Colour is dangerous;
you fall into it.

And colour can swallow you,
and like music it is super emotional.

It is hard to stay distant.

I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.

It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.

What's it like to die but still breathe,
To walk, talk, live, while being dead underneath.

I want to die but physically I'm here,
I'm alone in this feeling, I fear.

Sure, others feel the same,
But no one close by can share my shame.

Let me go, free to die,
Let me go, stop chasing the ghost tide.

Our love,
Are our hearts
Just written in the sand?
To be washed away with the tide.
Or will it withstand?
The test of time.

Longing for the land of my lineage
I am dying here, in Beggar Country
Here, where fools act the wise
Pseudo Intellectualism steadily on the rise
Where the disease celebritism has took hold
Forced out the tried and true for the shiny yet old
Where the idiom
The more things that change, the more remains the same
Is unquestionably fact
I long for Ireland
I long to go back

Give me land that's green
And rolling countryside
Give me tide to rival hell's fury
And people that mean well, amid gales so dreary
I miss fog
Like that kicked up by the mire

Give me land that's hungry
Give me people that's tired