I pledge allegiance to the bigotry
of the Fractured States of Sanity,
and to the Republican for whom it grovels;
one dystopia, godless, divided,
with liberty and justice for those straight white folks who can afford it

The duck is a curious creature
who has one astonishing feature;
she speeds up when excited,
crescendos, delighted,
and, if you're a grape, she might eatcha.

I knew a young lady of seventeen,
who harboured a great love for nepheline.
She'd use what she found
of these rocks from the ground
to fling through her ex-boyfriend's car windscreen.

I met an astute hippopotamus.
Though his voice could get very monotonous,
he could quote each refrain
writ by Shakespeare and Twain,
and his knowledge of Dickens was bottomless.

The versatile buttock abounds with
such uses as 'what you sit down with'.
Such a wonderful tool,
but what I find most cool:
‘tis an awf'lly fun thing to make sounds with.

She wanders by the twilit lake,
for thoughts of him kept her awake,
so now she feels her heart may break,
and walks on, cold and bitter.

He treated her with scant respect,
while his behaviour went unchecked
and after years of self-neglect
she doesn't know what hit her.

The whispered words behind the bend
allow her heart no chance to mend,
thus forcing her instead to tend
to purely stressful matters,

and all the while the breezes blow,
the things she didn't want to know
occur to her in steady flow
and leave her heart in tatters.

For what good comes neglecting chat
which lays her bare, or lies her flat,
if without help, her brain does that,
and worse, it complicates it?

But she never does speak thus,
it's to be felt, not to discuss,
and, wanting not to cause a fuss,
she never even states it.

Oh don't mind me. I'll
just keep quietly dying
here out the inside

There once was a codger from Sydney
who said, 'That bloke stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.

here's to the girl who caught his eye
the one he never had
always in his back of mind
forever dormant, undefined
but ever since they said goodbye
the thought had grown sad
the one he never had
here's to the girl who caught his eye
aye, the girl who caught his eye

here's to the girl who broke his heart
the girl he loved and lost
there for him when no one was
who stuck around him just because
before she ripped the world apart
and lived to see the cost
the girl he loved and lost
here's to the girl who broke his heart
aye, the girl who broke his heart

here's to the girl who loves him still
the girl who never strayed
through thick and thin she spurred him on
and even though he now is gone
and left her nothing in the will
she stands there, poised and staid
the girl who never strayed
here's to the girl who loves him still
aye, the girl who loves him still

loneliness is just nostalgia
with a certain melancHoly
singular in form and yet
ubiquitous in mankind's folly

lonelinEss is frank aliveness
knowledge pure and terrifying
often coming, rarely going
self and ego freely dying

Loneliness is distilled dreaming
bottled by the ancient sorrows
sculPted to an angry brew and
full of ifs and lost tomorrows

loneliness is midnight meals
Microwaved on plastic trays
and eaten with a bitter sigh
to pass away the empty days

and loneliness is self-deception
Ev'ry time we draw our breaths
for we forget we call the shots
yet still crash blindly t'ward our deaths

I gave my girl a gift -
a dandy wee device:
a piece of string! A marv'lous thing!
But yet, she weren't at ease.
She seemed, I must admit,
a little... well... let down by it,
so this is what I said to her,
in order to appease:

"You see," I said, "my sweet,
if you take your end, yes,
and tie it to your wrist, and I
tie mine to mine in kind,
we'll never be apart.
Just think, and listen to your heart -
entangled thus, the two of us
will always be entwined!

This single strand of string
can be the bond between
the two of us, no matter where
we go or what we do -
for if you go astray,
or I grow far too far away,
this piece of twine will be divine
to guide me home to you."

Her laugh was long and loud.
She held her hand up high.
"That's great," she said, "but I'm not sure,
and yes, I could be wrong -
but if I am so bold,
I think it's time that you were told:
in case you hadn't noticed,
this string's barely one foot long!"

"You got me good," I grinned.
"It's all part of the plan.
You see, if I connect us two,
and tether heart to heart,
I'll always be in reach.
I do beseech you heed my speech.
A foot's the furthest I could ever
want us both apart."

