Aye in time we hear yer callin',
Yer mucket words o' the mairn fallin'.
Ah see yer schemes, laid gipet an cal,
Yer feverish plots ah see em ahl.

So Aff ma hinkin an aff my ma back min,
Av geet yer bags ye sees av packed em.
Awa we ye poison flooer,
Tae rubbled ruin, yer cairn nae moor.


Yes in time we hear your calling,
Your soiled words of morning falling.
All your schemes, laid childish and cold,
Your feverish plots i see them all.

So leave my thoughts and leave my back man,
I have your bags, you see ive packed them.
Away with you you poison flower,
To rubbled ruin, your mountain no more.

a scenery comes in your mind
picturesque, but can be forgotten
pen and paper are all you've got
what are you waiting for? Jot it down!

gloomy, elation, rage any theme
there are lots of pictures inside your head
Don't waste any time, use it wisely
and enjoy the ride of rollercoaster ideas

Poised on the knife's
edge between old and
too old. It is easy to
count up my misses.

I know now I'll
never get a PhD,
win a Nobel Prize,
discover a
Quantum particle
or find True Love.

It's just too late.

I am broke, old,
not very handsome
and slouching
towards inevitable
decay.

           No matter.

I have always been
better at life on paper
than living in the
world of phenomena.

Never keep score
on your life.

Don't mean nothing:

what counts is
not simply winning,
but learning the game,
loving the game,
playing for keeps,

and dying like
the man or woman
you are proud to be.

  ~mce

it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a ****
and here's a ****
and here's trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some ***
and only a minor
love.

now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
They lie as if under water
In a blue, unchanging light,
The French window ajar

Curtained with yellow lace.
Through the narrow crack
Odors of wet earth rise.
The snail leaves a silver track;
Dark thickets hedge the house.
We take a backward look.

Among petals pale as death
And leaves steadfast in shape
They sleep on, mouth to mouth.
A white mist is going up.
The small green nostrils breathe,
And they turn in their sleep.

Ousted from that warm bed
We are a dream they dream.
Their eyelids keep up the shade.
No harm can come to them.
We cast our skins and slide
Into another time.

BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ******, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-*** of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.

The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

Let there be music to fill my ears
with the voices & melodies I cannot make
Let there be music to fill my soul
with the crescendos & chords I cannot replicate

Let there be stars to fill my eyes
with the wonder & beauty I cannot be
Let there be stars to fill the night
with the majesty & radiance from which I cannot flee

Let there be music to fill my ears
Let there be stars to fill my eyes
So I may be understood as I shed tears
So I am not alone when I cry