Bugs in the mug by my bed again.
Two of them, one following the other
round and round the other day’s dried coffee.
**** it; it’s an ashtray now.
Poor we ******* begin to panic
switching directions as the ash falls.
Why does it feel so heavenly?
I’m a god and this is my plague.
I used to drown them and pour them down the sink.
I’d watch them swirl helpless in the spiral.
I can’t tell you why,
but it always made facing the day that bit easier.
No matter what weather you’d hurl at me
from wherever that kingdom of yours is,
I could find solace in the fact I’m man and not bug.  
But today I feel different.
Today I see their suffering, it’s not
washed away, swept under the carpet, out of sight and mind.
Today they are burning in front of my eyes.
I think, today, I’ll stay inside.

Patience has taken it’s time to consume me.
Awake, waking, drifting off in time taking
Hairs from my arm as the hands are braking.
The broken moment entombs me.

wrapped in a fraction of a second.
Achieve consciousness, a flooding
collection of memories and senses.
Just to break back to start at the ending.

Crashing against.

                              Re-living life over
and over. And over again. Fence me
to myself, to forget and remember.
For only a fraction of a second

In my mind its September.  

                               'Times on it’s
ridden race again’ say's Rabbie .
But I think it’s either stuck or turned
Madly.

You stick in my throat like something I long to say
and send a sickness sinking through me.

Then I gulp, gargle and rinse you down
my gullet like I used to do with my carrots.  

With nothing you fill me so full I could burst.
But nothing ever happens; nothing at all.

Colours drain from everything around me
as If they’ve gotten bored of trying.

Night turns in, morning falls back asleep,
and each moment moans like a teenager.  

But I still remember her perfume,
though it’s fading like a car over the hill.

I still remember the backcourts
when boredom used to bang and bounce a ball.

I still remember the scraped knees,
the first drink, the first joint, the first stolen kiss.

I still remember it all.

The memories jump start me into action.
And then I look at the clock.

And you remind me that it’s too late,
and that we will try again tomorrow.

Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon:
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory.
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
and when I finally get there,
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.  

But time as it take takes my passion too.
I watch my skin thin, and my hairs all grey.
Decay of the body and soul, but never mind,
as the horizon torments me as she shines.
Maybe when I pass I’ll be another
atrocity stuck on that old horizon,
beckoning fool hearted adventurers
to discover the truth of these waves.
We’ll threaten but never bring the disaster.
We’ll tempt, We’ll deceive, We’ll do nothing.

We'll watch them stumble, fall and give up.
And as each one does each one becomes stuck.  
Disappointment is the air with which they last breathe.  
A metallic taste is on the tongue of the next youngster to leave.

Boundless boredom surrounds me here at home,
and so I set out
through a sleeping town that's all mine to roam.  
From scarred lungs I shout:
Come out! Come Out, if you've got the bottle.
But in silence I doubt,
if there's reason to my little waddle.

Then the sky gobbles and swallows us up whole.
A whole town dead, because of my little stroll.
Enveloped in her canvas, the night soothes
as it ***** us deeper, darker inside.
Ecstasy and fright haunt us as we loose
ourselves wandering witless for a place to hide.  
And ecstasy and fright make us oh so quick to confide.

I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,
                                 and it's hurting my health.
I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,  
                                 and
                                        we've got nothing else.

Lip-syncing hymns in the front row of a funeral.

Appearances are key.

Pinch nose for tears as the sighs swell and fill the room.

Appearances are key.

Lift your glass to the lost and try and mask your jealousy.

Appearances are key.

Say something that sounds from the heart but's really from a card.

Appearances are key

We hadn’t spoken.
A silence, birthed from misery,
choked us until
we were Voiceless
and  spent our time
drifting apart as twigs
on a bullying sea.
Thoughts like echoes
bouncing between church walls
rattled around my mind:

“ If I called, would it be the same?”

“ If I ran to her, would she open her arms?”

It isn’t the same.
How could it be?
We’ve both changed so much.

New nothings are here,
and nothing will ever be the same.
But there’s no reason to fear
that animal coming to maim
you, with it’s sharp drooling teeth.
Sit back, and marvel at the beast.
Let him take you down,
and when he does let him feast.
There’s no reason to fear,
For the new nothings are here.

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.

