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 made you in the sand with trembling hands,
and waited for the tide to come.
And as he came crashing, we two sat laughing
at the world for finally giving in to our demands.  

New Zealand's rolling hills came rolling in after,
and we drifted off together, soaked in love and laughter.  
But when the Ocean dried, and childhood had died,
I spent years trying to make you again.
But your beauty was something that I couldn't capture.

It’s a celebration!
Balloons drift in the sky
with the quiet murmur
of a doctors wait room.  
Bent necks and fixed staring
eyes follow them faithfully.
It’s a celebration!
The skies completely cluttered.
It’s a celebration!

The over-kept yellow grass
itches my nose with change;
A new beginning? An end?
Or just an idea that'll deflate?
Without the skies distraction
We're free to tend our gardens,
To celebrate worldly wins,
and love our languishing mother.
"Here's to you Mother! ":

The last words the sky did mutter.

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.

Arrogant in faith and blind in sin,
Virtue without and hatred within,
Flavourless in taste and foulness in rhyming.
Crude in diction and metre-less in timing.
Headless in form and weightless in meaning.
They never sleep, they stay awake ( half heartedly dreaming).
Where have the poets gone?

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.

Little china baby cracks in my grasp.
Eyes bulge as her beauty brakes
off into little pieces falling softer than rain.
Sweetly striking the floor, they brake off
into more
              broken
                          little
                                pieces.  
But still she stares in soft defiance.
Her harmlessness cuts right through me.
It curdles as I swallow it. It swells
in my stomach until all I can do
is throw her down and watch her smash.

But now she’s a thousand times more:
An army of broken beauty
that I can’t seem to bare to see.
So I gather every single last bit of her.
She cuts my hands as I pick her up.
I lay her out on the table
and try and make her whole again.
But of course I fail, I always do.
I guess I was never enough to hold
her close without breaking us both.

Ten a day. It was the classy way
to **** ones self.
Swords and pens, pens and swords.
Let out the smoke- it’s quiet grey
Presence only whispers bad health.  

So entranced by it's swirling movement.
I forget what it might be doing-
Or not doing.
Whichever way the ash settles,
That way my health will be ensuing .

I’ve grown tired of worrying now-
Heard all the caution the doctor spouts.
See my life is tied to this ashtray;

It’s full of little doubts.

Fingers worked to the bone
drip blood onto the work they are crafting.
He slaves here alone,
but to the rest of the world is acting;
painting his life as one of absurd peaks
and bottomless, dark troughs;
he makes tumours out of modern migraines;
emphysema out of ordinary coughs.

"Play the part or it will play you."
The life of the private celebrity.
Do not wish for attention, I pray you,
for it holds within it no tortured sincerity.
Instead, it holds a hollow hatred
for everything you never did become;
And then your parade fades
and becomes your kingdom come.

There is no sweet swan song
to they who have fallen from the light.
No cry, no gasp, no bell, no gong.
Just like the day, they are consumed by the night.
It’s silent creeping, or it’s sudden fall
all but chokes them dead.
Then it ***** them where they lay.
Mouth gagged, legs willingly spread.  

Private People Should Not Seek Her Attention.

Go on and write, if write you must.
But you're words are hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.
Talk of today, of yesterday, of tomorrow.
Talk of frailty, of failure, of innocence and lust.  
They are all hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.

Go on and write, if writing will heal.
But you're words are whispers,
and not one can I begin to feel,
breathing down my ears and standing my hairs.
They are hollow, pitiful, and unreal.  
Go on and write, and see if I ******* care.

blood thin. her arm was at ease,
but cooked in her mind were beings like fleas.  
They only grew fowler, more putrid with the heat.  
she only grew weaker as you do in defeat.
well when you accept it anyway,
Ive known a thing or two about it
but she couldn’t hear me through curses she was shouting.
I guess that was the hardest thing:
My mind would keep guessing
as the fleas were surfacing.  

So thats why I put her at ease.
For her head was for bed,  so take her now please.
My own head is sweating, I need her still and to sleep.
So take her now please, before they burrow deep.

I took my devils out,
And I broke their hearts.
I took them out dinner
just to watch the starve.

I laid upon that table:
Angst, ego and every blue.
Saliva ran like it was fatal;
they thought the feast would soon ensue.

" Heres my head", I calmly said.
" My heart's yours as well".
Then on each I calmly fed,
as they spun back down to hell.

