Out by the Strange Creek a little drunk,
I built a tower of stone, an imaginary throne,
I pondered of power and sat on a stump,
The moon hung like an old friend from up above,

There were many around, laughing and happy,
A few on the guitar sounded a little sappy,
Tents dotted the river, and I dipped my tows in the sand,
The stars up above illuminated the camp but not the bands,

Too many drugs made there way around,
back in the woods everyone gathered around a stage,
and jammed the music, they blazed,
for themselves, their future, but mostly the present,
Their bodies swayed, in a daze,

Acid, ****, liquor and E
Oh boy, it was a party,
but the last bit of my sober self,
turned inwards and the whole of me felt,
the seven chakras flowing through me,
connecting me to infinity,

We partied for three days, acid babies littered the place,
We drank for our mistakes, and listened to The Machine,
The wall flowing through me,
We freed our bodies, and our souls to the void,
On the last night we were over joyed,
But now that I'm leaving I feel it slipping away

My crown chakra back into the haze,
My mind's eye back into a cage,
My throat chakra back underneath,
My heart chakra feels only grief,
My solar plexus can't handle a nexus,
My sacral is fine though, trust me,
But my roots,

They don't even trust me

Let's stay in this prison of blankets
and un-remember our meaning
to this existence.

I have walked all the parks
and I have swam in all the seas.
I have slow-danced in all the bars.
I have seen all the cosmic dreams.

My bones are tired of adventure.
My soul is tired of the new.

Let's ignore the changing colors and trends.
Let's arrest ourselves in this bed.

Somewhere where the jazz is fine
and smooth kids wanna spend time,
I had lost my ignorance and my pride.
Patience bit me. I grew a mind.

The world is a vampire and we only knew
after a thousand cups of coffee
and a thousand classrooms.

Let's forget. Let's die.

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed

November is the cruelest month, destroying
What once was for what will be
The snow will stalk our dreams, hoping
To fill the emptiness of another summer’s end
Earth will forget the dead
As I forget what it was to be a student

Labour fuels my hours, surviving
One year to the next, a broken man
Where is the Spring I once knew so well?
Where is my heart in this cruel world?
Where is time but in these broken images?
Memory is insufficient to be my food

The wind howls and I am the trees
Who have endured so much, again and again
The famous shadows on the ground mean nothing
They are what they were, darkness spreading
These unreal cities are all the same
With their cosmopolitan jargon and anonymity

Each trying to out duel the next, competition
In the workplace, in the dating market
One must be so careful these days
Friends depart without a trace, elders die
Families get divided, partners divorce
The winter dawn has its own beauty

A short and infrequent storm, the bloom
Of white to carpet our weary feet
On roads of fate, sometimes without shelters
Without kindred souls who know us deeply
The synthetic atmospheres of urban life
A society of white walkers, whose truth

Only mimics the fallen empires of liberty
The false figures of unemployment rates
Which do not count those who have given up
Indebted states, welfare states, police states
And the persistent rumour that democracy is dead.