Now this is the saddest sight to see:
a man lying face down and sobbing
into the earth, and the earth sobbing too,
as the sky bursts open and weeps along
with them.

And yet here I stand, looking on dry eyed.

Such crude and foul filth fills the minds of us,
all of us, no pure, sweet angels exist.
Beneath the surface- all that we ever discuss-
and amidst the house shrouded in mist
Is where thoughts leak out like a cuts soaking pus,
Where wrong bends to right and wrongly persists,
Where woman are stripped and men are whipped,
Where colours are scratched off and blood runs from fists,
Where truth is only true until someone twists
it like a noose for a neck for their unassuming victim.

This is what we live in- A house with a thousand ceilings.
This is why some give in- Above them another man is kneeling.

And when their old ceiling becomes their floor,
they pour pennies down through the cracks
and laugh at those scrambling down below.  
They watch them feel the walls for a door,
making smug remarks at the class each lacks:
“ Not a single painting or books in a row.
How on earth can they expect their riches to grow”.
But its not about how you know it, you know.
It’s not about having any fine things to show.
It’s natural persistence- the breeze and the rivers flow.

To climb the construction in which you have been confined,
is to fall for a foolish notion- a Fugazi another man designed.

I was born in it’s basement, among crowds
and foul, rotten breath. Flesh was scratched
from our backs as we were standing bowed,
they left some shoulders with their heads detached.
But I never fought to the top or leaped,
Never fought back in any fight I was matched.
I crawled, sickly on the splitting wood floor,
in search of what lay behind an old closed door.  
It took a lifetime time for me to find,  
but it lay there wide open with sky falling behind.

Our Mothers beauty lay within our Fathers patient arms,
and I ran to greet them while the house sounded it’s alarms.

His hands did not shake, her sea’s didn't boil.
But that old building now lays deep beneath their soil.

These hollow voices haunt my head space.
Following me room to room, place to place,
thought to thought till I wear them on my face.
I'll take down the mirrors, I'll paint windows
black. I can't see them dressed in my clothes.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
We've walked this walk before. It's harmless.
Let us wonder off now. We can return to calmness
once we've stepped past our farthest darkness.
What we find in this mind, you and I will share.
Lets take one together, and of each other take care.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
You're too late. You're too late. You're too late to see
the voices that are walking all over you and me,
Through and throughout, shouting " This life is free".
You can't come walking with us.  You'll get lost.
And I'm afraid I am not willing to pay that cost.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
The ground snaps, and they all fade as they fall.
For no windows or mirrors can ramble on and on like a wall.

I was a fireman and an action-man
when I was on my father’s knee.
I was a footballer and a fighter
when I walked through the school gates.
For a time I was a film star, a photographer,
an artist, a famous poet wooing woman.
Then I was a politician, a prisoner, a puppeteer,
a mad-man, a psychiatrist, a nurse.
Now I’m wondering who I am
and what that man should be.

The last bark scares off the little kitties.
The full picture broke into little bitties’.
The horizon fell and crashed upon the cities.
The best friend of man is tired oh his cliche.
But feed him man does. Need him man does.
Him needs mans love. Man’s love needs him.
For he is without  sin while we try play to to win.
We are flawed, He is pawed and simple in step.
Oh the past! Is it tense?
Does the last laugh hold suspense.
Does the fat lady return home once she has sang above us?  
Push came and shoved us. God came down from above us.
But the dog lay still, breath soon did escape, never to return.  
I wonder if amongst this silly feeling I have a lesson to learn.

I don't mind hearing voices from time to time, for they keep me company in lonely hours. They never say anything harsh, hate filled or humiliating, they just chatter on while I sit here in silence watching the paint dry- thats not a metaphor or anything, I literally did paint the walls red this morning. I don't think I've don a very good job though, because I see little devils in the sloppy brushwork; They do hurt, throw hate and humiliate me.

I really need to put on a second coat, but I'm tired and the voices aren't telling me to move yet. I'll wait for their command, or for the devils to walk up and off the wall. Oh boy, then I'll have some real company. A crowd some would say.

An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been sitting there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There is some money in my leather wallet.
But there's a blockade at my door,
Therefore I do not leave the house anymore.

So, I've been taking my coffee black.

