Wordsmith
Writer
Of songs
Of sounds
That roll
Quietly full
From his lips
In short shallow whispers to himself
He sings
He breathes
Stories
Passion, love, belief
From grief
Then right on through to gladness
He climbs mountains
With slippery letters for feet
And sails the seventh sea
Pieces of flotsam forming tidings
Of vision, rock pools of  indecision
A collision of the imagination and tangibility
Penning of peril and threat
Breaking cold sweat
Cigarettes and coffee stains
Window sill
And rattling chains
He shakes cobwebs down
With etched verbose
For a broom
In his clandestine room
That serves as a scribers sanctuary.
Sewing, threading
Silk worm stitching
He is itching
To fill
To spill
To take the thrill from his heart
Straight onto the page.

I feel a familiar wave
Of apathy
Washing, creeping, aching
over me
That self propelled
Ignorant kind of numb admission
That reaches into the bleeding
redness
Of your heart
And wraps black
Stained greyscale
Morbid pale
fingers around the
Aorta
Choking
Silencing
Encoding
A defence
Repeated
Completed time and again
Pre worn
And cut up
And burnt
like a leather
Shield, a muddied bloodied field
War ready



This is a Mexican stand off
Where the pistols
Pull their own pins
This is a temple
Unforgiving of sins.

I can hear a call
For help echoing
Through the death grip
Of regularity
But the voice is familiar
And if I remember correctly
It fades after time.
The voice is mine
one of many
The cry is loud
But habits old are hard to break
And, after all, a rolling stone
Will gather no moss
moss ,enough I have already.
And with the ignorance comes
A steady.
And with the steady
There comes a surface calm.
And with that calm I can sit
At one in a room with myself
And not find cause to cry.
(despite the never ending, it will always be ok)

He' a furtive
sneaky quiet boy
scraps of stories at his tongue
Small slips of strings
waiting to be pulled
Undone;
He is nothing without his lies.

Sitting there
with a smile
tattooed
imbued
lips stitched
with invisible thread,
not misread
more unwritten.

He sits smitten
by his undisclosed.
He sits savouring,
favouring the silent stealth
of hidden words.
His privacy is coded, arcane,
It sustains his urge
to keep his as his,
a little something
for his soul, his
alone to feed on.
His alone to feel.

Sad Sailor songs
and a roll my own
staining brown carcinoma
spit and strand
upon my lip.

Close my eyes
and hear bells,
i can feel them
pealing through
the quiet slippery air.

I can sense
without feeling
An urge without
momentum
{ripples in the breeze}
whispering trees,
this disease
(a spreading sadness)
a badness
sliding, slinking
ink and blight
into the bidding
night.

A smear upon each
dead
shining (dying) star.

Smoke curl, unfurl
and waiting, watching
for another
starry tear to
slide off
the burnt out
face of
the sky.

Life moving fast
Like storm cell rain
Washing, running
Torrent and quickly
Through the drains.
Some daze,
In this cold and constant place
I wish I were a folded paper boat
Tipping, curving crests, afloat
And chasing the stream
Downwind.
Away and washing clean
A waxed vessel
Escaped
Pouring through
Concrete flooring.
I would steer for the sea
On waves awash with
Urban weeds
Detritus sweeping across
The deck
Of my paper boat built
For one.
I would run
With the water
A creased and soggy me
All folded and falling apart
At the seams.

No feelings
No depth
No core to strike the iron hot
Upon.
I regret to inform you Sir
That I have lost the capacity
To care,
That I have dropped the
Ephemeral Ball of belief
And have become tangled
Undone.
A shallow
Hollowed
Cracked
Broken and busted
Shapely shell
That contains only dust,
Particles of Mistrust

I am bumpy rolling stone
No moss collected
Just cleft reflected
On a surface
Not shy or unscarred of pain.

This is today
This empty decay
This is now, this dust cloud
Caught trapped aloof and uncaring.

(Frustration)
It's not working,
all this grinding of the
literical wheel.
Push push slide.
Trying to find
a part of me
from the deep;
inside.
Something pulled out and
penned, something to like,
to love, to call my own and wear
with pride.
It's not working tonight.

All that's left is the taste of
too much tobacco
high and dry in my palate.
All thats left is an empty milk bottle
and not enough black coffee in the world
to wire open my eyes.

These pages are lies
the minute they leave my fingertips.
The words are fleeting
These feelings brief

There is only grief
for the loss of my tongue
when i need it the most.
When i need it to speak
from my heart
despite not hearing
it beat.

Helpless
speechless
Doubtless wasting
my time.