He just wasn’t ready to step out of the door
He wasn’t ready to work in the light
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge his team
Though they had been knocking for a lifetime
He wasn’t ready to bury his ego and embrace the chaos.

The blank page screams at him
The art that won’t come
The art that is fickle, teasing
And just out of reach

And what emerges from the struggle
Is his ego splattered across the canvas
No spirit
No depth
No love for his art
Just compromise.

The old man stirred on his death bed
Looked back through time
Onto another road that he never travelled
And, summoning all the art that he would take to the grave
Breathed out.

We know the type
those soft worlds at the edge of sleep
those fully rendered scenes
that you're allowed to keep

Upon waking
I log each one
carefully recorded
so they transcend the idea
and become real

What a dream I had
hunkered down in Paris
dodging Russian bullets
stomach empty
eyes watered from the smoke
fingers too numb to grip.

The snow outside is corrupted
of mud, blood and bone
the proud tanks roll through
without pausing
without sympathy
without drivers.

It is for our salvation
the army came that day
we could no longer be trusted
to govern ourselves.

In 2009 I caught my breath
And held it in my hand
Carried over to the New Year
And released it on the other side
But the breath had gone
Dissolved like a waking memory

In 2013 I held my breath and
Gathered it up
I carried it over to the New Year
To release it on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
Dissolved by the heat of my hand

In 2017 I held my breath
And stifled the ache
The ache of time wasted
Cradled from year to year
Released without care on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
This I had to accept.

In 2020 I held my breath
behind my mask
I dare not carry it over
we have seen too much death.

In 2025 I held my breath
who knows when it is safe
to breathe out

Collecting is an illness
We can all recover from
Things thought unique
Are devalued en masse

The Endless quests for
Meaningless variations
The infinite minutiae
That no-one finds interesting
But it’s never enough. . . is it?

It starts off innocent enough
Two items nearly similar
Then two to complete a set
Ten more to complete the series

And there’s always the ****** awkward piece
The ‘sort-after’
The 'must-have'
That’s so ******* expensive
But you've got to have it
That’s collecting for you.
‘It’ll be worth something someday’
Yeah, not in my lifetime
Somebody else’s maybe

Collecting is an illness
It makes us secretive
It makes us sneaky
It makes us blind
It makes us greedy
It makes us needy
It makes us poor

I am a collector
And I’m on the road
To recovery

Us we Trolls
Who never met
Who never met?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Who never loved
Who never loved?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Did all but hide
and all but shied
From us we Trolls

Us we Trolls
Did nought but lie
Nought but lie
Thus we Troll

I know you’ve seen my load
My bulging treasure trove
Stacked on the check-out belt
Shiny corporate logos showing

Yes, I can afford branded goods
Why pay less
When you can have the best?
No white labels for me
No generic boxes that scream
I am poor
I wouldn’t be seen dead
With three day old bread
What, recycled toilet rolls?
My ****!