Without your sun, there would not be tomorrow,
(By)
and there would not be a spring for our hearts.
(little)

Our time will not surrender,
(streams)
understand we are so close.
(we lay.)

Without your sun there would not be tomorrow,
(Your)
and there would not be winter for your heart.
(tiny,)

Our time has now surrendered
(white)
to your cold heart.
(fingers curled)

For once we were laden with love;
(around)
cherubs and devils called to us then,
(grasses)

And we did not dare to heed their stings, nor did they dare to
(and we)
hide their wings.
(did not fear)

Without your sun there would not be tomorrow
(the)
and there would not be a grave for our love.
(way we)

And yet your moon still burns bright
(would)
in this cold night.
(ever end.)

All surrounded by
chatter the likes
we have never seen.
A lone tree spreads its beams
up to the sky
in front of an antique memory;
shaping a factory.

I cast a question to a fake fire
that glitters and moves
with the unearthly heat
of an old lover
known in my teenage years.

I wonder where you are
and why we sit apart,
when the moon is a trumpeteer
and the sun is a herald.

And here,
In a small corner of a small place,
in the world, a small man
sings about love.

While a ballroom somewhere
in a nameless Metropolis
holds a God that prays
about money.

I wonder where you sit,
in the shade of broken plaster
spilling out soft Celtic rhyme
in the hands of Johnny Cash
and Jimmy Dean in miniature.

As a slow breeze comes,
a soft kiss runs
all for a lonely girl
with hands all curled
around directionless oars.

Their sky held by a trace
scented like a relic.

And somewhere in a furnace
the rest of us sit.
Somewhere in the middle
of Juxtapose street.

Strumming like a metronome
the feeling sinks like yesterday -
or Tuesday
maybe even Sunday.

It's all the same.

The days end in Y
and God still sits on the *******
reading Newsweek.

If he runs out of paper,
I pity the Watchtower.
It might come out with
post traumatic stress disorder.

Self awareness is the currency here
but all the mirrors are smashed,
or covered in grime.

The question remains;
When you're not sophisticated enough for here
and too sophisticated for there,
Where do you go?

I love the security
of the way we drink tonight.
I love the ambiguity
of the way we say hello
and the manner in which your taste
like the first drop of wine
sets my standard on broken edge
and my teeth are praying.

The roses in your eyes
the truth in your lies
come from the same place.
Lets just hope you know this
the way I do.

I wonder where the local rock stars
get their rhythm,
if they didnt pay for it
they surely stole it
from Bob, Simon and the rest.

Never trust a man who doesnt drink,
when he ***** a guitar into song.

You can hear it moan and crackle
as its heart seems to crumble
there in his sober hands.

If only I knew what he meant
by this adultery
he might make a dollar out of me.
But since he coats himself in mystery
a poor man pays not a cent
for a taste of his $2 life.

The Big Bopper got *****
by the ghost of Heath Ledger.
Somehow I think it made him smile.

I'm Not surprised;
all shock has worn off in subtlety.

The cover band plays a tirade
of songs we all heard before.

They switch to originals;
which all sound the same.

Originality is as rare as a dollar in my pocket
and just as likely to be spent in tastelessness.

She wore her dinner loose - more of a greasy pub lunch.
******* harder than diamonds in the open winter heat.

Not hungry anymore.

Airplane coffee
tastes the way we think
hospitals smell.

Single reading light
will not help any of us
with inspiration.

Red Curtain hiding
the captain from the peasants;
he has control.

The blinking light
glows like a fire fly does -
Where the **** are we?

White walls like sea shells
so high but I cannot smoke,
lets hope we dont crash.

Big man with tattoos,
I make a bet with myself:
I think he's a ***.

The window open
No stars and I cant see ****,
should've flown ******.
(they have music)

Pale legs spread open
I feel the hunger rising
nom nom nom....nom nom.

I wish I could smoke
**** coffee not worth 3 bucks,
I wish I could smoke.

Man asleep near me
I can see up his nostrils,
I want to poke him.

Beeping wakes the man
long fingers open bottle
pops importalt pill.

Bored beyond belief
how long till we hit Melbourne?
Better Keep writing.

Big man with tattoos,
shaved head with eyes like satan
carries sequined coin purse.

Thousands of feet up
getting the hang of haiku;
we're about to land.

Empty glasses sit like soldiers at attention.
8 wide, 10 thick;
ranks for drunks.

The business of boredom
beats the barmaids and patrons
into service,
or subservience.

We are watched over
by flickering eyes
which could
stop
staring
at any moment.

Loneliness is a half-pint.

I'm glad my glass is full.

I'm glad the barmaid wears checks on her stockings.

I'm glad the barmaid reads.

I'm glad the economy is ******,
so economists have something to make them feel interesting.

I'm glad the lesbians found feminism;
instead of Jesus.

I'm glad for the sad eyed, gray haired drunks
that live off Marlboro Red's and dream-fumes.

I'm glad the roof is stained with memories:
postcards
sketches
photographs
an old box of pills.

And I love you because you're a *******.

I traced a map across your senses
penned a sonnet in flesh
Under setting noon day sun.

The scent of forgotten nostalgia;
A tinge on the breeze
A speckle on a stone
A whisper through the city
Where we no longer roam.

And auburn locks
In golden light
Brought music
to the dead silent night.