I crave it quite urgently
He says endearingly.

Masked in nonchalance,
unjustifiably insolent -
I blast in trance.

A decade later, I fluster.
At the sound of his home keys -
He puts a nose on his smileys.

         Some Lowly to cool,
         Some Shitkid to fuel.

A couple of beers?
He sheds a few tears.

Friends will come and friends will go
but here we walk, to travel home
side by side, step by step
here we ride, our thoughts in check
and the graveyard's only a mile away
and the reaper follows behind us these days
and if we had a stone each time we fell
I bet we'd have a stack as tall to climb out of this h*ll
So fly, fly little bird fly
fly fly breathe, please don't die
fly fly spread those wings, don't cry
birds are angels meant to glide, it's not your time
words that are meant to tell every story
but struggle to complete one
spoken songs that were supposed to tell the truth
when it was sung
kings will come, and kings will go
left to rule the ones who lost their hope
here they rise and here they fall
knowing that the earthquakes begin to shake what they built tall
and death is only a light year away
it seems so far, but it is getting close
and the people who follow behind as these days pass
bringing their children, mothers and loves
so fly fly little bird fly
fly fly breathe don't die
birds are fallen angels, meant to glide
here comes the messenger of light
it's not your time
here you'll listen
and here you'll die

What if this is my deathbed?

Surrounded by collected parchment

From old to new

Smell of burnt tobacco and aged paper

Toxins in the air you breath into

“Yesterday” by the Beatles playing in the background

A woman talking to about her husbands affair with the store owner

Reading poetry on the old wooden floor

melancholy and sublime
delicate and ethereal.
floating harmonies and rolling notes like waves
one can envision the silvery moonlight
reflecting upon themselves
the radiant moon filtering through windowpanes
the leaves of a tree.

I was a restless teenage mentalist
always searching the airwaves
trying to find something new. Pirate
stations would sometimes emerge
from thin slices of the dial

For a few days one played
*** Bomb by Flipper countless times
and it made quite an impression
on my bubbly fudge mind

All these years later I still get a mighty
kick out of listening to this
absurd joyous splurge
every few weeks

                        which may be
             a tragic or magnificent
      state of affairs it's
really not for me to decide

Again I practise

the music with my teacher --


Just by listening.

I still have her guitar
The one the church gave her

I started to practice; to learn it’s tune

but when I strummed its brittle strings, her sad voice was all I heard


Her blue-green wrinkled eyes bored through me

Her soft song rang in my ears



I said I needed space, I needed distance from her past


but every time I picked up that old guitar

her silver-grey presence reappeared


What used to be fond memories,
playing in my mind as I held its wooden body close,


transformed into drunken hazes- to a sea of black disguised as blue

……………………………………………………

How can I still practice, still play this guitar
when every time I look at it

I just think of her

a dance
that flows like
cosmos bursting’

lyrics speaking
in past,
present, and future
that shoots
through your heart

his voice,
one of a kind,
the one that speaks
to you
in the middle
of the night

a sound that can’t be recreated,
timeless

The music of Bach

is grief comforting people --


with touching beauty.