I visit the old mill by the creek.  
It hasn't ground a grain in a century.
A ghost of wood and steel and history.
How it still stands is a local mystery.

I want to buy that old mill by the creek.
Rebuild it with glass walls facing the waterfall.
Use the water for electricity.
In the summer, when you visit me,

We'll swim in the pond, it'll be my own pool.
Sip beer on the rooftop, be rockstar cool.
In winter, we'll ice skate my frozen backyard
Before fireplace, whisky, snacks and cards.

I'll build you a guestroom on all three floors.
And secret rooms behind hidden doors.
The automn rains will pound at the wall  
And sing with the sound of the waterfall,

And the song will be that of the miller's ghost.
The house might be mine, but he's still the host.
He loves that his workplace has now become home.
For a hundred years, he's been there alone.  

He'll laugh with the kids of my visiting friends.
He'll dance with the women, and when the fun ends
He'll sit on the rooftop with a ghost cup of tea,
Walk by the willows and thank God for he

Who took the mill ruins and rendered them "home";  
A palace by water of wood, glass and stone.
I thinks of these things, when I visit that mill.
And thanks to my dreaming, it's standing there still.

last time we made love.
   stagnant heat bitter night,
    the smell of petrol from the highway,
        the old wind out on the balcony,
              our open windows,
our thin white curtains,
    our industrial city,
      our smogged stars.
                               and then –
our fast breathing and oh gosh,
           when you slipped your skull against my mouth
         i swear i could taste the scene:
some romantic technicolour western
     we’d watch in our friend’s garage
                        on their old TV.
                            (years gone past)
your hand against my skeletal
       cheek; our wandering minds;
                    our palm tree resorts,
       our electric hollywood dream;
          the setted sun
               the golden beaches
                       the tangerine taste in my mouth
                            from your love,
           the smell of our skin.

two.

  alone.

I had a dream the other night,
                   I visited an old friend
                      who had died last Halloween.

He drank himself to death,
wet brain, liver failure,
the whole nine yards.

In my dream I asked him
    what it was like to be dead,
he said "Oh it's okay....
can I borrow five bucks?"

I don't know I said,
    "How can I be sure
               I'll get it back"

"Ah come on" he said,
"I'm five bucks short for a case"

I relented and we called a cab.
       The cab driver comes
            and he says to Barry,

"What's it like to be dead?"

No, not beautiful
No, not ugly
Just more average than average

The only problem is that
I don't know, and can't control, what it's showing
Normal? I have no idea

And I know I'll never see it myself
I just wish I could
And know what to change

The biggest miscommunications
Happen with my face

Yes, I feel stupid: glaring at you and making you think I want to ****** someone, when it's only the sun in my eyes

No, you did nothing wrong!

Please see past the anger, sadness, or shock that you may see
That isn't me! I'm so much better