Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

Oh! to live! the eternal present!
embodying fully the spirit
of a man in the moment.

I had to think twice about thinking twice which was twice the work for an old work horse and
if nature truly runs its course then of course it must be true that pondering on the imponderables is a noble thing to do.

You and I know
that to go around in circles is a total waste of time
but we do it all the time which wastes more time and not being one for waste or time I found it easier to go in a straight line,
not a flat line because that's something different.

Any dimension you like is the dimension that does it for me.

Space
lots of it even in the little bit of what I see and what is a galaxy anyway?
just another chocolate like the milky way or Mars bar which is not too far off the mark,
in an inn in the dark and so am I, where
a pint of beer and a pie is my cup of tea
(sounds a bit Alice to me)
confused?
I always was.

If you had to think twice every time that you thought
I'd think twice about thinking at all

it twisted
when i sat idle
hopeing off her horoscope
online, read a few
after that i do a painting
something like she’d do
little flowers smiling fruit
health veg and neon cities

it hard
when i sit back
tip ma cap down
chillin'
then wham
i slip and gotta climb out a pit
overrun with  a thousand clones of her
muddy and they’re all babbling questions
everything she ever said streams lucid
concerned 'help me’s tangle
soft 'love me’s whisper
i turn
and she asks me to leave

it easy
after a spliff
or a bottle of wine
a slice savoury unconsciousness
any bite of smoke

its wrong
that we’re going to forget this

she’s ignoring it hid round the corner
waiting till i'm gone
jumping into a river of ignorance
blaming it on being young

its
stupid
that i even give a ****

That even i care so much

tho yes
it over

but where do we leave it
somewhere we might find it?
charity shop?
the attic?
maybe she’ll give it to a friend
or she’ll paint over it and just know it was there

on her own she might trace where we drew
and shed just half a sigh
skip a heartbeat and roll back to bed
she’ll wish for that last kiss

but once you’ve killed it its dead

Her first name did not fit
she wore cloddy shoes &
knees & elbows were

dead skin & lived
above a bar with
a pockmarked

brother & invisible mother,
she ate cardboard, chalk,
paper & paste;

Glory was her name.