I write letters to God and burn them;
the smoke is my prayer.
Each day brings salty cheeks
and a recurring headache,
the circular path of pain
that storms in my head.
Lightning strikes my nerves
and thunder shakes my shell.
The two are cackling twins
guiding me on the path to Hell.
I've led myself here, and they know it.
Fire and smoke are my hope,
burning scrawl is merely history,
and wounds are only moments
that will cease to be.

The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure; I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth,
a consequence of boredom.
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons.
I am today, you are only last night.

When nothing became of you and I found myself sitting on a sidewalk covered in night.

And the clouds in the sky didn’t wish to stay long; they must have had some place to be.

And the few constellations I knew scorned me, for even they were ashamed.

The weather no longer wore socks, for a barefoot summer is always.

Fall was no Winter and Spring was not long in the making, and Summer is always too far away if never really here.

From sunset to sunrise, I realized it was all meaningless lies.
So now I live in the darkness, because untruths lie unseen.

I didn’t have reason to stay, so I left.

Goodbye, pretty pink sunrise.

Dear Expectation,

What can I say to you,
that you don't expect to hear.
You seemed to have had me covered,
evey step of the way so far, my dear.

How many times have I been left,
languishing in total despair,
Thinking things were a certain way,
but never seeing you hiding there.

How about the girl who thought,
I was her knight on a white horse,
and I turned out to have clay feet,
you laughed you head off, of course.

I fell in love with "The girl next door",
How wonderful it was all going to be,
only to find out her other seven boyfriends,
all laughing and they were laughing at me.

All those millions in the lotteries,
All those none home run hits.
No, Expectations, I've had enough,
I think  it's time to call it quits.

(c) 5th November 2010.

It is a slow day in a little Greek Village. The rain is beating down and the streets are deserted. Times are tough, everybody is in debt, and everybody lives on credit. On this particular day a rich German tourist is driving through the village, stops at the local hotel and lays a €100 note on the desk, telling the hotel owner he wants to inspect the rooms upstairs in order to pick one to spend the night. The owner gives him some keys and, as soon as the visitor has walked upstairs, the hotelier grabs the €100 note and runs next door to pay his debt to the butcher. The butcher takes the €100 note and runs down the street to repay his debt to the pig farmer. The pig farmer takes the €100 note and heads off to pay his bill at the supplier of feed and fuel. The guy at the Farmers' Co-op takes the €100 note and runs to pay his drinks bill at the taverna. The publican slips the money along to the local ******* drinking at the bar, who has also been facing hard times and has had to offer him "services" on credit. The ****** then rushes to the hotel and pays off her room bill to the hotel owner with the €100 note. The hotel proprietor then places the €100 note back on the counter so the rich traveller will not suspect anything. At that moment the traveller comes down the stairs, picks up the €100 note, states that the rooms are not satisfactory, pockets the money, and leaves town. No one produced anything. No one earned anything. However, the whole village is now out of debt and looking to the future with a lot more optimism. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how the bailout package works.


Wonderful article passed on to me by an anonymous author

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
6 march 2012

Touch me,
it doesn't matter where
and it doesnt matter how
I need to know I'm still alive
so someone touch me now
Shake my hand and say hello
or pat me on the back
kiss me on the cheek
that I may feel this sense I lack
slap my face and pull my hair
make me bleed I just don't care
dig your nails into my skin
so I can feed this need within
I've been numb for such a time
that even pain would be sublime
so touch me, touch me now
I don't care where, I don't care how

Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.

Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.

You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.

“It’s like a hand grenade,” he says,
“You only have so much control
But it is your responsibility to throw it out there”

This is poetry
This is my soul
These are my words
Shrapnel shards of
I shouldn’t be telling you this about myself
Let me pack them in

Pray I hit home
Hit you with burning chunks of truth
Burn you with passion
My passion
My stutters
Let me infect you with my
Poorly written prose

The only thing I ever wanted was for you to feel me
You feel me?

Do you feel this?
Do you?

Be honest
Because this metal will burst once the pin is pulled
And these fingers will tremble once the words are read
And I just don’t want to be lonely

I don’t want to fall asleep every night
Half drunk
With no one to hold
Maybe
Squeeze like a worry stone

Soak up my fear
You beautiful aftermath
Of word craters
And ink splatters

Let me stain you with a happy accident
Of simple passion
With the words you were looking for
So you can finally explain how you’ve felt

Know
I’ve felt that way too

It’s what I do
I feel sometimes

So take this
Ticking time bomb
Of bitter patience
And the need to be accepted
And the need to be useful
And the desire to be better

BOOM

You feel me?