I like walking to see the man.

When the trees are stiff

and the clouds are glowing,

i take the high road up

to where creeks are flowing.

To where panthers sing, in

the darkest nights, to where shadows

are pythons and liken bites

when i can i see the man

i feel something inside me

bland, but beautiful,

second hand,

like a magic spell

in possum land, goannas

lizards, private lynx,

and kissen wizards

hybrid shrinks

when iv got a problem,

or my eye lid kinks

i follow the road

up to the skyward links.

Theres three roads,

once you arrive there well

theres one that will take

you up a plywood cell

and in this you scream

“take me to the dream

mr Pirolell!”

And if he hears you

in time youl smell

a clear blue gel, or feel a tear brew.

Well that is a bridge to enter your dreams.

—

The next road, the second, leads to

a humble abode with a pleasant

decadent essence. Inside this are

creatures that are big and

small, hairy and airy

ones, some are fairies holden

up librarians with scary guns

some are twisted toads with

bowed blisted noads

living life in a dark pit

solarium.

You must confront these

creatures to reach

the immortal bays

of the Pirolell beaches.

And here you will

be taught by the teacher

of teachers.

And that is the man i

walk to see.

—

The third road

you must tame an

insane hawk to walk

to the magic chalk board.

The bird is wanting to

**** those that wish

to write with the sword or quill, in spite

of it guarding its lord that is still.

If you can tame the hawk

than what ever you question

on the board with chalk will speak aloud

proud monstrous way,

and will discover all that is heavenly.

And youl realise that the man is fantasy.