The sky was on his side, lay’n with his eyes closed.  
So I lay down a little while longer.
She spoke, then vanished, then laughed and posed,
as shifts under foot were getting stronger.

Then he walked in with a clock on his head,
and a parade of actors I could’t place
to a role. Some, by now, were surely dead.
Then the skin came loose from everyones face.

She was back in my arms a moment later,
with a smile that shattered like glass.
Then the crash:
                        There
                     we        lay,
broken
in our euphoria.

I tried to stay there, but there’s always changing here.

Im pulling the better version of myself
from out beneath the wreckage.
He was stuck in the wall until It fell
and crumbled with its message:

“ We-Dream-Till-Wake”

For years I’d stared at it knowing
it was bleak and dark presage.
I thought I knew, and knew too well,
so I never let my mind start guessing:

“ Maybe this is a lesson? Maybe a problem?”

But I just carried on through, stayed
true to myself with an honest belief
that within you and me was purpose,
and to my noisy head it gave some relief.

But at times I could hardly breathe;
This world can choke you against the wall,
It can crush you as you are forced to
hold its weight while in its circles you crawl,

And when you fall and your on your knees
and your beliefs are like bubbles popping,
And when your heart beats through your
chest like its building up to stopping,

And when your minds been abandoned
and your thoughts are left and rotting,
and every rush of blood feels thick
and visceral like its gone stuck and clotting,

Thats when that voice whispers in your
ear and quietly begins his plotting:

“  Let me take you from this fallen world
   and fall just that little bit further.
   Give in to sin, give in to deciet, give in to
   me- to be free is to be a server.
   You were not meant for truth or virtue,
   You were not meant to be a studious learner,
   You were meant to walk with chains.
   You were meant to accept this pain”

And I swear I started listening intently
to this charming and confident speaker.  
His words like a breeze breathing gently
through my busy head to make it weaker.  

I’d never lived in fear of life or in fear of the reaper
but I feared persisting, existing in this torment.  
My head often heats in a hopeless hollow fever
And I needed an escape, to obey and lay dormant

beneath her- My love and long lost reason,
my absolute zero in a world I couldn’t figure.
But I couldn’t even remember the soft curves
of her face, they would always twist and disfigure,

Her skin would slide off her bones, her eyes
would sink into her head to avoid my stare.
I was turning her lakes into pools of oil,
making twisted fantasies out of her every prayer.

I didn’t belong with her anymore, I was sick.
I couldn't turn moments int marvels for her,
I couldn’t find any beauty in our spinning,
All I could see was decay as we would blur,

All I could see were devils swimming in my
ageing reflections jaded and sad eyes.
All I could feel was myself slowly sinking,
All I could hear was my faiths dying drowned cries.

All I could smell was our peoples flesh burning,
and thats when I really started learning:

There is no Angel that will lift me from here,
Nor is there a devil thats dragging me down.
What pushes me under is my own fear,
Heaven and Hell are in between both my ears.  

So I spun myself ten times to be free’d
from the prison in which I had built the bars.
I rose from the soils of my love and land,
to smell freshly cut grass and gaze at stars,

I blinded myself looking on the bright side
of this. Now I cant look at anything the same.
You see pretending for the sake of pride
isn't bliss, it's ignorance to avoid a shift of blame.  

Aren't you the one who said:
" Take a minute. Take two. Anymore and it's on you"

Well I've sat on my tongue for two days
trying to think of different ways to say this.
And it's now aimless
Cause you're not there at all.

With sleep I fell and fell deeply too.
Into his withering meadows and among rationality.
Where those who are living have lost all vitality.
Limbless are some, some thoughtless too,
Never had a dream yet mine they walk through
Painting disbelief with their faces: I look to the sky
But my eyes are drawn to a castle at the end of my view-
Far off, far from the far out margins of mind.
      I walk with a beat, leaving the limbless behind,
I walk in his circle until it loses its point.
I fall, crawling around each and every wind.  
Until I feel time grabbing a hold of my knee joint.
I try and kick back- along the ground my teeth grind.
Then I break back untouched, but still trapped in my mind.  

