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”

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.

I’m not going to tell you
you’re more than the sum of your parts.
I’m not going to tell you
the thing that I’m after is your heart.

But I might ask to take you home.
Only because you look like you live alone.

In the morning I won’t ask
If I can stay here just a little longer.
Because We’re not in love,
We’re in fear of it and thats stronger.

But I might ask you to give me a call
Whenever you are feeling down or small.

Cause thats when you like me best.

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.

Programmed beats program the dance.
Gift cards and bottoms shape the romance.
Their channels channel the thoughts
that twist innocence and have purity caught.  
They give us pat rhymes over and over in aa bb.
They give us the truth right where we can see
it, but make it the less favourable option.  
Don't go to sleep in what'll be your coffin.
Don't rush to speak, or speak to often
of things you know nothing truly of.
Your microwave can cook you a meal in 30 seconds.
But when you eat that way, food for thought has no lesson.

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.

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.

Get a job. Get a girl. Get a house. Get a coffin.  
Get a jump on the morning and eat an omelette of worms.
Get a newspaper with your morning loaf and
read that thing cover to cover.
Get real, get prepared, get in line.
Get your orders from the horse's mouth
and follow them to you're told otherwise.
Get a grip of yourself, young man!

Don’t get yourself in trouble, infected or in jail.
Don’t get up after midday or go to sleep after midnight.
Don’t get used to coming in first
or you’ll be a wimpy sore lose.
Don’t get cocky kid; don’t get smart.
Don’t get ahead of yourself and think
you're the man to lead all the others.
Don’t get too big for your boots, young man.

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.

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.

They say we’re so selfishly rational,
and so modernly savage.
A plague thats scale is international,
and makes us easy to manage.  

Some say we’re predictably irrational.
I’m more inclined to believe this.
Patterns in chaos,  lead by morale.
Decisions made in ignorances bliss.

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.

The neighbours never took any notice
of his silence although it spoke loud.  
He was a man shrouded in mystery-
not a part of anyones history, he blissfully
existed, persistently kept to his own space
distantly. “ Did you miss me?” he asked
his greyhound the same day he was found
dead- his dog didn’t reply, so he put a bullet
straight through his empty head and on his
corpse the dog fed for two weeks before
the smell reeked and leaked up stairs
and half the neighbours fled instead of
calling the police. But there is only weeks
left on his lees and soon the landlord will come
to collect his overdue fee’s:

Now he arrives with a knock on the door.
Something isn’t right of this he is sure.

But it’s just another case of Dennistoun Door’

I am forever understanding
that I will often fail to do so;
more and more I learn
what I will never truly know.

It's not that I believe it doesn't end.
Its just the angle- I cant see for the bend.
I've been walking this plastic corridor since
I pushed through the blackened door unwittingly.
And it's not that I'm longing to walk it with a friend.
I just hope that I make it out the other side fittingly.

Because what If I've grown
Much to large for my humanly confines?
And what if all I own
Is the rags on my back and a collection of fines?

Will I pass through the doors without interrogation?  
Or be doomed to walking this squinted corridor
with nothing but a tireless and ever wasting patience?

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.

I had found myself lost.
Wandering in circles
and mumbling madly to himself.  
So I took him back home,
bathed him, and tucked him in for the night.

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.

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.

At the bottom of a barrel,
soaked into the old wood,
is where I'll lie till I'm understood.

Some think me to be crude,
others think my arrogance
is unjustified and just plain rude.

But here at the bottom,
I'll lie turning rotten, forgotten

Just like the Autumn, now that your hats have bobbles on them.

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.

We- The streets that fathered the lost freaks. 
Let them step on us, **** on us. Now the whole town reeks
of defeat. The concrete crumbles under their feet. 
Splits and cracks now the living and hell dwellers meet. 

Soulless creatures cut the preachers nose from his face. 
Tie his ******* knot to stop the loud talk. 
Then chase the lost children away from gods grace 
to taste lust on their young tongues. To waste breath 

    with blackened lungs. 

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down? 

We- the town that belongs down here now-  
Watch the children bow to the man with the crown now. 
Red skin, black suit-  and it really burns how
his tongue twists truth like a noose for a neck. “Bow

      Your little heads”.

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down? 

The little flowers in full bloom don’t long for a groom. 
Instead they swoon for the creatures and take them to their room. 
The smell of sweat, lust and perfume. We can only presume 
That it won’t be long before theres a monster in the womb. 

      An Ungodly creation.   

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down?

The first baby is born- and every parent is mourning. 
The devil has sworn that by the time his hairs thorning
he will be all knowing- they will be saved by his fore-warnings. 
Unless, torn by his human half he seeks a quiet cold morning 

     above ground. 

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down?

