Some of my best friends are
The tiny grey cells in my head
For, without these tireless givers
I should sorely want*.....

For I've had.....

The power to recognise the nurturer
Who saved me countless times
Who sewed my confidence at valedictory
Gratitude to Mother...granting me first wings.

The help of a few friends with proffered lifts
Not many, but enough to light the way
Takes but one spark to lead the lost
Cannot discount the value of true goodwill.

The sweet taste of that first, deep love
Who showed the path to discovered delights
Easy mem'ries...looking back, but ****** ahead
Sighs painted on the ceiling in dreamy webs.

The awkward trip down that rabbit hole
Blue lady hanging pretty in the corner
Flies trapped flimsy, on some terylene
Many padlocks loom....to get gasping to you!

The chance to slough off onerous habits
Dive wholehearted into the universe's sea
Gaps to kickstart joy and spearhead cheer
Mentors pass the torch and believe in me!

Yes, some of my best friends are NOT seen
Most reliably spun inside this osseous shell
They answer things and help me find my truth
Thank heavens....selfless amity equals mercy.



S T, 29 June

I have a friend whom you may know
Who has no place to go

I have thought that I've been taught
Give my friends all that I've got

I have a wish that which you may too
For us to help them through

I have a friend whom you may be
Take my hand and follow me

I have a poem that you may read
It won't fulfill your needs

I have my words from my heart
Not much but they're a start

I have a friend at least hopefully
That's if you're willing to be

On my journey even the sorrow feels grief
As I collapse my sobriety
I try to bury the night
Full of glued eyes and swirled painted dreams
The white wind began to speak to me
Although the sunshine tried to compress  the inevitable
With measureless memories that would surround me
Quivering on the river round
My suffering is windswept out to the sea

Angels say goodnight for all eternity
Depths deepen as I collect the clouds
The heavens sprout a colorful substance I can't explain
Inside the gates I'm born slowly
As the ripped stones lead me to my path
I go forward and follow my flesh
The fluttering ghosts give me the gift of gold

With a mouth full of bile,
I kiss your rotting lips.
I spew my rancid seed
on your blackened eyes
and know they will soon
be crusted shut, tainted
by my sickly venom.

I am poison.

I seep into
your wet parts and
consume all that is good and pure,
leaving nothing but **** in
your bloodstream, ***** in your lungs.

I am malignant by nature,
malevolent by choice.

And I have chosen you as next.

Here and now,
basking in the echoes
of your voice,
I feel your hands on me.

Hands I've never seen.

I run my fingers through
your ironed hair
and softly kiss your cheek
as the stains of memory
fade.

Toad legs and tattoos
intertwine; skin to skin,
we become one.

Within you, I shed
my shadows.
Surrounding me,
your fears fall away.

This is my here and now
as the night blooms
and sleep gathers dust.

Sycamore floaters fill the park
and shadows grow long on the hill
as the sun sets on my peaceful oasis.
Dogs are being walked and chickens
are being watered.
The tweekers are on their
rigged up, gas powered bicycles, zipping through
the streets like squirrels in the ancient oak
tree guarding my corner of the block.
Everywhere I look I see fifteen million
emerald leaves shining back the truth to me.

I've rearranged my furniture
and tried holding
different hands
and
different ****
and tried kissing
different lips
and I've even went
so far as to try
eating different *****,
but the hands
don't fit the
right way and
the **** don't look
the same
and I never
did want to kiss
anyone
but you and
nobody's ****
will ever taste
as good as yours.

This restless and irritating
little tick in my skin
won't leave me alone.
I scratch and I pick
and I peel away
my flesh, digging
away the rotten.
My words are matted
cat hair and
malignant growths, needing
to be cut off and out.
I reek of apathy
and whiskey
and lies
and lost sleep
and I feel
as if I am
caught in a swirling
whirlpool of
the kind of loneliness
that consumes men whole.

This has to end.