Why does my body
rebel against my wishes
to walk or to talk
to tidy my house
to wander the world
or work?
Do I really need to sleep
to dive so deep
beneath the waves
of the day
to  run so far away

From the ethereal home
of every thing
come ideas and plans
schemes and dreams
in the mind of man
Ephemeral origins
of war and peace
Tormented by
invisible causes
of things that are seen
by horrified eyes
The birthing on earth
of villains and heroes
saints and sinners
losers and winners
A circular journey
from death to birth
from here to hell
and back again
cursed and blessed
by amnesia
not knowing the game
Playing and losing
again and again
The same old refrain

Gone are the psychedelic colours
Of autumn's empty palette
The trees skinned
by the violent winds of
November
Bare to the bony branches
Braving the silence
of Mister Winter's
minimalist contentment
and the echos
of summer birdsong

I have no excuse
this week
and no
poem either

Where is the centre
of the psychosis?
It's somewhere here
I'll find my mind
if I try to see
inside my heart
I'll find it there
inside the sphere
if I dare
in the centre
of everywhere

In the sea of reality
I feel the waves wash over me
one by one
and then return
to the place they came from
one by one

Sometimes in the warmth of the sun
and with someone
I am mostly alone
bitten by the breeze
and on the run
from wave to wave
a surfer trying
desperately
to stay away
from the sea

We behave in a strange way
you and me
trying to rearrange
the waves on the sea
or catching water while it falls
seeming as solid
as a wall