I awake again, toothless and out-worn. A
broken spirit, hoping without it. Spinning madly.
Amidst my spin I see her arms, into watch I do fall gladly.
But being without time, I miss the perfect second.
And I awake again before the castle, its sombre music
somehow whispers as it calmly beacons.  
           Without wit or a winding tongue, I alone embark
up the hill as the songs grow louder in my head.
I pass a ‘laughing dead” as it rolls off into the night. Dark
is the blanket that descends on my plight. Its fed
by fear, but I have nothing but spite.
So I carry on alone, and with myself begin to fight.


“ I dare you to pass me. You’re a coward.
You’re a weak little druggy,  who’s ego empowers
him to believe that it is he who should belong at the top.
I’ll leave you to rot. Remove your mind from its shop.
I’m telling you stop. Turn round. And awake.
Or you can die here, while in sleep you but shake”

Waiting can be a madman clawing his own skin.
It can be drying paint, dying libido, or crying dogs
at the window watching a car roll off.
Sometimes waiting is just a phone that never buzzes.

I’m still waiting.

Hunks of meat swinging and forced screaming,
I remember, would always do the trick.
Now it sends a hollow feeling rushing to nowhere.
Now I feel like I’m watching a reality show.

SOME SCENES ARE CREATED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.

This programme contains product placement.

The pair of air Nikes she keeps on while bent over.
The Maurice Lacroix watch he wears while spanking her.
It is a nice watch; they are nice trainers.
She is beautiful; he is handsome.

But, I’m still waiting.

The predictable ****** comes and goes.
The conclusion’s always the same.
It never used to bother me, the farce of it all.
It used to do the trick.

But, I’m still waiting.

The sleeping pill awoke,
     walked up the stairs
     and down my throat.
     From my stomach it spoke:

    " Sleep's the lie that wakes you.
   The Lord can & will soon take you. "

The conscience does creep when wake feels like sleep,
But dreams could have never appeared as such steep
     steep a hill as this woeful wander,
Past the dark caves of pity to where the sad fellow saunters.

With sleepless thought they wake there forever
In the coldest of knot tied apart and together.  

The hollow will follow someone else on this journey.
But we stepped so careless with our caution less selves.
Made a game out of the danger. Got going a wee tourney’  

Past the poets and swore we would return to their shelves.
So far out we fell of some kind of edge they swore disproven.  
Now Down past the devil our story meets us at it delves.

Welcome to the world that stays still as it does its movin’ .
We scribble on each others faces the reasons for our still.
Chill burns, time turns back and forth for the sake of doing.

Have you ever filled yourself much to full upon a fill?
Have you ever dreamed a different morning sun?
Well I found pity- she was sat at the bottom of’a hill.

I begged to bring her home but she had only just begun,
She wanted to hear my head in his bedroom stirring,
But with pity it collapsed him as he heard's sad song sung.

The hill looks less steep, less frightening from the bottom.
Conscious lost himself from me as I came tumbling down.
I could have sworn Id fallen like an apple from tree to turn rotten.  

Everyone who walks here, walks here with crown.

After you’ve fallen for that old foolish belief:
That we live In our heads. And in his head we sleep.
It starts to make our secrets just that bit harder to keep.

Even our dreams; Are they ours, or through each others can wee creep?

Can we quench our own thirst upon another’s tears?
Or is the empowerment bitter in its taste?  
So wastefully we throw words in exchange, but so
right it is do so? Who knows he who knows? I envy you so.
For him I went looking, for her I did too. Young pity
fell in and through my pockets, Now I’m lost and need you.
I need you to reveal where the conscious of it all wakes forever.
I need signs to come tumbling, I’ve scoured to long.
I’ve delved past the devil only to write a few songs.
I need reason and poetry, and logic that makes sense.
I need a future that doesn't make the past seem tense.  

Can I belong to a moment with this world as it spins off?
Or is the vanity in wanting to do so decrease my odds.
Well if I could stop that clock from clicking in my head,
I would,
but it proves much to fitting in it’s dark little room,
In which I’m consumed by a rambling of thoughts that stops.
Only to start to gambling with my will as it fills the ceiling to its top.
Now I could drown, or swim back to my life.
Out one room to another, back to baby being mothered.
Colour me yellow, I swam down again.
I’m afraid I can't keep from falling with little poetry in my descent.

Flex military muscles from across the water,
And ***** the shining rods of destruction.
We’ll sit amazed with our mouths open.  
You’ll have the world on its knees
With the mere threat of eruption.
We’ll sit amazed with our mouths open;
Half scared, half angry, half-halfheartedly opposing.
I feel like you'd like us to beg.

