ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order

ALL THE WORLD'S A ****** MYSTERY  
Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including  the investigating officers
Playwrights and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY OR STAND-UP ACT
Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarizes the punch-lines

ALL THE WORLD'S A PASSION PLAY
Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar

ALL THE WORLD'S A  SOAP OPERA OR CRIME DRAMA
Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic

ALL THE WORLD'S AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENTARY
Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !

ALL THE WORLD'S A REALITY SHOW
Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are
Being torn down all around them

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY/DRAMA
Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play

ALL THE WORLD'S A GAME SHOW
Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage.

He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******.
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.

What will I miss the most, I thought,
Now that she’s not around,
I walked back slowly to the Port
With my face turned to the ground,
Would I miss the incessant chatter that
Would drive St. Peter mad?
Or sit with a sigh of pure relief
At the absence of it… Sad!

And what of the silly songs she sang
When I often used to curse,
Telling her that she’d got it wrong,
Forgotten the second verse,
For then she would just ignore me
And go out and feed the birds,
Singing the same old song again
But making up the words.

I’d ask her to wear the blue dress
So she’d go and wear the green,
The one that had such a diving top
That her cleavage was obscene,
She’d only do it to thwart we when
We’d visit with my kin,
Annoying my strait-laced mother,
‘How on earth do you keep them in?’

She was just the size of a hobbit, or
A tiny little sprite,
Would lie with her back towards me
When we cuddled up at night,
Those were the things that I would miss
I thought, with just a tear,
Why did she have to leave me at
The turning of the year?

Christmas never would be the same,
She’d decorate the tree,
Getting the lights a-blinking which
Was more than they did for me,
I entered the door at home, and listened,
Nary a single sound,
And never would be again, now she
Was planted in the ground.

David Lewis Paget

It took Vegas two days
to teach me that winning
is the taste of salmon roulade,
green lip mussels and
pineapple glazed ham.

Losing is the smell
of shoe-worn carpet,
warm poker chips and
air recycled through the lungs
of a thousand desperate strangers.

I walked the Strip
an educated man.

I swallowed the lights
like squares of Starburst
candy melting to neon
in my shining mouth.

I found the desert in pitch
blackness and placed bets
on the stars with my eyes

until they fell from the sky
in a shower of silver coins.

My mind is constipated, I try to force
upon the bowels of my mind but nothing
is versed, only flatulence of syllables
that linger in the air.

Gagging on the stench was released outwards,
others cringe at what was versed in
needing of a release. I look upon the laxative
of imagery and I feel my mind soften up.

My pen sits on the white waiting for a release,
without warning a vocalization is forced slowly.
I spray my syllables on to the white, relaxed that
the congestion is released, words flow eagerly out.

Pale moon kept
hiding behind
the thicket of clouds,
being constantly
twisted and turned
by renegade winds

Silence fell
intermittently,
may be after
every defeat
or victory perhaps
depending
on the side,
one could only guess

There were booming
of guns, explosions
sounds of vehicles
rushing to all sides
creating panic.
Pain was the language
cried out aloud,
well understood
At all times
smell of death would spread
like a trail of smoke
from an extinguished wick.
It thickened the darkness
by desperately crying out for light.

"Are we winning or losing?"
a voice in the darkness
in agony whined,
not knowing which way
wind blows
or  when all would
mercifully  end;
that question has
already rendered meaningless
by the reign of dark forces.

Was there a whistle
signifying naught?
a whisper spread
all around like a mantra
"Nada..nada.."

Then came a long silence
nobody seemed to answer
or know what to tell.

"I think ***** may be a tragic hero,"
A student said,
"Linda tells her boys he is an average man,
And it's time for average men to be attended.
That he gets up and goes to work each day
Is enough to make him a hero."

We listen in the darkened room,
Breaking to think our thoughts aloud
Before we dive back into the pool
Of Loman miseries:
The braggart wearing down,
The cringing rage against
The darning of socks,
Silken stocking memories,
Naughtiness recapitulated.

And sons spinning round
The vortex edge,
Wondering whether
To bail or pledge....

The stage is growing dark,
The audience darker,
Receding from bright memories,
Nobility's idyllic days denied,
Nothing left but the emptiness of pride.

Accepting brassiness and braggadocio,
We lean, breathless beneath skyscrapers,
Accepting commission-only pay,
The emptiness of false news,
And mediocre heroes.

"Boys! The woods are burning!
Can't you understand?
There's a big blaze going all around!"
But no one understands.

We are all dreamers,
Hoping America makes us great again,
Wishing to live the Salesman's life,
Willing to leave Plan B hidden
Behind the fusebox for now...
If only hope remains,
If only champagne wishes,
Caviar dreams besot us in our schemes.

"Nobody dast blame this man!"
Says Charlie, and he is right.
It's tough being out there
Living on a wing and a prayer,
Promising the moon,
Promised the moon,
Age coming on,
No seeds planted,
No sun to shine
On what's left
Of the garden....

A little salary,
A smile,
A shoeshine,
Cannot suffice.

Believing dreams that lie
Is no reason to live;
Seeing the blue sky alone
Is no reason,
If there's nothing to own,
And no place to call home.

There was a fire in the water..
On the mirror lake..
It was a reflection..
It was the only time the fire could make love to the water..
Without ever burning or dowsing one another..
Just a beautiful reflection of an impossible releationship..

i want to crawl into a hole
and possibly die
but death doesn't come easy
and neither does life
so i just cry
it's raining cold tears
from the midnight sky
the moon has become
my only source of light