of which
is humor
and of
which is
life
that our
dry mouths
gape
at the beauty
of death?  
old princesses
and young
hobgoblins
will
laugh at
our
naiveté
that imitates
picnic blankets
and checker boards.
"Many perished
precisely
because
they were young
and beautiful."

Andre Breton
laughs
with our age
and our age
laughs
at time
and time laughs
at half
played grand pianos
and full moons
and they laugh
at our fingers
which fumble
at life
and life
fumbles through
humor.

of which is humor
and of
which is life
we wonder
as water clogged
ears strain to
hear.
or listen?

Tonight I was hit by a man I do not know
Now I am truly left with nowhere to go
I can't quite wrap myself into comfort
I can't quite make myself feel anything
All I feel is my cheekbone swelling
I hope that no one can tell

Just a bunch of ghosts and scabs,
Walking around,
Taped to one another

I was standing where the sweet daisies grow
And it was there I saw your pretty face
It belonged to a feline tuxedo
Who always smiled so bright and jumped with grace
I was sitting in the dark forest here
Where time doth always stand still and dreams grow
I saw your face so very crystal clear
It belonged to my darling Silvestro
On the island beside the ocean dear
I saw you wading in the deep-blue waves
Everywhere I look you're always near
I even saw you sitting by the graves
You are always on my bed at night
I'm glad to write this for such a fair wight

*~Marian~

I fear we have fallen
Into an English spell
Which subtly says to us
You are not capable
Wrapped in a golden
Envelope and slipped
Into our subconscious
With a diminishing smile

Should we trust the hand
Which patronizingly offers
Financial security while the
Other hand saps our strength
As they puff up their own ego feathers
As England waddles around the globe
Like a fat bird still hungover
From the British Empire
As they still play their empire game
With the fat turkey across the water

Is the only place we can
Choose to paint our face with
Our own colours is to remain
The sideline of a rugby pitch
As England paints its colours
And philosophy over our world
The spellbound English
May see themselves as
A well meaning parent
But they stifle our freedom
As we are made to feel like children
As they cast a net over us

Let us not be bewitched
By their bribery
Or consumed by their words
As they bind us to a wheelchair
We never needed
Let us raise our own ceiling
From its deflated value
We have been cast
Are we all fooled by
A blanket of economic mysticism
Are we not blessed with enough ability
Or should we keep sending our
Home work to London
So they may score our maths

Has England gnawed away at our
Self confidence for so long
That we ourselves on our knees
Unable to convince ourselves
Of our own capability
For we are not England
With its lost identity
As it spreads itself losing
All boundaries and self
Our first steps maybe nervy
As we seek our center
To find our balance

The choice is yours
But while our eyes are
Distracted and bedazzled
By the London elite
Our Scotland remains partially
Unseen and unheard
So let us turn our eyes back
And see our SCOTLAND
And hear him ROAR!!!!

Roses are sprouting
The violets in bloom
The rain is falling hard
Just like I am for you

I want you to read me,
The words always on my face.
But you only glance
And decide
The book is too long,
Or not worth it,
Or maybe you read the critics
And chose to skip it.
But I want you to hold me,
The way you hold those old
Leather bound pages
And tenderly turn
Chapter after chapter.
I want you to adore me,
Although I'm not yet
A novel,
No masterpiece by any means,
But I could take you
Places you've never been
And make you
Feel alive again.