He tried not to cry. With his trenching tool,
which weighed five pounds, he began
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

The intransitive Martha. Over Her letters he'd drool,
and over the burning fire he'd place the pea-can.
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

Bible in his knapsack, towards Than Khe the cruel
march agonized, where the burning cross would then stand
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

He sat at the bottom of his foxhole and rubbed the wool
sweater brought by resupply choppers. The other shouted from their holes, "How'd Ted land?"
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

"I swear to God-boom-down. Not a word." The others fueled
the rage-rage against the dying of the light. Jim felt bad
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

I was in a very dark place,
I lived in a permanent sigh,
but I wanted to be in outer space.

I hated everyone of every race,
and I spent my days saying goodbye;
I was in a very dark place.

To my parents I was a disgrace,
they considered me much too wry,
but I wanted to be in outer space.

I was good at keeping a straight face.
My friends always wondered why.
I was in a very dark place.

Change came to help my case
in the summer, in mid-July,
but I wanted to be in outer space.

Nobody knew how to brace
themselves for my wanting to die.
I was in a very dark place,
but I wanted to be in outer space.

My partner has a crush on Karen Black
He watches every movie and repeat
Anyone would wonder what they lack

As actors go, she surely is a hack
but “A Trilogy of Terror” is his treat
My partner has a crush on Karen Black

It’s not as if she has a fulsome rack
But something stirs his blood to boiling heat
Anyone would wonder what they lack

I dream of Idris Elba in the sack
Sheer perfection wrapped naked in a sheet
But my man has his crush on Karen Black

Her voice so harsh the underground would frack
Split layers of the earth beneath our feet
Her smiling face would every mirror crack

Despite all this, she seems to have the knack
To entice and tease every man to cheat
My partner has a crush on Karen Black
It makes me wonder what it is I lack.

Do not fall in love with someone like me

Take care to tiptoe round my loathsome wreck

Erase all trace of us from memory


I will knock down your walls to mashed debris

And take your breath with all my sprints and treks

Do not fall in love with someone like me


I roped you in to trips on stormy seas

And whispered guarantees upon your neck

Erase all trace of us from memory


I raged aflame and blazed at high degrees

I rigged the game and rearranged the deck

Do not fall in love with someone like me


I hurricaned and swallowed up your breeze

You trusted me and never thought to check

Erase all trace of us from memory


I captured you and clipped your wings once free

I muddied you and I with ****** specks

Do not fall in love with someone like me

Erase all trace of us from memory

I should write a villanelle right now,
without delay—no more ado will do—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Indeed, my meter mastery would wow,
And always rhyming perfectly would woo—
I should write a villanelle right now.

I bet that I could even court a cow
With deft command of each and every moo—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Soon, I’ll lose my grasp on “thee” and “thou,”
And I’ll be barely left with “me” and “you”—
I should write a villanelle right now.

But first, maybe I’ll try to find some chow.
I could make a hearty soup or stew—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Before I storm the stage to take a bow,
Uncertain if I’ll get a cheer or boo,
I should write a villanelle right now—
I would, except I can’t remember how

I have a question,
That and many more,
As I stare at my reflection.

I'm outside a building that makes no impression,
There is but a single window, no door,
I have a question.

These people have a strange expression,
I have never seen such a smile before,
As I stare at my reflection.

I rap on the window to attract their attention,
They do nothing but ignore,
I have a question.

Wait, I know the people gathered at this session,
I know that and much more,
As I stare at my reflection.

How is this for some deceitful deception?
It's my family gathered on my funeral floor.
I have a question,
As I stare at my reflection.

The only promise is that final cry.
Time, itself, tells us each and every day.
No one, no thing in life can death defy.

When the dying springtime takes its last sigh,
Withering flowers themselves seem to say
The only promise is that final cry.

An object holds our exuberant high
Yet no sooner dulls, then passes away.
No one, no thing in life can death defy.

Certain is the fowl who will cease to fly,
Silenced by the springing of feathers’ gray.
The only promise is that final cry.

From first waking, the world presses our eye
solely to show what comes before decay.
No one, no thing in life can death defy.

Even God is unknown, yet still we try
To prove only what can be found in faith.
The only promise is that final cry.
No one, no thing in life can death defy.

Little grown-up knows too much.
Terrorism and tweenies, hopscotch and ******,
But the world is happily waltzin’ with Matilda.

He needs to learn, it’s never too late
******* before he fills his flashing trainers.
Little grown-up knows too much.

Mummy says it’s true, so therefore it is fate  
Yes instead of thank you, probably overused,
But the world is happily waltzin’ with Matilda.

You must decide if he’s gay or straight
Baa Baa rainbow sheep burnt to memory, tattoo’s and Christian taboo’s.
Little grown-up knows too much.

Taste the pill, consume this cup, watch his tiny eyes dilate
Staining innocence, hurry up, his naivety is bruised,  
But the world is happily waltzin’ with Matilda.

We dictate to loose weight in our forced-fed free state
Sat, his short legs swing on the cold church pews,
Little grown-up knows too much
But the world is happily waltzin’ with Matilda.

JWS

We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.