He wanted to take charge of life again
and use slide film with his Canon EF SLR this barren year,
and give long stares to all those Tripod Digitalits
outside Victoria Station
creating their own version of affordable youth,
thinking pixel dust would swam them along.
He felt the strain of believing in the recent past,
please intentionally use your typewriter and record player
you need to create 1982 again!
The Christmas meal would on the 21st
like a flea in a dog's ear
too near the exile of Christmas
He feared the break would make him stir crazy,
2013 would emerge
surely more of the same.
A risible Tory Government
perhaps alternative comedy was far from dead.
"Splitting Image" would be their neutron Bomb,
Such thoughts made him want to love the common people again

I wasn't sure what to make
of this intergalactic space war.
With flying soldiers in old tobacco tins
and bullets made out of fingers.
I took it upon myself, I suppose
to conscript to this chaos,
upon the fluffy terrain.
Some sort of tyrannous Tyrannosaurus,
with a purple top hat
had taken over the bunk bed fort.

I'd made up my mind.
The only thing for it was a straight "Neeeeee-owwwwwwww"
into the back of the villainous lizard.

My comrade in arms however,
felt I wasn't quite suited for this rampant combat.
Although, his reason I didn't quite agree with;

"You're doing it wrong" he said, rather patronisingly.

I guess my little cousin is less of the kamikaze type and more of the tactical warfare nature.

She makes the sand,
the sand seep away.
Little locket on her chest,
with her steps a gentle sway.
Though her eyes cast
a tender gaze,
her fiery heart sets the sky ablaze.

Dry rain and dry puddles,
never will she stop.
'Til she stumbles to her knees,
the dusty ground, fiercely hot.
She cries out in pain
and laughs through tears,
a withered smile
of withered years.

She sees me.

Her faces relaxes,
her lungs give out,
her limbs betray her
and with one final strain she says:
*I can't hate.

This is my way, not any other,
Though roots and stones yet cling to cover,
Though thirsting, thorny vines yet smother
The way I'll pick and shovel
And day by day reduce the rubble;
This way isn't easy, but it's worth the trouble.

So you'd like to date my daughter,
This I can tell,
So line up behind the others,
And I'll see if you suit her well,

Now come here boy,
Just one to one,
Man to man,
It's okay, I may look stern, But I love to have fun,

So, son, what do you like,
Oh come on, you know what I mean,
What's your favorite curve on a woman's body?
Like *******, legs, thighs, ****, and do you like em thick or like em lean?

Oh ******* you say?
I see... I see...
Get out of my sight!
If you still want her, you will have to **** me!

Ah, you look like a nice chap,
what's your pleasure?
What's your favorite curve on a woman's body?
On which does her beauty measure?

Oh you like her rear?
Oh, well I do hope you like my daughter's,
For that's all you'll see as she walks away with me from you,
Sickening, disgusting, these gentlemen, not gentle but marauders,

Oh so it's legs?
Don't leave now and I'll break yours,
Oh so it's thighs?
Get out of my way! I'll find one who'll make her heart soar!

Last but not least...
Will I find no peace...?
So young man, I will ask you the same,
What of a woman has your testosterone release?

Well good sir,
Your daughter's attractive,
I cannot put this in ample words,
But it is not of that that she has my heart held captive,

I've heard you've asked of her body,
And my sir, if I may have the nerve,
For it is her smile, it is any woman's best curve,

Treat her well son.

Have you ever found yourself  quivering
outside of lines
stained
by what you thought was a love story?
Wondering
if you will be swallowed whole
by the window you sit and stare out,
in love's well meaning glory.

Beneath passion  blowing through the door
visiting your mind
like those little things
filled with a warmth
you have wanted
for so long.
Often, you find life
is at its happiest inside your dreams,
where nothing's wrong.

Sometimes in the middle of the night  
you want to be
a never-ending flow of love
smiling at the hands
on the Clock of Emptiness,
stuck in place.  
However, time melts into years
until starlight becomes well versed
at hiding the shadow of tears
on your face.

The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door

To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose

Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead

Which lies beneath
The coffin’s wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood

But now it holds
Like vessel womb
A baby child
Within its tomb.