The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
                                          loose yawn of a gob on him
                                              all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
     channels through the public
         and scatters a juggler's performance spot
                  lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles  
                                        he hoicks a resuscitation doll
         and stamps down a posing boot
                                                 on the 'defeated form'

an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :

"i smear to god all the phalluses
      [he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
             a full jug of uglies
tug on       [makes the hand gesture for male *******]
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
                          if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
            and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
       amen ******* !"

he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)

Winter snow, Winter snow;
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella
and now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through
~ this winter snow.

You can hop from tree to tree;
Use a bag, or a magazine,
Take shelter in a coffee shop
and soak up the caffeine!
The streets are now deserted;
There’s not a soul to be seen,
I’ll come shining through;
this winter snow.

There are clouds up in the sky,
Whistling winds are blowing by,
There are snow flakes big and round,
What a sight, oh me oh migh!
Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
Yes I’ll come shining through
This winter snow.

Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella,
And now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through,
this winter snow.

I’ll come shining through ~ this winter snow.
winter snow, winter snow,  winter snow.

How much time has passed
Since the ***** in my armour last
Which stops flow coming
The space between sleepers
Slowing their moments
For the sake of a sorrowed spark
Making his mark on the pavement
How can these folk forsake the blatant laments
Of a pauper in king’s garments crying for change?

My gloat fails the throat
Instead of truth I sooth what is meant to be
Yet my soothing words fall to entropy before I manifest a pardon
For this lack of gratitude for art's garden
That has befallen the concrete cobbled empire
Of these glorified mongers of time
They give it away like infinite wisdom
Slipping from their grasp with every second
Spent in line looking forward to their freedom

Instead of seizing it in their hands
Primal roar to get past that meiopy
In the name of her majesty the queer
Peering out from her crystal mountain
With her blue blood and scaled skull
Tax checking the pardoned fortnight
That expensive foresight they can ill afford
Painted on their contours so beautiful
I try to drag it out
But like atlas, my groans
They bounce about and fall short

Of merchants' wails for biased expression
Promoting depression of consciousness
Spontaneous mess I create to shake the slumber
But grow humbler at my failure to save
Every single one of them
Young and old
Mothers and fathers
With the twirk of a wrist

How children see more and through them we will work
With their wide open hearts lies the start of the new world
So let us show them how
Then the universe will be never ending
Much like this thankless task

When I am gone
One will take my place
If I am lucky
With my silent liaison
Between source of all things
Two will

This is my hope
Fickle dopamine drizzle
Upon mon dreary friend
I will squirt that stuff everywhere
Then hope some more
That a mess it wont make
Lest a smile you doth crack
In all of your seriousness

Then my mission
To raise consciousness
Will be complete

just a ****** busker wishing he was a **** buster
he swam lack-lustre,
a salmon unable to muster
the will to cut the custard,
and flutter upstream to meet a lover

stuck in the gutter singing covers
a crushed sucker, tasteless kfc crusher
ominous as a dawn-less dusk and
useless as a ham sandwich with no mustard

You got your flight to London,
I hope you're still dreaming of LA.
10 thousand miles from Dublin,
You rest your head in Adelaide.

The red and the orange
under the bark of a tree
the dragons, they flow
around the twists and the turns
in the shade it is cool
in the sun you may burn
sing to the mountains
to see what you learn
the lights in the sky
sense you walk by
the mountains are waiting
they know you are shy
they know you're afraid
and you wanna get paid
but the hole in your soul
yeah it won't go away
if you fill it with space...
go with the flow
continue to grow
follow your soul
Hold up a thumb
with no place to run
but someone to find
who loves like the sun
or maybe a van
that starts with a plan
strum your guitar and
perhaps get a tan
sing to the streets
for something to eat
some cash for some gas
none for shoes for your feet
home's anywhere
'cause you make me complete...
go with the flow
continue to grow
follow your soul
The mountains of pines
that grow in straight lines
leave me a wood staff
that aged over time
one more day has passed
I should want to collapse
my paper maché soul
is made up from maps
the paper-cut clouds
that don't make a sound
cast patches of darkness-
drift along the ground
the sharp taste of blood
the warmth of the flood
I never expect that
I'm biting my tongue...
go with the flow
continue to grow
*follow your soul

I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner

But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck