All the colors swirl and mix
Becoming something grey that i can not fix
All colorless and shapeless and beyond definition
I wonder how it got in this helpless condition
The music stopped playing and children stopped smiling
And now its all office work and senseless filing
The grey offices with all the grey people inside
They all just want to provide
The blanket of grey clouds covers the light
And below them people move out of sight
The streets lie in waste and disuse
And people live in houses of self abuse
Towers of videos and junk food cover the floor
You can't seem to reach the door
Its all seem so grey
All i can do is pray
That we can find some color

I can feel your presence,
I can feel your touch,
As I close my eyes to the darkness,
I can feel your warm breath softly brush,
It swathes my being,
It engulfs my soul,
Lost in an abyss of pleasure,
Desires of the flesh have taken control,
Nothing is sacred, nothing is taboo,
Lust is the power, the wisdom and the fool.

Sitting a corner booth by herself,
sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea
and reading Keats.
Hands down, she's the most
captivating person in this bar.

Fingertips calloused, and hands nicked and scraped
like she'd been in a fight with experience
and went down swinging.
Eased into her seat like slipping naked into a hot bath.
Smiled with all her teeth
like no one was looking.

Left her phone at home,
in pieces on the kitchen floor.
Tonight was the night she was going to forget all about the custody battle
the bill collectors
the late night fights about who was right
and who was left in the room with all this shattered glass to clean  up
the long sobbing nights with her pillow and her secret shame
the regret for time poorly spent looking for love in bars and cold blue eyes
the years that separated her from twenty-two –  when she was young and delusionally happy.

With her body language, she unknowingly spoke to me:
Tonight, I came to drink and dance.
Don't bother me with pick up lines.
Pick up artists, go find another canvas.
Mine's been painted over plenty.
I don't have the time to save anymore white knights from their mother's ***.
That fairytale story always ends in Shakespearean tragedy.
Plus, the **** horse leaves scuff marks on the dance floor.

I take one last sip
and slip the bartender an extra twenty-
tonight the nightingale drinks for free.

I leave before she can thank me.

I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.

There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.

Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.

If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.

(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks

Silent, swiftly sliding through a mazy mix of memories
Confused by what is up and what is down.
I can’t be sure if what I see is quite correctly coloured:
Are these strange familiar sites my own home town?
I vaguely recollect that what I dreamt was what I saw
Though what I saw was maybe what I dreamt.
The quality of dreams reflects the quality of sleep
And nightmares always leave me quite unkempt.
Pleasant reveries come out of cheerful, happy thoughts:
A safe and soothing slumber calms the soul.
The rigours of the day are at best just locked away-
Except in dreams they sometimes take their toll.
Our ability to pick and choose the dreams we want to have
Is like hiding in a corner in a dome,
A feat that I achieved inside the dream I had last night.
You see, the brain just has a mind all of its own.

I drift among the spheres
Sipping coffee
Colour swirling
Like a VanGogh