Your soul descends into the ancient, subconscious cave depths if you truly, sincerely want to know yourself. Where there is no longer any calculating, manipulative evil, ambiguous promise phrases, or fabulous illusions of appearance, only the rock-hard, almost visceral absolute Reality. Not even the allure of flirtatious smiles that want to flirt with you can take away your life-weary skeptical mood, there is no disgusting nauseating taste of evening tales.

There is no honeyed, glazed flattering voice of eternal immortal loves, because truthful holy words are faithful to themselves and to you, and mean stripped-down simplicity. It would be good to have a protective, savior Angel, who would stand in front of the door of your life with a sword in a kind and direct way, and would protect your eternal childish self within you, and would open the tiny key to your secrets only to those with truer hearts; who would tell you, urging patience to your restlessness, what is the only secret of a more real life.

– They will embrace you like the dormant ivy vine, with their promises of more beautiful, more livable things, which would lead you back into the cold and often monotonous prison walls of reality. On the misplaced paths of your mood, you can only allow the Kind One to follow you, sniffing like an adorable little animal; even cat-like early morning absences cannot hold you back completely if you want your life to finally get back on track. Mutuality or continuity?! When which?!

You would ask and secretly it happens pitifully that you don't even notice and are forced to interrogate yourself. Will the small, flat gaps between people, social, emotional, and so on, be bridged, or will the prairie and asphalt jungle ocean collapse into a salty, uninhabited sandy desert?!

His father was a tool maker
and make a tool he did.
Labour they say but that's
something he don't know what is.

A lawyer, real QC, more like the real GC;
at least she's got a personality of her own,
But he's more boring
than a white porcelain throne.

Yes yes, we'll build you
some new homes.
But want some heating?
Well then you're out on your own.

Perhaps it's wrong for me
to sit here and moan,
when the alternatives a bloke
who's got a fear of boats.

Worse yet, he don't want them to float;
Drown they shout, drown them all out.
From their countries they've flown,
so why not give a dog a freaking bone?

Worried about the nation’s health?
Well, loan the cost from your personal wealth.
Ex-banker they say, but
****** he stays.

The son of a tool maker or the sum of a lifetime faker.
The UK's respect on the world stage?
Pfft.
See ya later.

Aren't I forgetting someone?
Someone who don't have gaffs?
Yeah right, she's got more than
a pole with a large iron hook attached.

One squatting in number 10,
The other's not in Clacton
and her thoughts, philosophies
and ideas are sorely out of action.

It was the mist that carried her over,
Her fragile form merged with the dark.
Her feet were wet and seeding clover,
And whatever she touched, she left a mark.

In separations, the smell of death lingers,
And in reunions, life, warmth, and solid timber.
The forest sings for the leaves of east,
And welcomes thee, then whimpers—
Of joy, what joy, what wonderful winds
That bring the breath of winter
That cling onto my lady’s breast
And promise me to bring her.