And What can a parent do? Staring at the cold truth
in their fiery endless doom, they can only cry for the fate of the youth.  
They can only obey the orders of the red crown and black suit.
They can only watch as he takes each and every single tooth

    of their young.  

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down?

The new mother struggles without a man to aid her.
Her earthly father smuggles food to try and save her
and her young two week old son from their slaver.
But caught, he’s left to rot and told over and over he betrayed her.

     His blooded hands cease fighting.  

Half hell, half town. 
Can’t you tell we fell down?
    
 We are the redemption of an eye for an eye.
We are the blind world that it leads to.  
We are the bodies hung high and dry.

*You are but the mouth that this world feeds through.

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 can feel the blood in my veins.
Like cold steel. It rushes. But no pain.
Only discomfort in my quiet disdain.  
And that trembling little voice sounds
so desperate, he might as well be praying.  

So as the shaking erupts violently,
my chest caves as I scream silently.
The world sinks, it seems finally.  
Just like they told us it would:
it all ends, in ways unwieldy.

Nothing is a balloon before and after popping.
Nonsense.
Yes.
Quite so.
Nothing is a ball before and after its kicking.
Genius.
Yes.
Quite so.

Am A Pitter Patter *** Head,
A Jibber Jabber, Purebred, Med Head.
A Drop Dead Disgraceful, Well Read Ned
With A Bed Head.  
                               Behead The British Boredom,
Vanquish The Evil Before It Tells Them Who Told'em.  
Simon Says, Simon takes, Cause It Was Simon Who Sold'em

The Fear, That Fear,  This Fear That Holds'em.

Where did they all come from?
These activists Once were pacifists.
Now they’ve turned ravenous for fair
Political practice.

And it wasn’t no accident.  They’ll
soon beat down in their heavy handedness.
Demand the mess is cleaned up.

As they scream :

" this wasn’t what we dreamed up”

The noblest, normal little chap
had eyes of the dawns red rise,
and beliefs like bubble wrap that
would pop to his surprise.  

Cloaked in the mornings mist
he'd speak of the night like it was never to come.
He'd take the hours just to twist them
and hold them under his thumb.

Sucha noble savage, sucha champ!
Such an intriguing little creature.  
Some call him foul, Others a *****,
but to me he is my treasured teacher.

He runs soil through his scarred hands
and talks of the life that he holds.
" This here is my love, my little land,
it can crumble but it never ever folds"

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.

Miss my misery is this:
Six weeks of torment, 6 days of bliss.
Undone the former by the latters weight.
Then weightless as I sink slowly.
but warmer  as I near my fate.

Quick to anticipate, I fall straight.  Laid down
Amidst mid air, I feel my fall is fair.
For its not unlike flight, I just might not
be mistaken. Cause I can’t even remember
If a last breath was taken.

Breathless like the panic attacks- the anxiety medication.
Chemically imbalanced, I was just another nothing patient.
Waiting on a waiting list,  unease and anticipation.
For a numb tongue, a black lung and an empty room for pacing.

I haven’t tasted my taste buds in two months,
But once they tasted bliss. It’s a wasted, missed misery
a deep and dark abyss.
But my tongue still twists truth like a noose for a neck.
Lie to the young in a suit- so they show the man some respect.

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.

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.

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.

I figured where we fit on this little journey:
     In the middle of the start just as it’s about to end.
     Hire a gun! Hire Gun! Ah’a but can’t we be one?
     Fixed- the fickle have a sickly sweet dream to spend.
     Let them follow breadcrumbs all the way to the sun.
And as the 'fat whites' are watching, we too watch them burn.
    The woken dead poets sleep as we owe them it.
    But yet I feel disgrace as I chase their tongues wit.

   Fright learns a lesson when he hears himself gurn’.  
   Now he’s pouring himself sourly across this page.
   Disgrace! Disgrace! can’t you fit each word in its place.
   Foul taste! Foul taste! my words are forgotten,
         with his forgotten waste.
   But time as it takes, takes my breath slowly with it.  
   Till my last word is winded for another tongue to spin it.

IS this your tongue twisted round breath from blackened lungs?
Your foul words betray you when you stare down the eye.
I see your nights spent wishing, missing the moments behind you.
But where do I find you? Where in this mess of the masses stress?
You don’t seem to peek from the pockets of your bleak cites.
Nor do you dwell among the sad caves of young pity.
Hit me! Hit me! Like an apple on my head. Hit me!
I need to find you even if what I find is already dead.

We can revive this. Life might flow through us once again.
The pen, as a weapon, once more is being used to defend
The will of times killer,  while the crowds wish him condemned.
We can and will fight for the pride of the distasteful tongues,  
the wasteful young, the collapsing lungs that coughed last words
As they were lead to be hung for the killing of time. Just as the bell rung.