" Feast on Your Beasts"

He reappeared(that clock headed old man),
With a smile that warmed my heart glad.
"There's only one difference between
a madman and me. I am not mad. "
I chuckled then said" prove it if you can" .  

He  vanished a step later, in a cloud;

Proving himself, and proving me the mad one.
He is the shores, I'm just a visitor.
He splits beneath me now:
The sky calls out to the sinister:
“ Give me your head( a sincere solemn vow).

The sky changed from blue to green.
I repeated his words, with nothing to add:
"There is only one difference between
a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane.
I know I am mad."

Today:
My heads a little cloudy.
Don't think it will rain though.

P.  Why must you waste your time with petty quarrels
    just to hold up with hollow pride, your worthless laurels?
    Arrogant in faith, and blind in sin.
    Virtue without an hatred within.
    Your youthfulness is bold, but equally unlearned.  
    Love you've never possessed, and only ever yearned.
    Tell me now, tell me how you are the fix?
    Show me that you are more than a sad bag of tricks.

C.   Shut it ya ****.

she twisted her hip as she fell, so too slipped into fit
she was screaming on the floor at the end of her wits.
This Rage, played with her split ways, each day took her deeper in her descent.
chemical imbalance they labelled the case- no intent for repent.
Because No one knew what the ******* doctor meant.

Has she really lost it? crossed the point of torment to torture, as her joints
were frosted. Honest, she talked like with her words but different voices .
And sometimes neither, she just lay there making noises.

And it’s pointless to try and help, or try and tell her that i know any better
all i can do is give her a skelp. But when the sharp points come out to play  
she turns noiseless, and stares blankly like something behind them is poisonous. sometimes she even smiles like all the while she’s been enjoying this.
A ploy amidst mania? caving her brain. so I hit her over the head and quickly cleaned up the stains.

she lay there like road ****- slain.  
But it was easier to watch her this way- quietly sleeping outside of her pain.

When she came back around, resounding relief inflated my chest.
For the last five minutes I had barely taken a single breath. Too consumed
with the thought that I’d just stolen her last. I laughed till it passed, then
resumed my calm as I asked:

"Do you want to be here?
Its hurting me to ask.
Do you want to be here? “

She spoke and was already belonging to the past.

The crowd howls as Simon Cowell
is shaved by old Philip Schofield.
But at the end of the act it’s thumbs down,
and so of course it’s off with their sad heads.  

Hunt for another missing child.
The family is underwhelmed by turnout.
Everyone sits comfortably on couches,
and sheds the occasional wee tear.  

Man shaves in the morning
and has coffee then back to bed.
Everyone sits on the edge of their seats.
The reviews speak of the miracle.

From a window on the third floor of an old abandoned brick building, I would smoke till my lungs felt near to collapsing. I went on my own, and I told no one of it: not my friends nor my family, nor any passing creature. I would sit there from when the sun first started to die until the cloak of night had fallen and enveloped the city, and the lights ( those maddening lights) would set the black fabric ablaze in the sky. They danced like ash eagerly above a fire, and promised such heat and hope; and my city needed hope, as gas filled girls and powdery boys had lost their way, covered in glitter and thinking they would sparkle forever. I shined less brightly myself, but I knew that would one day be my blessing.

One night, in the middle of Winters grasp, I set off home through my cheap shiny city, and I couldn’t shake the ache in my chest; It could have been the twenty snout I had just rattled into my lungs, but the pain was in my head too: My head and my heart were talking with the solemnity of a wake. I walked till I seen the the old granary that lay helplessly, then half bulldozed into the ground. Such beautiful, strong and defiant brick was to make way for glistening plastic houses that seemed more designed for mannequins and letting agents than human beings of Glasgow.  And the clyde seemed to twist in the turmoil of agony as it too watched the tearing of it’s town.  

So I set off, with my chest growing heavier, and feeling my will collapse until I reached the bank of the river, stripped off and jumped in…We’ve drifted off together ever since.  

Twenty years later, and I live in the penthouse atop the plastic mountain that hangs grotesquely over the sickly clyde. It’s the price I have to pay to be close to my love- I wouldn’t blame you for thinking my love to be the river, for it is in many ways, but I am referring to my fiancé Milly, who’s parents own properties all over the city and were very insistent that we live in a good area and a good house, which of course stripped my mannish integrity to zilch.  Milly is warm, understanding and organically beautiful. She puts up with my endless wandering and lack of love for anything new, brushing it aside with a smile, and is always there to carry me.