Hurt people hurt people.
So says the doctor.
Hurt people, Hurt people.
So says the patient.

Knowledge is powder running through fingers.
Knowledge is crushed by a card on the table.
Knowledge is stuck in your nose and it lingers;
each sting brings regret, and makes a mind unstable.
“ A little learning is dangerous thing”;  
A little smoke to make a fool feel able
to lick the dust up with the devil and sing:
“ Theres dust on the graves and ashes on the cradles"

Don’t mistake this feeling for true wisdom.
Don’t get caught lost in it’s smokey shroud;
for each thought is fleeting and their relevance is seldom.
Like this drab, mess of language said out loud.  
It’s a sober reflection, a warning to myself,
to tell the truth, and to think thorough and proud.
To shame the devil, not blame him for my health.  
To lift that heavy head that was bent over bowed,

And crack it open on the edge of that table.

Like and hour glass smashed and spilling,
this kind of learning seems a waste of time.  
But I can see the filth that had been filling
my head,  scattered out across each rhyme.

In my dreams there are screens playing dreams
And I sit with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
I sit, now, before the same hollow blue light typing it out:
I dream before a screen, I wake before one and I live in one.
The good old eight hours has been eaten by a box set,
and we like to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle, and a very real problem.  

In this screen there a dreams framed by screens.
I sit, now, with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
Tonight I will dream by its hollow blue light, watching it too.
I talk through a screen, I listen to one and taste it too.  
The good old imagination's been eaten by a box set,
and we link to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle and a very real problem.

Screen 1 ( The Sordid Sit-Com)

Ross and Rachel prepare a meal upon the floor;
The rest of the gang arrive and feed each other
with shaking hands. It all gets to much for the
director, and he gathers the knives and forks
his cast refused to use, and gently bleeds them.

( hahaha cries the canned laughter)

Dream 1 ( Mundane Madness)

I sit before a 20 foot laptop watching series 3
of a television show I have never and will ever enjoy.
There is nothing beside me, behind me, above me
but blinding white. And I sit fixated on my boredom
and the minutia of fictional lives. I reach out to ****

but fall down in laughter

They say writing it down
won't help.
And it don't help to down
pints of it.
And it don't help to spin it
helplessly.

This self-help selfishness
don't help.

1st lad-' Here mate, do you have a spare snout?'
2nd lad- ' Aye mate, nae bother'  
1st lad- ' You're a ******* life saver'

My brains trailing yesterday around.
Fragmented thoughts seem soft till they pound.
Carve the shape of monday out just to scare-
Then Retreat into the comfort of another day spare.

Sunday, sings softly when your sitting on the day before
But the counter price is costly when you push through
Mondays door.
Even if you steal tomorrow from today-  Monday you’ll always pay.

I thought that you thought that we think the same way.
So I’m thinking, if your thinking is the kind that can sway
to one side, then I’ll go to the other so that we can play.  

Recycled heads atop our thinning frames.
Recycling thoughts of the greats,
but don’t worry-noone remembers their names.
So we’ll shout till we wake them
and then we’ll pass on the blame.
Some will choose to swallow, others
spit when you try and force feed them their fame.

I think that you think that I’ve really overthought this.

I BELIEVE THAT YOU BELIEVE THAT I BELIEVE THAT WE BELIEVE

IN NOTHING

I set fire to the remains.
The stain still wont leave.
Two straight weeks on my knees scrubbing.
The stain still wont leave.

Its not all of it,
For the most part its more than clean.
But there is a corner.
A small crimson corner.

It's sitting there on my eye,
even when it is closed.
Even when I rub spices, sand and
the bleach from the bottle in my hands

It sits there like a sick joke.

Thoughts run, but are often unsure;
Tripping and slipping on their way.
They stray to sickness from what was pure.
And Black and white soon blends into grey.
Scents send the clocks hands back
as they track through a maze
of memories where clarity lacks.
They leave the host with a hollow gaze,
and their mind under constant attack.

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

I have given legs just before he steps, but I have forgotten to give him ground on which to stand. He plummets into the abyss.

I will try again.