I tried to try but my eyes fell heavy into my cheeks.
I am weak, a fallen freak who walks these streets
looking for the future in each turn, but never now do I seek.
Incomplete, I’m an embryo who doesn't want to develop.
I chase stars in the night sky as it falls and I it envelopes.
Though I cherish the downfall like within it there is pride.
I relish your sympathy until it’s intent falls on it side.
Theres no place for me to hide, At the bottom I unite,
with every kind of side of myself, and each I name fright.

The first fright is gentle he understands me better than I.
But his pity is passionless and so I watch his fire die.
Until the second fright turns and tells me I’m a fool.
This I understand though he does not understand me.
“You’re a shell of a boy” adds fright number three.
This I believe I know to be true. After all I cannot fool me & you.

The same that had fallen into and through ‘Alisdair’s' pocket.  
The key. The key. Where has it fallen? I’ll scour the place.
I have fallen through this world for it. Now I lay at the bottom.
For amidst my lack of bright wit, with which I did fall.  
I often thought I’d found it. Something to free me, all
but free from everything to a solvable small problem.  
But the bottom is bottomless, as it often was above.
I’ll scour this fallen city, till I’m sour, to find young pity.

She fell into my lap. With the key around her neck.
Not out of nowhere, nor from above or below.
But fell none the less. And so of course I had to check.
I pinched myself twice, but she still lay staring deeply
into my eyes as until her eyes turned sleepily.
And then creepily I wandered through her head while she slept.

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.

Public thoughts intertwine in a world inside of mine:
they fight, they **** and they follow one another.
Thoughts unfiltered - and images heavily so -
clutter the air in an **** of senselessness.  
They attack from all angles, and show love in all places:
They show the purest of passions and the vilest disgraces.
Here one man's cringe is another mans thrill,
and one woman's cage is another woman's will.
Here the voiceless can scream from their fingers.
Here they can hide from each other and themselves.
Here they can rid any question that lingers,
and scream from the old stinking web down into the delves.

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"

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

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

It's all there
                                   Nothing.
Every last bit of it.

Yet we see
                                   Everything.

My Reality
                                  Everything

Your Reality
                                  Everything.

It's blue to me, It's blue to you.
But is it blue to me as it is to you?

You are here
                                I am here.

Sitting On A Separate Seats In A Shared Plane.

I am here

                              You are here.  

With Everything and Nothing. But Each Other

"On a scale of techno to techno,
how much techno do you techno?
Have you techno'd from the get go
or do you only techno when yer friends go? "

" I only came here to move my heavy feet. "

" Oh so your just following the fleet?"

" No. No. No. I techno in my sleep,
and when I wake I walk with techno on repeat."

Rub-a-dub-gubbed,  
three men in a club,
And who do you think they were?
The addict, the faker,
The first time taker.
They all sailed away in a flea.
Twas enough to make a man aware.

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.

A thousand angry fingers are fighting.
"I’m right! Im right! There’s wrong in your writing.”
There’s a war of opinion, it's a slaughter of facts,  
as fearful dominions blame who they can for the acts
of hate that they scrape across our tired eyes;
and as we try and decipher truth from the lies.
So soon people point, push, drag and despise
anyone they believe to be the devil in disguise.  
“ Hang them, hit them, beat them down.
Don’t let another one of ‘those' in my good town”.  

I tried to tie my own tongue and keep quiet.
But my fingers felt need to fight in this riot.
Though I am not seeking a thumb from anyone,
I was beginning to fear I was a disloyal son;
for our mother is weeping for every child.
Whether radical, righteous, anxious or mild.  
She’s worried this war, like a fire in the wild,
won’t stop until all is consumed but the ash that is piled.
“ Stop this! Stop this! My dear children!
  Life is so much more than the motives of men"

And I watch this war from a cafe in Glasgow;
outside enjoying coffee, crisps and tobacco.
The smoke swirls my head into a strange sense of comfort,
as before my eyes I watch my own world distort.  
Where political posts attempt to equal social justice.
Where blood, bodies and bombings add to our numbness.
Where others opinions slowly shape and become us.
Where poets lack rhyme, guidance or substance.
Where In friends we see foes, and in fellow citizens: dangers.
Where we speak with our fingers, and to ourselves become strangers.

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.

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

You’re a sycophant for a selfie.            
selfish daily rants are of the plenty       
up here.                                               
(Up where?)                                           
out there in the world wide-
 who cares it’s everywhere.                                         

There’s no room for you to hide. 
so beware! and be wary of what you confide.
I’ve seen words on their heads and their intent on its side. 
Your rambles are a gamble, every un-thorough thought 
is a stance you take with pride
 on something you were never taught.  

Did you go find it out by yourself? 
I doubt that. Just loud chat from those sat out around you 
was enough to change your point of view. so will you choose? 
Or will it not really be you? did you construe this opinion or did it construe yours?