Mud on her cheek
she catches crab
by the narrow creek

her frame is sleek
skin saline drab
bone rickety weak.

She makes no show
tides only know
taste of her knee

her hair's knotty lock
makes the wind to talk
feel her slowly.

Why I can't tell
on the mind's sail
she stirs a song

I find her so fair
upon a moment there
then she's gone.

I think I've sprung a leek
There's nothing more to seek
Creating my own ocean
Void of all commotion
My eyes are turning gray
For today I'll just float away
Upon my sea of red
For your silence was all that needed to be said

And when I looked around the room, the room that was holding only my best pals I drowned out every uproar, every babel and every whisper. My vision went into slow motion as if I was part of a cliche romantic comedy. That's when it hit me. This idea of "love" everyone talks about isn't real. Love isn't crazy, it's not a movie scene, it's not selfish, and it's not complicated. Love isn't violently crying at 4 am over a boy thinking "he's my whole world" and "I can't live without him." Love is hanging out anywhere with your best friends, the friends that genuinely care for your well being. Love is laughing with them until your stomach hurts, laughing until it's almost morning and not giving a single **** that you didn't get any sleep. At the end of the day, that's the love I live for.

k.f.

looking in the mirror
not recognizing the reflection
when this face got so old
I have no recollection

creases around the eyes
skin looking like leather
time taking it's toll
worn out by the weather

body breaking down
getting difficult to stand
arthritis is a problem
especially in my hand

hair growing in my ears
and growing out my nose
growing places it shouldn't be
even on my toes

sight a little blurry
getting difficult to see
getting up every hour
just to go ***

even though this body
will break down and age
the fire for you inside me
will continue to rage

My morals on the bottom
I'm running Vietnam
I'm headed to Skull Island
And I'm stealing King Kong

Ring the alarm
My morals on the bottom
Ring the alarm
My morals on the bottom

There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.

The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,

Sunday and the faithful are beaming.

The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.

An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.

A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.

I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.

No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.

We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.