I picked the pieces to put you together
From box on a shelf I’d forgotten to remember.  
I Stumbled upon you But was drawn too you
Like you were the dark and I was December.

You're real! You're Real!
I made you up.
You’re real. You’re real now
I’m mixed up.

A puzzle sat before me and only for me,
For I was the one who wanted make believe.
I put you together, thought it took me some time,
Four late night phone calls and 2 bottles of wine.

You're real! You're Real!
I made you up.
You’re real. You’re real now
I’m mixed up.

Under a tree atop a hill
we sat and gubbed a pill.
We split it down the middle
and sat drowning in the sun.
A pure bond, a cheap thrill,
we lifted weights by the ton.
Our chests empty, but love did fill
them and sent our minds on a run.
Summer climbed up our noses,
the sun shifted into many poses,
the red screamed out from the roses
until the day was done.

It swims in his eyes
without worry of me watching.
A kind of crazy spin stuck
like blood clotting. The rotting
space of a wasteland for a mind.
Where memories of people jump
      from the eyes they lie behind.  


I’m just trying to find a place to focus.
The locust leap from withered grasses-
hopeless. But land on greener pastures  
which denotes this time the enemy might
be closest.
         Closest, too close & under heavy dosage.  


No sign of sedation. Eyes boat racing.
Words flung from a tongue like first tasting
lust and embracing your own disgust. Chasing
thrills, gorge pills
                        By the bottle before replacing.


Crust flaking from wasting skin.
By eyes still wild, captivating with
a maddening spin.  
                           It can’t end.
If It didn’t begin.

It has no heart for adventure.
It runs on cold sludge and grey skies.
They used to say it was shifting
towards the mitey Atlantic;
carried on by the surge of the Clyde.  
But the industry stopped working,
and the city stopped it's moving.
It lays, sad and beaten on its side.
The Clyde is now lined by ******
plastic. Homes for mannequins,
and not the people of Glasgow.
So I throw myself in the old
sickly river, and drift, and drift away.

A rotten little written thought walks across and of my page before my eyes. As I am speaking to you now he walks with a whispering little shadow that mistakes his place and purpose,a cold and cowardly projection of words. But this is what I throw at you each and everyday- I throw the better half of my head, I throw my tongue, my lungs and my every hope and hate filled accusation. I toss begging questions until I’m tired of having to answer them on my own.
I am finding it a lot harder not to be alone.
It’s interesting to see what your head looks like when its spilled out across a hollow blue light- a cold computer’s stare. I do not wield a pen, my thoughts don't talk in ink. They remain in the memory of a busy little computer. They sit their among music and photographs and videos of friends, yet exist without them and unable to interact. They dwell alone until they turn rotten and walk up and off their page.  
I apologise if sometimes they offend or intrude, or if sometimes they take things without asking permission and lie about it afterwards, but they are only just finding their way so please show some compassion whenever your paths cross.

We are a whisper in an auction hall
where the greedy bid in a vile clamour.
We are unwanted; unheard in our call.
And yet it's our necks under the cold hammer.
In cowardice, we wait for it strike
like goats being lead to their slaughter.
And as the price inflates in an awful spike,
we are drowned deeper under their laughter.

' Sold! To the gentleman in black'

The gentlemen with the creeping crooked grin.
The gentlemen with the suit worth a home.
The gentlemen uncaring of hardship; unaware of sin.

Cut throats for comedy.
And cut close to the bone.
Speak and be honestly.
And be what you condone.  
But do not condemn those
for their differences.
Uniqueness is our reason.

"Judge not less thy be judged”  

1

Is it the pouring unfiltered thought
that runs through you, the vessel
of conscious, and down toward the devil?
Uncontaminated, but overlooked
still by he who has a stake in your play.
Or are you in the belief that its you
who filters,edits, and judges yourself?  
If either, I am neither, I am bottomless.  
I am lost among the crowd that is lost.
I pay a price to those who set the cost,
but I pay what I will.  
I pay to keep my head and my heart still.  
I carry books to look like I’m listening,
cover them in cheap glitter to look like they’re glistening.  

