College kids drink.
It's not the blood of Christ.
And when it is,
they still seem to abuse it.
The church doors are locked.
And my parents called.
And I don't know who these people are
And we're all drunk,
and it feels like skipping time.
Not in a grand sense of the word,
a 5 years ago I was in high-school sense of the word,
but where time doesn't exist, and there we are/

The night shines like gasoline oil.
But we're crammed together.
So I take a walk in bare feet in the mud.

I walk by guys who want to fight
Who smash bottles of Sky.
Shards exploding.

And I want my bed
and I walk home
a mile, then two, then it's three a.m.
Half jogging, drunk walking,
tipsy jogging, singing songs,
car lights are shooting starring
past me.

And no one drives me home this time
and I just want my bed
and I keep singing
some kid cudi song.

And then I'm home back in my bed
and I drink glasses of water
and then strip and get under the warm layers
and cool ceiling fan wind and drift asleep.

And I wake and drink more water.
Then fall asleep again.

When one poet in plaintive wail, bemoans his certain knowledge,
his efforts paled and pallored by compare to giants long immortalized,
and yet provokes a third, yet another to compose,
pledged has it that the grayed ashen bones
of Shakespeare, Marlowe and his ilk and crew,
neath sod and sand, and English loam and land,
but for an instant, a tradition says,
their remains glow and gleam,
a poet dead centuries, yet for a few seconds risen,
lighting and lifting, not just him, but those who
surround themselves with cherished words spent freely

You said you would **** it this morning.
Do not **** it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

lyrics - not a usual poem*

It's time for me to go,
To a place I've never been,
It's time for me to fall in love,
With things I've never seen.

And if you should miss me,
Here's what I have to say,
Keep awake for the sunrise,
For tomorrow is another day.

It's time for me to leave,
Staying here is breaking me apart,
It's time for me to wander alone,
And find my own new start.

And if my face is lost from your mind,
Here's what I believe to be true,
My face is not important my darling,
For I am in the very heart of you.

It's time for me to put my shoes on,
And go very far away from here,
It's time to forget everything,
I once held so close and dear.

So if you should forget me, my love,
That would do just fine,
For if we were meant to be,
Love will find the time.