Mum would say,
‘Don’t wish your life away.
It’s always I can’t wait for this
And I need to hurry for that’,
And suddenly years have passed by
All in a flash.
I should have listened,
Time wasn’t mine to bide.
Life is not about the destination
but the glory of the ride.

You wanted me to be silver,
It quickly turned you cold.
If only you opened your eyes,
And saw I was solid gold.

I need a dream to remind
There is someplace I should go
Future I should think about
Lately I don't know

was this here when I was born?
- is this the earth of 1948?

No, I don't think so, this is the realm of words
as thought in times of enfolding
olden forms to find the lies
they passed on as fair
to hold sacred, hidden in depths, radical
depths of debt due to double-minded
upright bi-pedal instability

balance, yeah, surf, as a porpoise,
ride the wave as a photon in a medium
bearing

divine grace or some other unreasonable
idea - as a passenger here we be
come and see I am this photon,
for it is far too small for me
to stand up on and see,
so I am this bit of light, the same bit
involved in Einstein's little think, so long ago,
speed of thought,
you caught up.

How so?
I don't know, but I've been told,
these winds of mere light
return to pick up points
for
passengers intending to convert,

to bubblers of *******' and moanin' 'bout
balance in life, slinking in the shadow,
of the inpenetralium,
mercurial bubble of ancient Phrygian
ways to obligate a fringe
into an intentional point of contact
for any who know the feeling,

virtue flowed from me,
who touched me?
Gnat straining, am I? Have you never been
the fly on a wall you imagined?

Have you, honestly, never seen the earth
from the moon?

Now, ask any truth you wish were proven,
"what lie is held as you, in me?
What lies are needed for truth to be known,
and the knowers made free? Truth tell,
do I know, or say I know, to pass the tests,
to be allowed to live alone and far away,
thinking why do men, wombed and un, lie?

- Liars prosper.
- Reality holds the story true, so
- the first twisted gift of knowing was
- the trick.
- Beguilement, surprise, peek-a-boo
yahaha
weknow weknow weknow
I know,
each says, knowing we know, I am one of us,
alone aware you're there,
in the same story, from the same time,
measured in celestial predictate-ability,
to say where that star shall rise,

think what that knowing does.

Then to now in this bit of thought,
perhaps a pixel of truth.
Free, what's it worth.

Take a little think.

The voice of many is all one. it doesn't matter
the flavor of our skin with coffee,
                      we milk, were caramel.

Were all different tastes but some think
because our tastes are different
that they can throw the cup down
                             crush it under the knee..

We aren't recyclable we may taste different,
                 but doesn't mean you can crush
any of us under afoot
                                 or knee.

were all in this together if one falls, we all fall..

Sharpening, my thoughts,
into brilliances of fine fabric of
mentations and my walk
/
the snow that goes ink yet
not spilling
its texture that goes
visible
/
as pure dark of a body in place
of the space of my eyelids
when they fall
strong,
being with the Moon out at night
in freezing gardens
all
without clothes
without anyone to repatriate
me home,
turning into one great cigarette mist
with no
death to.

I know those days of the air
smelling like faded
cities of coal
when Sun crosses
the Moon on the sky
and
creates a thermal pressure sandwich
of 12 airs
/
at adoption by stench or fragrance be it
of composters or
birches when no one else sees I throw
away my pedigree
to humans
always
at last and find
myself at night
more than my
conscience could ever ask for,
and though it
goes beyond
prickliness opaque you’d
be favourable with in
terms of the meeting between
that accounting
and your smell or eyes,
it serves

always still,

hunting instinct of
stoicism
that ask for
nothing more
than the fleeing
of false suns
alongside
the cinnamon visage of the Sun

that no plying month will ever ask
for.
More.

I don't understand, but your tone incites.
Is this ignorance or bravado
Is love and hate the same when the day of fated relations stays mocking on the morrow
Are the planted dead standard
Pentagram repenting it's whistles to the waifs
Who captivates plenty yet scrape for their dinner pennies like dog scraps.
Why am I still beneath this lake?

I'll give you my heart,
fresh from my chest;
after all,
it only beats for you.

I'll give you my lungs,
traquea and all;
'cause every time I see you,
you take my breath away.

I''l give you my brain,
empty my head;
it makes me think about you,
every moment at any time.

I'll give you my eyes,
straight out of my sockets;
in the end,
I only have them for you.

I'll give you my legs,
bend them to your liking;
'cause if you tell me,
I'll go anywhere for you.