The day I asked her to Marry me, I took her to the spot we had first met: The banks of the river where I was lurking like a little creep  scrawling angst-filled and childish poetry, and she was walking home from a night of glitter and ecstasy.  We chatted for ours that night, and she dared me to jump into the river. I did and she followed. And the day I asked her to marry me she cried yes and then took the ring from my hands and threw it into the river.

And we've drifted ever since.

Be mindful, but don’t fixate
Be outspoken, but diffident.
Be a teacher, but don’t berate
Be yourself, but don’t be different.  

You’re free to talk till your tongue ties,
If you don’t mind the clamour of shushes.

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.

I found her again;  she was weeping snow
into the gaping mouth below.
Our very fabric was weeping too.
From the top of it's tooth I sat there drawing.
Then:
I awoke with my pen ( what manic scrawling).

When you find yourself lost,
take them home, tuck them in,
and watch them drift off to sleep.
If they struggles then sing,
or read, or just comfort
them with words of love.
Often we run away
from our true selves because
we do nothing but throw hate,
beat them down, and bury them
under ****** torment
that twists into grotesque
and dark acts of malice.
I’ve beaten myself so
badly before that I
found him laying with tubes
rigged to machines that just
barely kept him alive, and
I tell you, it's taken
years for him to forgive
me, or even look me
in the eye. He would just
avoid my gaze from the
otherside of the mirror.
Sometimes he would even
turn and run away in
to some fading idea,
some place where he could be
alone.
Alone without me.

The patient clock sits ticking on the wall.
I half expect him to wink and then fall
onto the ground and expose his illusion:
his time stays still, its the object that does the movin’.
But he winks, and stays just where is.

I hear ticking as I’m followed down the road.
Surely that can’t be from my abode?
Surely it’s just an episode, a trick of mind?
A confidence trickster sneaking up behind?
Someone to make me doubt my sense

Or a glitch in time in a world ill designed?

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.

Spill. Spill. Wilfully ill.
Thrills till we're full with our fill.
****. ****. Skilfully drill
A hole in the day for the chill.

Angst! quit wasting whats left.
You're not falling through time.
What you are talking of is theft.
We cant take that amount in our
Chest. I stress. Please get some rest.

What's to be when you awake?
A sad key on the piano?
Or a distressingly violent shake?
Or just another soul,
one which some lord would gladly take?  

Even sleep seems too steep a' hill
one which I dare say he will fall down.
I tried to keep him from his will,
Cause in his freedom he will all drown.

Oh, the wave of insincere condolence
that drowns the tragedy of a heroes true legacy.
Why don’t you play a record and stop your whining?
Why don’t you read rather than reach for the tissues
to wipe your forced, phoney tears?
You’re not fooling me. You haven’t even fooled yourselves.
Did parading your opinion like a ****** with his **** out
really gratify your ego as much as you hoped,
or did it just show you to be more full of **** than
a politician stuffed full of laxative with a sewn shut *******?
But what do I know?
I’m the kind of guy that writes about you.

I thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
I was so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
I thought I was sick;
I was so certain.

You, my remedy,
my unwavering and unjaded ear.
You were everything:
A world to which I could just disappear,
and a ditch to which you would not let me steer.
You, my remedy,
you were my everything.

They thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
They were so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
They thought I was sick;
They were so certain.

The two takers took to the start, their heads grew
with  the fumes and they thought themselves smart.
But She was harmless, too  heartless and headless to start with,
soon one was consumed and then thereafter parted.
Your Patience is a waste of your time
he kept reminding her, but it was fine to draw lines
as long as they weren't defining her. “ cut a couple
more, the floors couldn't be shinier. And do us a dance  
its my man’s first time here.”  

“I wanna make a show out of this”, “ a sick game”,
A fowl minded sin for men that know no shame.
the praying sick side of a man that cant be tamed.  
“After all she’s mine, only my mind can be blamed. “

I drew the lines a week ago today: It’s “hideous” and  
riddled some will even try and say of it
But My mind seems to sway very little on this day.
And I wont apologies for how he likes to play.

these straight lines will leave you mindless.
They’ll wind you up on the other side of kindness,
one too many times to wanna find it.

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.

