I remember that spring
That summer
I was asked for color
You have forgotten your gloves...

یادم می آمد
آن بهار را
آن تابستان را
از من می خواستند رنگ بزنم
...دستکش هایت یادت نبود

Wreckage
Slow-motion blood
Aging carcass
Pain strewn
All well earned
No station missed
Time sodden gift
Rumour laden
Balancing the edge
Twisting the knife
Flashing backwards
Fun on the run
Stand and Fight
Following the way
Way of the wayward
Aimed at the graveyard
Hammered to hardness
Til nothing breaks
Nothing matters

                      By Phil Roberts

Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing

A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying

                                    By Phil Roberts

We are all babies
      in the pond of life
swimming to somewhere

I drown in the careless glow of the moon
He bares me an eternal wink
And I sink
in the forever fading,
blue velvet sky
Grasping for the faintest hope of
Reality
The sins I cling to,
make the stars gasp
My face burried in White skirts
As I have the strange tendency
to wear white chiffon
To funerals