she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.

she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.

a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.


the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.

and when that door

slams

shut

the prisoner of light asks,

"where have all the flowers gone?

My sister's birthday
How could I forget?
Well maybe it is because I am older now
Dementia, maybe hit.
She can't be 71
It's impossible
Are we old
No, we will never be old
We will always be
Two little girls
Playing with our friends
Til the end.

poetry means nothing in real life
proclaimed a philistine
forgetting that the idea of nothing
is poetry itself.
poetry means nothing in real life
thats why we do it.

It appears to me that you're mentally ill
Here is some water to wash down that pill
Myself and my colleagues have all clearly stated
You need to be institutionalized and heavily medicated