To no-where I go in the nothing I feel,
Spinning like an old coin or a wayward wheel.
I tumble as I twist, throwing myself on
through the falling mist of the new red dawn.
Battered as I bounce, I trip on with zeal;
Spiralling, Spiralling, Spiralling on,
till I’m spiralled from anything I thought to be real.  
Till concrete crumbles and the green grass is gone.

Here, I stand, in those bizarre acres of mine.
Where geometry fails in the plans I design.
Where math melts like memories of my boyhood,
and the laws of motion ******* to be understood.
Come falling upwards, plummeting to the sunshine.  
We’ll swing and we’ll sway on the old wise wood
of trees that hang from the skies like a shrine
to nature in reverse, and truths in falsehood.

It builds itself faulty.
It teeters as it grows.
It knows its own weakness.
It knows its own strength.
Unfortunately, they conflict.
So, of course, it comes crumbling down.

Vacant people with vacant peepers
stare with them fixed on flickering screens.
Monday morning's wide-eyed sleepers
sit missing the window's passing scenes.
Mere millimetres apart from each other,
they drift in worlds a million miles away.
Bodies so close, close enough to smother,
as the train rumbles along, they sway.

You’re free to talk until someone listens.
You’re free to walk but only in circles.

The jigsaw piece is puzzled;
He can’t find the others.
But they are                here,
       there,
and
                          everywhere

        In between.

He knows’s they’ll make a picture
of beauty bolder than the sea,
a story older than scripture,  
If that moment could only be,

where
           every
                     piece
                               alone
Comes together and makes a home.

Morning twisted in her sullied dress,  
no longer as one with the night.
She wrestled with sleep and opened to stress,
as the sun climbing above her shined bright.  
                HE STOOD LAUGHING
                               she
                Lay helplessly beneath.

With no help from those who went passing
on by, she passed into the night with nothing to bequeath.

"Kick a kumquat in the belly.
Tell a wee rose that she's smelly,
and ye dinnae like burds lit at'.  
Cook a cucumber in *****,
cook a cucumber in *****,
cook a cucumber in *****. "

" Excuse me, pal.. Urr you awright?"