She frowned her furrowed brow.
She eyed me, eye to eye.
"I'm not your dog, you wacko!
Leave me well enough alone!
You visit me each day;
each time I tell you, 'go away',
but somehow you still think I'm keen
to be a thing you own."

She soundly slammed the door.
I walked my way back home.
I so wish she would smile at me
and lead me to her room.
But I can heal the rift.
She's sure to love tomorrow's gift:
a teddy bear, with fluffy hair,
and eyes that I can zoom!

Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).

Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.

All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.

"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!

She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.

In from the rain the barber comes,
and shimmies off his jacket.
His customers' hair
is already there,
waiting for him to attack it.

Swish! Slice! Snickerty-snack!
Face the mirror, forwards!
How ya bin?
Tilt your chin -
the hairs fall to the floorboards!

Sometimes, just walking a few yards makes me tired enough for a nap.

Sometimes, when I'm exercising, my ears start ringing.

Sometimes I look at birds but they fly away when I get too close.

Sometimes I lick my bowl after dessert.

Sometimes my toilet starts to smell.

Sometimes people step on my toes.

Sometimes I like to pretend the sofa is a playground.

Sometimes I feel like things are just out of my reach.

Sometimes I'm clumsy and knock things over, but I'm never in trouble for long.

Sometimes all I need are cuddles.

And if you're good, sometimes I'll ***** furballs for you, to show you my undying love.

He perched upon his steely throne,
beset by plebs and debtors,
and made his judgement, more astute
than any man of letters:

"This usurper who bears no name -
he never sees the sun,
and thus daren't start his daily toil
'til evening has begun.

'Til the twilight bell doth knell
the pastures he'll surrender,
for in this land of habitudes
he is their one defender.

A rider came, with news; he has
conferred with his committee -
the dastard has concieved a plan
to **** and raze this city.

As such," continued on the king,
"'tis well within my reckoning
that any decent gent would not
to such a man be beckoning.

And therefore," he went on, "I do
declare that he and we are foes -
so, rally, soldiers! Go ye forth!
Let him regret the path he chose."

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
blinking from who-knows-how-far,
holding captive all our eyes,
muse for all our lullabies.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
how I wonder what you are.

Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way,
cosmic star of cabaret,
filling up our eyes at night,
making moonlight shadows bright.
Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way -
what a vision you display.

Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy,
often do I think of thee,
hurtling through time and space,
pirouetting in your place.
Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy -
Teach us all to be as free.

What is this? Is this addiction,
    that strange and sorrowful affliction,
a yearning for a certain friction,
    grasping like a seed to light?
What if now, in place of sinking,
    I fell apart and started thinking -
looking at myself unblinking -
    is this what I need tonight?

But you see
The fact is
You have to understand
Really though
If you weigh it up
I have to say
If I'm being honest
What it is
To tell the truth
Well actually
To be clear
But truthfully
When all is said and done
                                                      
     ­                                                     How do you know?

Isn't it a joy to look forward, skyward,
       (head spills to the anti-brain)
and follow with your eyes the wrens and magpies(LOUD)
champions of commonsense who don't care
because they know nothing more?
       (But what do we know no more?
       The eternity before us, the true art of peace...)
No, it's not enough to just look up,
       (yank back to reality, squinting at the dark)
for what a waste the heavens are!
       (No time in the day for that kind of lark)
No, better by far to keep the head down,
       (nose sniff neck stiff brow frown)
keep to the rest of the bunch
       (chin chest eye ground back hunch)
and follow the pristine path instead
       (for then one can't be misled)
and leave the wild, melodic skies
to romantics
     and dreamers
  and wrens
     and magpies

emotions
turn
hazy
and
nobody
objects to
love

somebody
please
ask that
rowdy
rascal to shove
off so I can
write in peace

.                                      m                   m                   m
                                      a                     a                    a
                                    ­ e                     e                    e
                                  ­  t                     t                    t
                                   s                    s                    s
                               BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                              BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                             BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                            BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat
    I'm a boat                                                             ­     I'm a boat
        I'm a boat                O         O         O               I'm a boat
            I'm a boat                                                  I'm a boat
                  I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat toot toot I'm a boat

you
once told me that
until we met,
rarely did you
ever recieve

and/or deserve any

form of
unconditional love,
care, or
kindness, while - even
in my chilliest nights -
never did you have
grace enough to

consider returning such
understanding. at least,
not to me. well,
times change...

