It's the silence that always gets you.
The laughter is a drug and there is no worse a addict than the comedian
Behind the laughter is the insecure person you never see .

It's the empty rooms the miles between gigs it  always comes to that next fix.
Those few seconds when I can  be  everything I'm not the escape is the best release there has ever been.

And as you leave it behind the ego deflates and the isolation sets in were all children in tattered shells called adults .
So fragile the rock that seldom does embrace the sea .

Were all ****** up in are own separate ways.
Behind the laugh at times is the worst place you may ever realize you want to be.

Incorrigible was that mistake,
                I took the wrong road and moved on,
couldn't understand where did I reach,
                when  found it was the end of the road,
tried to look up the map,
                found a wrong one, or was it all jumbled?
why  am I made a scapegoat,
                to prove a law Murphy has already proved?


But as I was about to walk away from it all
                                        I saw her radiant smile,
my deepest wish, my desire that pulled the strings,
                                            to take me to the road,
before thought and action was her,
                                          the mind came later, the spirit that
finds it's way on it's own, works beyond laws,
                                          even when choosing
the wrong actions, one is proved right,
                                          may that mystery be ours always.
intriguing forces in action in this world,
                                        are my hope, secret of all the positivity I embrace.

it is three a.m. here
and the unseasonable cold
has etched itself onto the knobby bones of my spine
and eats voraciously at the
callous of bone and metal
that now suffices as my
lower left leg...

in answer, i sit in front of the
newly stoked fire, as close as i can without becoming fuel
and await the painkillers sweet surcease.

i drink russian caravan tea
and as always,
it draws my thoughts to you.

the time spent with cup in hand and eyes full of laughter.
the way you rolled each teabag up into a neat little
parcel...

and those times of ceremony, birthdays and
big announcements.

when the tealeaf was allowed to swirl joyously and swim in the squat blue teapot,
releasing the aroma of
a gypsy campfire...
all rowdy, with celebration
and then served with the
orange and ginger cake,
(so **** good)of which,
i never did get the recipe.

always, the tea, served
in fine bone china
the tea, visible through
the white translucent pottery..
and we still,  playing at being, civilised and grown up...

the tears slide,
gently,down my cheeks
to fall and be comsumed
by the warm hearth...
as the gypsy songs fade

and i do not know,
whether, it is from the pain or sad and grasping grief,
that they come...
                          but they come.

From the back
of a quiet
bookshelf
inside a dusty
***
she heard
her husbands breathing
rattle and
stop,
she heard
the bedside sorrow
in a tender kiss
farewell
then stirred her ash
with menace
and welcomed him
to hell