I'm getting old and I am falling to bits
think I'll give up the ghost
and just call it quits.

It's alright for you,
You're all so young
and so very vibrant
but I am reliant on doctors and pills
and every day I go on just brings me more ills.

The Priest Calls...

..and tells me,
'that life is but a distraction
and afterwards the real action begins
Repent of your sins'
Oh Christ
I don't want to hear that no more
I show him the door.

I try to shuffle around
but I admit it at last I am almost bedbound.

The Lady Calls...

..I let her in
another repentable sin?
but she just looks and she laughs
and says,
'the only thing you'll get in that bed is bedbaths'
I don't need to show her the door
she's there before
I even know it.

Yes,
getting old is the pits
are you also thinking of calling it quits?

Life is a fight
nature fights for the light
we are all blind in the night
and none more than me.
I can see I'll go on 'til the day's finally gone
but nothing tastes good any more
I wonder who let my taste buds out the door.

The Devil Knocks..

..and that shocks me awake
but I never really sleep
got to keep my eye on the green line.
Beep.Beep.Beep
the monitor doesn't allow me to sleep
but 'Old Nick makes me sick
he's even older than me
why would I want to be one of his acolytes?
they're just little shites.
I show him the door
and he roars into flames
feckin showoff.

We walk hand in hand

our own enchanted land

fulfilling what we’ve planned


Treasuring every moment

our love, a drug, so potent

meeting you, I’ll never lament


Today, tomorrow and every day after

I plan to fill with lots of laughter

and know that I’m only getting dafter


I’m devoted to you

dreams can come true

when they’re dreamed by two

I remember,
I kissed her behind the bike shed
my head felt quite dizzy
fizzy
like lemonade
I prayed it would never end
that she would never send me away.

I remember,
as if it was yesterday
But I might as well try catching peals from a bell
memories  always sell you short.

But you know sometimes I get caught
in the drift
as if someone has lifted a lid on the past
that went by all too fast
and then,

I remember,
who I am
an older man with the gift of the gab
a bit more than I should have of flab
and too much time on my hands.

I remember,
she held hands with me
promised to be mine forever
that was never a promise that I'd make her keep.
In my sleep I can still see her face
with her eyes open wide
at the side of the gymnasium
behind the bike shed
she's still in my head
I don't want to forget so
I remember.

I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.

The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.

What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.

There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.

Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and  butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.

Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.

I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.

Sweetbitter kiss caressed
lips. esophagus. stomach. chest.

inaccessible 'till death.
untouchable--so close to the chest.

unable to put out fires, burns
will have to rest
where they lie smoldering, watching
eyes walk bye.

I close my I.

Carry me, now--not home
not to neverland
not over the rainbow

Just carry me softly in sweet-smelling acidic things.
--a little corrosion does a girl a world of good--
sing me songs, wolf-in-sheeps-clothes, that my mother used to

and bring me gifts on angel-dusted wings,
nothingness never before made greater feeling.

Our lives themselves strived for meaning while we strived for the reason for being
the way the great cold faceless hands created
our unyielding . . . softness
separate from and not unlike a feather
equal both in whimsical light, lack of value, disease and helplessness
great beauty, plainness, and utter insignificance

Us little things are great only to those with great imagination--
light in the clouds,
break in your fever
blip on your radar
the fast one before the flatline always seems so much shorter than it should. Shorter than they said it would.

I relax
sweet relief
sweet goodnight

we'll wake up and try this one more time.
we won't get it right-- you can't
get it right

give me this bip, this sleep, this chance.

*******, we'll still try--
to get it right sometime.

My overwhelming solemnity;
brown fields of Spring-time withering.

Nostalgia, be riddled,
by life,
before none;
sweet candy sour,
as the taste on my gums.

Pale, empty vessels of our spirit,
said one,
A final embrace from the Mother -
to son-
the end of a turn,
of a wheel just begun.

Find - now - in a moment,
the peace,
and the sun;

- don't cry under moon crests,
don't weep for high tides -

for,

but laughter
and sorrow
and joy found in love

shall Wake us each morning,
blood found in our bodies,
our hearts and our lungs.

The present is written,
The past is still sung,
The future a distance,
a lion unroped.