Four pigeons sing-song, nine hours the day long
Menial and manual, this warehouse life is annual
Lonely industrial estates on a hazy morning
when the ecstatic eastern winds are horning
Where I count boxes, load lorries and dodge bosses
Listen to the birds coo and a phone playing blues too
I give names to them all, the birds in the rafters
and sing a nine hour song of all their ever afters
Dirt under my nails, from a day of insulation sales
The solace I find of an eve is the fantastic words you weave
You who write to live, you who my soul I will give
The ghost of my future self, a rambling poet
working for money, I'll be you I just know it
Simultaneous afterlife, generational satellite
The energy we possess, is transferred with every breath
You are me and I am you, together, nothing we can't do
Some day I'll run wild, a leader of a literary mob
but right now I just dream of such things on the job
Even when the days run long, the wild willingness to wander the world was implicit in her eyes.
Do you know that there's an irreversible truth in the way handsome leaves rustle in the Autumn folly and when that crazy tide spells messages in silt and shells on the beachfront, you will know those truths? For within them, the ringing and reigning of unspeakable notions is one that envelopes your eager heart and gives you the undeniable strength to hold mountains in your hands and to maintain the vast skies in your soul.
So when you look into the mirror on some lonesome evening and those cold cobalt eyes of yours are cataracted and fluttering; please know that you are the divine, the Om, the last of the enlightened and the corresponding soul to that which I so sadly possess today.