Must not give up
must not give in
must not fail to start living.
If mantra's work and I'm assured they do
I'm sure that this may see me through
those times
when all is bleak
when I am weak
and all I want is to streak away
but like the fastenings of the night to day
I know that I must stay
to see in words that mimic me and mock at my endeavour
if only then to free my thoughts and
whether they would rise or fail
would sink or sail
I could not know but have to be free to go and find this truth
or pull it out and inspect it like some rotting tooth
black and pungent smelling
like some telling of a nursery rhyme back when in the time
of wolves and spells
and trolls in dells
the truth was not so clear to see .
If I were me and I'm sure I'm not
I'd find a little spot hidden far away in some place where I could call and say this here is mine and I would stay
secluded from the rush of people pushing past and I at last could start to cogitate upon this state of who I am
well that's the plan
but of course another pipe bursts into smoke and I can't even smoke the joke of dreams that fire the sky above
and If I love then who,
who could fathom all the deep that I myself can only sleep above,
another love?
it's a battle to keep my head afloat or keep a coat on
go on to see and what is left but me and another me in mimicry.
If in all of this,
in all of this life I could but only be a copy replicant not free but locked into technology
and who could not but fail to see a form of ideology or idolatry
psychology
a branch of yet another tree that grew out of necessity
and that is yet another faking of the free chained into some solitary cell
encouraged to scream and fekin hell
I screamed
streaming curses intervexed and supertexted them into the padded wall where swear words fell but I being on the ball and mindful of recycling picked them up and sang them,rang them out again until I myself was wrung out dry.
Why Is it then that I should feel that being peeled like a ripened plum and waiting for 'Jack' to come and stick his thumb into my eye
is wrong
why is it written in the fables that poor men wait on rich men's tables and drink porter watered down while those that sit with crowns upon their head would in any case be better off if I were dead
just a thought to think and in the blinking of the middle eye it joins its brothers in the sky where all thought congregate to die
another why and another after that and flat out,shout out,can't read enough about or write the words to set me free
one more branch
one more tree
one more me
one more me
ideosyncrasy
ideas of being free
immortal in mortality and death to all banality
I see nothing really
except the cornflake box
a pair of sweaty socks and my life whistling down the plug hole.

Sol winds seed Gaia,
Ritual of twining breaths,
Lovers unspoken bond.

Out of Greek myth, she
Glowed at the party and proved,
Stories I had told.

My way will be found...
To these "warm waters"
and abundant agave among
a lingering, gentle devil
more potent than that austere burn.

It's the gaze you give me,
though gated by hissing apertures, screens, & skype,
that deters my sensibility. For this unconventionality is certanly fathomed.
Believe me

But it's the glittering glances, shot offscreen in blushful bantering
that
shocks my compass not due south

but to wherever you are.

Men like me don't grow on trees
we're made in secret factories
and shipped off to the reject stores
or shops that deal in damaged goods.
Men like me don't grow in woods.

You won't see many of me around
and if not for the if but what's
and spots that dance between my eyes
I'd think that what I said was lies
but I know it's not.
But what if buts became but if's and poor old stiffs like me could forget they came from the factory and fit in with some form of socialised society
(not secret) for I've had enough of them
men like me don't grow on trees.

Please yourself that's what you do
get a man that's just like you
and just like you he'll let you down
but sacrifice that pride
and look inside the men that do not grow on trees
if you please.

A requiem
for all those men
who died last night
in the half light of a half life
with a suitcase beside a dead face
or a rucksack strapped to a lifeless back.

A requiem for the dreams of men
where the truth is carried home to them
in the home they do not call their own
on the floors of stone where the cold seeps through into the bone
and the ache of both the heart and what should be the home
is killed within the stricken moan.

A requiem
for when the night takes pain away
for another day.

And a hymn for him or her
for those who dared to take a leap outside the comfort zone.
and now to head off
to a home which will be home.

A requiem in memoriam
Ad infinitum.

Hour glass body,
Excited— fingers fondling,
Love my blue guitar.

I love the rain.
Nobody can tell you've been crying.