“ Give me it all” said the old blurring wall,
as I struggled to think why not.
We seem to have ****** it again lads, call
another hour off and push on till it’s had.
“ Have it.” “Have wit.” “ Have it.” said the wall.
His voice couldn’t be mine, yet it was too close to call,
So I called out and asked for his name;
“ Its me” “ Its you”, we’re the all in wall.  

“ We’re the all in wall,
  We’re all in the wall,
  We’re the in, all wall
  In the wall, we’re in
  The wall we’re all in,
  The wall we’re in, all
  The we’re all in wall.”

Then I really hit the wall,
First with my hands, then my head.
So I decided that it was time,
and willed the couch into a bed.  
"Ahh sleep, carry me off,
I would like to rest before Aurora calls."
“ I could chatter till you fall asleep”,
                   said the old crackling walls.    

Gone, he goes, going mad.
“ I’m not going mad, Ive been there and back.
  I don’t want to go. I don’t have what I had.”
Gone, he goes, going mad.
“ Well maybe I’ll run. Then I won’t be going anywhere”.
Off he goes, gone, going mad.  

He runs through the old wall, from the bad to the bad.

Now that the quiet talks, everything else shuts the **** up. He lines them up against the wall, from the short to the tall, and to each barks a question, “ Right! unless you want cut up like the ******* tension, you better listen here. I don’t mind letting you’s make your noise, as long as you do it with care. It needs to mean something. If you’s clutter this beautiful place with incessant moaning and ******* techno 24/7, then I’m going be sticking the ******* boot in some *****”. Heads stay bowed in the line. No words. No Spines. And the quiet starts gutting himself laughing.

Now that the quiet laughs, the room’s confusion grows; smiles appear on some faces, nervously trying to gage the situation.  The shortest man stands as tall as he can, clears his throat and politely asks “ Are you *******, or were we actually annoying you with our noise?”. “ Did I say you could say you could open that ******* pathetic we gob”, he barks back, and then begins gutting himself once again. “ Ahaha, naw mate, don’t worry yersel’, I’m only winding ye’s up”.  Then he walks out the room, promising he’ll be back in a bit, with a chuckle.

Soon the spiders will be home.
I feel the tingling on my spine.
Already we have Stockholm syndrome.
Though we couldn’t pick them from a line.
We’re caught, and we love it.
All our thoughts are theirs:
our breakfast, our break-ups, our cares,
Our warm blood, our mucous, our hairs.
We’re caught, and we love it.  

I hear the spiders coming now.
I feel a quaking in my chest.  
To them I will make a pure vow:
I’ll never look away; I’ll never rest.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.
I’ll be their willing prey.
When they feast one me, I will lay.
I won’t try to wriggle away.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.

" And I’ll profit all the while”

Justice sits, counting white rock on her scales.
Judging the minds of a wasted generation.
“ Throw the addicts in a suffocating jail.
Film them, to scare others across the nations."
Watch their eyes spin spirals, biting on their nails;
Watch cruelty triumph, as innocence fails.
Watch a world being beaten, as order prevails.  
Let us feast and sniff our own damnation.

Sloppy cotton- rotten rollers rolling Autumn
into Winters bottom.
Forgotten Summer- runners run wearing hats
with bobbles on them.

Gotten tired of talking? I'm walking winter
back into the sea, you see Springs' a knockin'.
And we'll follow him to Summer even if he
thinks we're stalking.

All for two weeks! What a cheek the wee **** has

Eyes fixed on a flickering screen.
Yesterday’s dinner caking itself to the plate.
Sheets itching to get off the mattress
all while you lay there in your filth.
The air of stale sweat and fast food
no longer itches your nose or nauseates.
Instead, it’s aroma seduces you
into staying here another hour.
Open the window for some air?
No, that would ruin the illusion.
Stay here until there’s nothing else to do;
until the shops are shut and your friends are asleep
and the whole world is sleeping with them.
Stay here until the air runs out
with eyes fixed on a flickering screen.

And I think he's taken my wallet too.

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.

The moon warns me with a stern and cold stare,
" Don't go talking to her rivers anymore".
But the stars form her body, then strip bare.
Sweet science weeps, as the universe unfolds,
and wee wash up on consciouses shore.  

The angel lays with her wings tied to the ground,
laughing with a lustful and lingering gaze.
"You can twist me, or keep me here bound.
I'm just a shadow that you chase around.
Come spiral with me in consciouses plays."

