I do not speak in sombre tones
Not for me the gentle echo
Hushing through hallowed halls
I shall growl my way to the grave
Be ****** to the insignificant
And to hell with the indifferent
There are no rules or rulers
There are only fools and foolers

I need no-one else's straight lines
I have imagination enough to swerve
And spite enough to spin
Snapping snarling and seditious
Spitting venomous and vicious
Flamed by the world's injustice
And humanity's indifference
Not until I am dead burned and scattered
Shall I rest assured

                                By Phil Roberts

This is my romance
I long to fly,
sunsoak, sundance,
buzz and sing

When I'm a bee,
I fly erratically,
looking for flowers.
to help make honey

Where are you, Queen?
I respond just to You
I bring my nectar only for you
I feel your presence near

Buzzit! I feel strange,
downright deranged.
What's that in black?
Is our hive under attack?!

Humans are very fine
targets for my behind.
Buzz, buzz, I make a pass;
Now he gets a piece of ***

Uh-oh, what's that smokin'?
Bzzt, I'm feelin' heartbroken.
Bee hearts are so tiny
And easily broken

I'm flying
erratically
so high now



I'm out of breath
I'm closer to death

I'm going down now,
drifting
I'm going to sleep now, dreaming
of my Queen in our Hive of Honey
When I'm a bee

A gashed and gaping pumpkin burns
emits a rancid rotting odor
greeting pre-diabetic heathens

Black cats and screeching bats
startle the littlest of the munchers
in a city decayed by blood and rust

A bridge tilted by a millimeter
lords over rushing river and splinters
struts in metal fashion before the storm

Gladiators hallucinate between concussions
Lions and christians and furry huns
leap from alleys and dumpsters and gutters

Bands play and march and dazzle
rippling brass and silver on a field
before brazen cheering plebians

Hear the song of a thousand dreams
a thousand shouts singing out of key
uncertainty brings the cacophony down an octave

Presidential box matches the drapes
Imagination finishes the vision of a short
master stroke invoking the myth of the tyrant

Setting sun on an amateur showdown  
in the shadow of an errant arc
choking the last gasps from a senile warrior

Passing boredom in a controlled climate
Cringes in a backseat with no batteries
dying echoes of "are we there yet...."

Babies and mental patients despair
over loss of closeness and peace
disappeared into dystopic hysteria

Hobbits and goblins and Big Bird frolics
in a sanitized concept of Hell
among treats and smiles and winks

The worst part is that I don't want to let you go,
because I can't accept this life without you.

We live in a world of talkers,
Of shouters, of debaters, of know it alls.
Listening is a long extinct creature,
Unheard of by a species that has devolved to simply wait their turn to talk.
Conversations no longer flow like rivers,
Instead they are puddles:
Started, then abandoned to become bone dry.

We live in a world of talkers,
All raising their volume to be heard,
Shouting that their opinions are fact.
No being is exempt from the epidemic,
The infectious itch to crank the volume dial right
And scream that the other talkers are wrong.

We live in a world of talkers,
Of screamers, of bigots, of smart alecs
In a universe not made for this noise.
The voices get louder, the status updates get longer, the protests get deadlier.
We live in a world of talkers
And soon we will live in a world of mutes.

She dresses in paisley
Wishes on daisies
Falls asleep to the televisions glow

Drinks Calamine tea
The tea she believes
Brings about memories only she knows

Wears perfume on her finger tips
So when she points it smells like this
Lavender with a hint of ginger

She has a yellow bird that talks
A pink and purple frog
She dresses in mink come winter

Her shoe leather is patent
The only way she will have them
Her tribute to the 70's

She herself is a secret
Hoping that she can keep it
As she floats across the seven seas