the reason to wake is to kiss the day
and be kissed back awake
by the fineness of the thinking mind
and a heart so big it breaks
on the shores of everyday madness
she bleeds a little tear and rushes
to set right the wrongs of mankind
kissing a wound here and there and here again
she wakes to a brand new day

musicality is relative thoughts
sung in a misunderstood heart

Oh to be what you do
is a fight from the start

no-one will give you quarter
in a dog eat dog world

poet in the furnace
you have to sing to be heard

joined-up thinking
a poets curse
and blessing

A hard day's night.
My car's on the street.
The lights of the bars are beckoning me.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep . . . )

"Walking disaster -
how long can he last?"
They place wagers on my defeat.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams.)

I go faster,
and drive right past.
I've made promises I intend to keep.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams,
and I've got an axe.)

A hard day's end.
I drift off to sleep.
Another mark tallied; this makes three weeks.
Robert Frost and I celebrate small victories.

a tapestry wove with her tongue
hangs on my bedroom wall
she spoke it into dust
a poet of the twenty first
living on the edge of time

her voice rose from a heart alive and dying
dying for love so vacant-

in a world of poets
poets bleed-out often

Broken heart.
Useless waits.
I give up.