We fell through the clock as time shattered.
I caught a minute to catch her.
                      Then
the minutes caught me.
Now I'm captured, asleep, and adrift at sea.

She is part mountain, part skyline and sea.
Not all will see here. But she shines clear for me.

There’s a place in the corner of my eye that is only for me. It’s cluttered, a real mess, with things piled on top of each other precariously.  As much as I try and ignore it it is always there lurking reminding me of things to do, things I haven’t and things I will never do. And this corner is growing, taking over my sight;

Pretty soon I’ll be blinded by my yesterdays, my fears, my dreams and my love.

But at least one eye will be kept clear and I will try and see clearly through it. Until the yesterdays become today, my fears appear real, my dreams drown and my love succumbs to pettiness- tainted by green.

Without sight I’ll soar through darkness; spinning, twisting and evolving my other senses. Melody will paint my memories to keep me pushing through my plight, Hair pricking soft fingers will flood my head with colours.

But that fowl stench will linger. The cluttered abandoned mess doesn’t rest in its decomposition. It will invade my other senses until my false expectations appear real.

Theres a man who walks around with a hole in his head( right through); You can see whats in front from behind him and whats behind him from in front. Sometimes I follow him so I can see whats up ahead. Funny thing is, he never turns to look as if he's being followed; I always turn and look, more often than not no ones there, but when there is someone there I can feel them, their stare burning into the back of my napper, he just carries on blissful.
One time I tapped his shoulder then darted ahead, that was the first time I'd had a look at what was behind. I stared right down the middle and right on through to the young school girl skipping behind him, then I quickly paced off to avoid arousing suspicion that I was in any way mocking his condition. Anyway, he caught up with me and passed me with a " How'd you do, young man?, to which I nodded nervously, then followed him further through the city.
We reached kelvin bridge, where he stopped about six feet ahead of me and sighed full heartedly, I almost felt the wind come out of him. He turned to me and winked, and then began laughing like a manic would prey, " Ohh ** ** **. Ohh you don't see it! Neither do I?" he either asked our told me, " but it's all ******* there, every last ******* bit: The ******'s carpet, the first time mothers first *** after quitting, the wheeler's turning, the dealers loot, its all ******* there, and its all us that see it". I looked over to see the soft crashes of the river below, the whispering breath of the wind shifting the old tree's around the banks, and thought " What the **** are you talking about?"

Another broken bottom of a bottle
to slip through, cutting myself as I do.
It takes a lot of effort, full throttle
I kick and squeeze myself down the neck,
just to plummet to the bottom and through,
again and again until my body is wreck.

I am the wrecks of the sea & the blood of the land.
I am the bottomless bottom & the outstretched hand.  

And this- this drenched, drab mess of language -
is the product of my mind and a waste of your time.

What it is is this, and only this it truly is:  

Nothing again, that's the start and that is the end.

Come meet me when today blurs with tomorrow
in the house with no way to tell the time.
Come with a present that no one will want,
and a kiss that feels more like an insult.
We’ll laugh like we’re happy,
We’ll cry like we are sad.  
We’ll sing the words of songs we’ve never heard.
We’ll tell the stories of people we’ve never met.
Just please don’t be late.

This time, this time

it doesn’t feel like he’s mine.

This time, this time

he walks without a spine.

Straight through your mind

to tangle thoughts into winds.  



This time this time

it doesn’t feel like he’s mine.

This time, this time

he walks without a spine.

Straight through your mind

to tangle thoughts into winds



and as you heartbeat falls behind

you find he’s ticking on without a care.

He’s everywhere, anything and many

things even I  wouldn’t dare to dream of.



Each is lost to his taking

Even when clocks hands

are braking or the earth is shaking.

Our fathers rather impatient.



And in that spirit I’m not waiting



To Catch And To **** Time.



Some will follow the projections

of a hollow blue light.

Others run without direction-

off into the black night.  



To catch and to **** time,

Detach his head,

rip out his spine

sending him wandering

as clueless as us.



Whats next? Whats up ahead?

Whats round the bend?

Have I got another minute

or is there just a second to lend.

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.

The crowd moves without murmurs.
You don’t know when it started.
But you remember the day
you packed your bags and joined them.

The crowd moves without murmurs.
No one knows where to anymore,
they remember or misremember
old tales of the light that had opened up in the sky.

