ I’ll tell you if stays just between you and me”


“We’re in the depths of dying giant.
The hand that once fed, says
we’ve became too reliant.
So we’re going looking for the silent,
who’s quiet is loudly defiant.
We’re looking for those heads
that find soft beauty in violence”

And so we travel on true
through pockets of our history.
Making moments into marvels,
bland realities into mystery.  
Picking up the tongues of the witty,
the lost voices and drifters.
We take the eyes of the pretty
and the patience of the listeners.  

We take the hearts of the false starts,
that long another redo.
Let them no that its their part,
Life is really but a read through.  
Theres no failure, just behaviours
we regret and will learn from.
Theres No angels or saviours,
just our selves to earn from.

But whats within us is holy,
holier than now. Now is just
never in the time frame of forever.
And  you can take your time.

So Take It.

Take the clocks hands to his face and make him brake it.  
Take this world to its creator, and watch him forsake it.

You can take your time

SO Take It.

A poet, by necessity, cannot be a genius. What most poets are, are manics with a knack for finding a consistency- logical or illogical- in the human condition and the world around them. A poet, within themselves, has the ability to create something that otherwise could not exist in the tangible world; a thought, a feeling, an idea, a hope, a lover, even another world entirely. But a poet is not a genius. Or at least cannot be perceived as, or believe he is, one. For poetry to have poignancy, emotion and sense it must be selfless and selfish, sweet and agonising, peaceful and anarchic. But it cannot ever be the work of a genius. Geniuses are absolute in themselves, poets are abstract. Genius is the work of a researcher who finds a cure for deadly disease, not the simplicity of words. However poets can bring faith, sympathy, and even light a fire within their reader. But poets are not geniuses. They are wordsmiths that wind this world into something better or worse in their minds, in the hope that someone else will see it too. A poet cannot provide absolute truth or reason, therefore cannot ever be a genius. Their work however can be ingenious.

With blood we ran through the city like a river/
The givers gave out and stared madly with a shiver.
" You can take your time... So take it"
screamed the clock, so I had to brake it.
The glass pierced the skin, my knuckles began
to bleed and joined with the river as it ran.

The plan was not to have one. To be a man.
To be good, or thought of highly. But the
blood keeps running on by me / I know
in this I''l drown. Spiral down to the underworld.
To be hurled by the winds of punishment for
my lustful, spiteful, vengeful acts of selfishness.

No doubt theres bigger fish to fry,
but I'll be burning along side them.
In truth I only ever told a lie.
So il wait here until the tide comes.

I am, not be, something I can not see.
And it turns me tormented to face
my own reflection, over and over,
closer and closer, to cutting that nose
from my face. And laughing as I do so.
But instead he mimics my lack of conviction.
And he winds fictions of me falling slow,
trying to hold the curves of the world as I do so.  

Even Atlas' strength was humbled by it;
The weight of this world could never have
been on my shoulders. But thats where I feel it sits.
So selfish, so arrogant. I am but not be.
I do not ever tell of this weight on my neck.
Instead in quiet torture I find my own respect.