2

I apologise if my questions invade,
and more profusely for my blunt tongue.
I grew up housed were a ***** was a *****,
til' it cracked open my head and rung
my bells as loud as passing parade.  
So, again I apologise If I berate,
but that old ***** sent me chasing nightmares
and bedtime stories, deep under the earths layers.
I have no right to question you or him.
But I have the right to dig my land.
If I don't believe, can I sing each hymn?
When I’m scared can I outstretch my hand?  
I guess I’ll stand where I am and spin,
till his bellowing voice cries out each command.  












3

How I wish I could undress it to the bone,
but the implications of the littlest thing
send me drifting through cold spaces alone.
The smell of nothingness, the feel of everything-
each is an equally long and tiring list.  
I hold dear two things: An open palm. A clenched fist.
Each to aid and oppose the other,
Like our true father: Time. And earth our Mother.

Heller told me I could live forever
                                 or die trying.  
Despot told me I could be rich
or try dying.  

Life’s a lie but it’s when you try
and pursue truth that you fly the coop.  

But what do I know eh?

My head is just a borrowed mess
And I’m just a high liar, dire trier
                tried too much again.

All my friends are strangers
who’s behaviours vary,
scary times indeed, indeed.  

I’ll pick apart their heads and feed,
and I’ll  be there for them when they need.  
I’ll quench my thirst upon their tears
although its bitter in its taste.
I’ll force them to face their filth and fears,
and alongside them I will waste.

This world is lonely if it’s only you.

For we’re all just spinning madly off
and I’d gladly stop if someone else would.
Our problems are reversed- no **** for a ***.
Our tongues and wit are dim lit and crude.

Stop stopping me from stopping things from starting!

Im a moulded mind,
shaped from junk mail and scam sites.
I’m a point that I can’t seem to find.
Caught between it and an apology,
caught between my natural state and drawn rights.
my poetry doesn’t fit in a ******* box.
Natural flows of emotion. Wankers posting
their unique feelings. Just like everyone else.

Guess what?
I do too. so ******* sue. Then buy yersel a ******* clue.

Passing through people
Is scarier for me than it is them.  
They feel cold for a second.
          I feel infinitely alone.

I shake them and they don't move.
I try and kiss her eyes closed.
She doesn't even blink. I sink
              into my nothingness

I think just as they do.

I feel like them too.
But whenever our paths cross.

I pass right on through

"Today my heads a little cloudy.
I don’t think it will rain though. "

A fog rolls in over my mind in the morning,
and I get lost when I think of anything but nothing.
The cities sharp shouts disrupt me, cutting
through my head as they call out their warning.
The clouds in this conscience turn angry, start storming
as all hell falls from them and the river starts flooding.
The ground shakes, quakes panic me with their thudding.
But at the back of my mind and idea is quietly forming.  
    It bursts through the clouds with sun by it’s side
like fist love beats through a young mans chest.
It fills every darkened corner with a passion that won’t rest.
It conceives hope, and like our mother nurtures pride.
And as the fog lifts my mind is free to quietly wander
through the landscape of our her- to reflect and to quietly ponder.

He Who Controls Has No Control Over The Matter;
He Can Control Or Be Controlled.
Eventually The Latter.
Control He Who Has No Control-
He Has No Control Over The Matter.
He Can Be Controlled Or In Control-
Never The Latter.  

SHe Who Controls Has No Control Over The Matter;
SHe Can Control Or Be Controlled.
Eventually The Latter.
Control SHe Who Has No Control-
SHe Has No Control Over The Matter.
SHe Can Be Controlled Or In Control-
Never The Latter.

The rush of the first time- just an echo now.
The lush grass withered, dried and caught alight.
As the flames grew we stood round and made a vow;
" Never again shall we do the morning like its night".
Show me clear skies, truth and the only way how.  
I've stood and watched my home burn for spite,
greed and no good deed could ever undo.
Show me clear skies where the sun shines through true.
              The last time's like the first but it quickly turns
to the second, third, fourth, fifth ungodly time.
And once again we're stood hear with burns
as our stomach churns and shatters our spine.
I have no heart to stop myself from stopping
the start of my own bodies natural rotting.

This child will move a mountain.
Its peak scraping skies that sit
too comfortable in yesterdays.
She will carry it the world over.
No ocean, no border, no man, no,
nothing will stop her travels.
This child will come to her rest
when the skies split like a vein
and tomorrow bleeds into her today.
And It's a day that we may never see.
No terror, no hatred, no blood, no,
nothing but love to flood from the skies.