The crowd moves without murmurs
like cattle being led to their slaughter;
a beautiful and glorious death awaits.
Old tales of the light set to swallow us one by one.

Someone starts speaking:
‘ I’m sick of waiting in line for this.’
‘ It’s a sham’
‘ It’s a heaven you blasphemous fools’
‘ It’s a sham. Wake up. You’re living in darkness.’

The crowd moves on, as conversations break off.
Some break off into different directions.
Most continue to wait in line, moving slowly.
You don’t know which way to go.

She was screaming her quietest kept secrets.
Letting the wind whisk them off to abandoned retreats
with no second thought, she was knotted to the ground.
So she kept on yelling
Just for the company of the echoes in the sound.  

After days of solitude, your own voice becomes a stranger.
Sometimes she believed that there was someone there mimicking her.
Mocking, and revelling in her misery.  But a cynic’s fair voice quietly
told her they were history.  
Now in the air, with no torment they exist blissfully.  

She emptied her chest as she cried back at them:  
"Why can’t I rest,  or at least be condemned? “
It replied with a tone to unravel her to the bone.
You are nothing.
An afterthought, but from which a whole idea will have grown.

Here are some words.
No
      Need
               To
                    Say
                            More
Some need say more.
Here
         are
             no
                  words.
No need to say,
Some
        Words
                   are
                       Here.
Some words need to say more here. Here are some more words to say

A red river runs with me- through the night
  and the heart of the city. “Burst the banks!”,
I yell but his movements stay slight.
Bobbing along, to the moon we give thanks,
for it’s filled their minds with the expectance of fright.
The wrong time bends its way toward the right.
Everything else bends too, to fill in the blanks.
  We’re starting to spill over. The flood comes tonight.  
The blood that I run with will stain your hands,
The river will coarse through young and old veins.
But nature doesn’t come calling out any demands,
She moves us-sweeping and cleaning up mans stains.  
Times hands are broken. Your guess is as good as mine.
Each horizon I’ve arrived at, they always move the line.  

I fell into the river from a childhood nightmare-
And sometimes I fall back home in the day.
But each place is the same- Scarily rare.
You can blame it on pixies or blame Gray-
Or any kind of thing that makes a young mind aware.
But I’ve laid my thoughts out and stripped them bare.
Pens cruel ******* of what I called real
taught me not to get caught when ever I steal.  
   I borrow thoughts that tie me in tight knots
as I try stitch them into a portrait of a woman.  
But they always twist into fantasies plots
just to burn out in the fires they were fuming.  
So hear I drift alone in a thick and red river,
Creeping with the wind and the moon as we shiver.  

At one point, a wholly spun world now ago,
were days when this river bread new life.
It worked mens hands to the bone to grow
family and cloth each beautiful wife.
Helped purpose find its way to the heart
of each voice that was silence by a no.
The river shares snippets of his life with me.
Speaks a a story that my eyes can see.  
    He told me his plans to wash away the old,
now that those in high places think they’re above-
He floods the ground as this story is told,  
Sweeping up lost voices and spirits in love.
The river has given us life, like so many before,
one day he will whisk us off to a warmer shore.  

There are thousands deep under his water,
and some who float just above his open lips.  
With the love like a fathers for his only daughter,
he lets us drink his life but only in sips.
For greed can so often father slaughter.
It created hate in nature when it caught ‘er.  
Tore her apart, one sin after another.
Then sent us cutting out hearts- brother from brother.  
          We surge through the cities old and cold veins,
collecting each drifter lost in a dark way.
With the eyes of the pretty, the logicals brains
and the patience of listeners, we sway
with his rhythms and with no need to pray.
We’ll sway till the morning of a red skied day.  

     “ When now was never we dreamt of forever,
   of days shivering madly down this old cities river”

Through the black night, we sang these words of hope.
Thought one day we’d wash up in our old city
and walk on its streets and it’d be able to cope.  
To see it from the bottom and marvel at its scope.
Not to just walk and think “Oh its Sucha' pity”.
Those days when concrete handed me rope
and pointed me out toward tree’s on the horizon
are over. The grounds now are on the risin’.  
           Like hell being filled to its level,
we drowned demons and free’d souls.
But only for a second could we revel,
for our buildings were built without holes.  
And those finely suited sit their grinning,
Our old structures seem to have saved them.

“ We drowned in the waters we were swimming,
But were the only ones who ever had braved them”