''I'm not convinced that I am doing it right." the little girl said,
And she tilted the glass so the insides slipped out.
The moon gazed down and shook his head,
"No, no, not at all, my dear, my sweet."
She hung her arms low, so her fingers grazed the soil.
"I'm trying, I'm trying!" the little girl moaned.
And from the dirt appeared a worm,
"Not enough, not enough." was all that she heard.

And down she fell to the ground in a heap.

Drink another beer darling,
drink another beer.

It's the only time I get any sort of real emotion out of you.
So grab another.

What's worse? The fact that you only show affection to me when you are 7 in,
or that I put up with this incoherent love affair?

daliance. daliance.

Can a year still mean nothing?

Tonight,
I've decided that it can.

The problem with bright futures
Is that they grow as dull as everything else.
They too collect dust,
Hold every speck of dirt they can find -
Until you wake one morning and realise you are trapped.

See the walls have crept closer
And the ceilings leant down to hug the floor.
But they're only there to support you,
Because they love you so,
And they do not see their embrace can crush.

“It’s hard to stop being lazy.
I think it’s because it takes serious effort
To admit to yourself, that you’re lazy.”

Oh lover!   Your absent heart has left me wanting.
Your unfocused mind has left me wandering.
You are a playing field, and I am the ball.*

Bounce me.


Words are funny things;
We think we know them;
We think we have mastery over them,
That they are ours to manipulate.

But words, they have a life of their own,
And the power they can speak, we do not fully grasp.

Maybe, words will spill out of you tomorrow morning
As the sun lifts it's brow,
And you are in your bathrobe drinking coffee.
Will you be waiting for them?   Will you listen?

Maybe.

Or, perhaps you will be engrossed in the sports section
When the next clear moment arrives.
And you will miss hearing it.

And those words will fly on past you
And settle on the ears of another,
Less inclined to avoidance of the truth.

I do not have a picture of you
except the gray one drifting in my head  
I will feebly tell the world about you
and your three walls
the grated window does allow the morning light  
to shine upon the graffiti prophets’ words
a scratched and scrolled novella
on the ancient cold bricks  
the indelible tales they tell
hang above the pocked porcelain pools  
where the unclean
were scrubbed by the unholy  
who thought them unworthy
of their sacred soil  
some would scream during the rituals
not at the pain of the brush
or the eye sting of the careless lye,
their rabid cries
came from the vacant eyes
of their captors
who did not see them
in their naked splendor,
speak their forgotten names
in the dead morning air, or  
even hear them,
when they cried to their gods for mercy,
to be released from their pestilent past
and to be made blind
to the servant’s silent suffering
only they could see