Finish the music you're playing.
I'll wait.
I'll never get weary
of hearing the melodies
you and your fingers create.

Finish the canvas you're painting.
My heart
fills up with such pride
inside when I see
how much joy you put into your art.

Finish the poem you're writing.
It's time.
I long for a day when
the grey leaves your mind
and you hit on the perfect rhyme.

Finish the book you started.
It's worth
the pain you'll go through
to do what you love
and gift sweet conception with birth.

someone
obviously
considered
it
a
laugh

(meanwhile, on
earth) ... what
do
i do
about it?

Consider that; a life that's dead
   without a voice that's raised in song,
and no sweet chorus in one's head.
   Consider that; a life that's dead;
what would a person do instead?
   No music marching them along?
Consider that; a life that's dead
   without a voice that's raised in song,

Consider this, a life of pain
   and torment, full of ancient grief;
no joyfulness can it attain.
   Consider this, a life of pain,
amounting to a curdled brain
   inside of which there's no relief.
Consider this, a life of pain
   and torment, full of ancient grief.

Consider all: a life so dark
   that even night provides no match,
but hides in search of moon or spark.
   Consider all: a life so dark
the mind grows only cold and stark,
   destruction as its only catch.
Consider all: a life so dark
   that even night provides no match.

Consider what the wisest say
   in terms of lives a person leads;
to tread the path and never stray.
   Consider what the wisest say,
but if you dare to lose your way,
   be careful not to trip in weeds.
Consider what the wisest say
   in terms of lives a person leads.

It's been the longest time, my sweet,
since both the two of us did meet;
it is, I have to say, a treat
to be a part of you again.

And since the moon is getting low,
I guess it's time for me to go -
I'll be back if you want me though,
to be a part of you again.

I fear, my love, I must depart;
I'm thankful for this brand new start,
and (now without a broken heart)
to be a part of you again.

I missed you so when you were gone,
but now it's my turn to go on,
so farewell, dear, until anon;
until we part anew again.

He left her on the lamplit doorstep, smiling,
grateful, finally, for their reconciling.
Then he paused and turned around again,
full of questions he could not contain...

Pardon me for saying, miss;
I only wish once more to kiss
your loving, sacred lips. What bliss
to be a part of you again.

Spitter spatter
isn't that a pocketful of rain,
that you keep
in your pocket
like a locket on a chain
that's so heavy on your mind
it can not be left behind?
It doesn't help that all the snow-
flakes are falling on the lane.
With a screech
and a grind
what may go
through your mind
is the mist
that you kissed
as you followed him while blind,
and that same
spitter spatter
doesn't help
doesn't matter
any more
than the chatter
of the girl
he may find.
And while your
strength is waning in the cold,
it starts raining
just another indication
of the touch
of his hand,
and that simple situation
of your present incarnation
silky smooth
on the rope -
it could cause
the foundation
to collapse
like a tree
or through fing-
ers like sand.
Is it broken?
Did it flee?
Is it light enough to see
that the girl
that you were
isn't strong enough to be?
So your feet
hanging there
motionless
in the air
rent your pocketful of rain
and at last
set you free.

a vinyl dream a boy once had
stacks of roses t
                            o
                              p
 ­                               p
                                ­  l
                                    i
                       ­               n
                                        g
      ­          d
                   o
                      w
                          n
                      to the worms
                a sed(im)entary soul (reaching a stolen heart)
rebuilds
      and from the black slurry
                      a yellow rose

              aliveinthemoment (as ever he was
alive)

Whenever I begin to write a verse,
   I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
   and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
   the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
   the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
   among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
   and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.