Her love for me was mellow
Instead of feeling blues
I always felt yellow

She was a weird fellow
The portrait of me she drew
Her love for me was mellow

Every time she says hello
She doesn’t have a clue
I always felt yellow

She called me a marsh mellow
She said I’m her muse
Her love for me was mellow

I sniffed into her pillow
She smells like morning dew
I always felt yellow

Once again she said hello
Watched my heart flew
Her love for me was mellow
I always felt yellow

Strutting shoes in dust and spit
The boys make their way in scented air
This is home to the gravel pits

The intercity snakes with a thwack and a hiss
Cuts through the night without a care
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Dead-dogs in bags and lean stray cats
Bashed old cars with their smashed glass glare
This is home to the gravel pits

Toking butts he smiles, so fit
through smoke with eyes that stir, arms bare
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Then with cuts and grazes running, swinging sticks
A skirmish with the out-group, ****** warfare
This is home to the gravel pits

I stand here, look back and see it-
Turning for home in the cooled night air
Strutting shoes in dust and spit
This was home to the gravel pits

It’s an instinctive unease
A lone typewriter sits in neglect
The dust settles into the keys

Everything in the room seemed to freeze
Lost to time in a state of disconnect
It’s an instinctive unease

The lever not set to release
Leaving the platen a dented wreck
The dust settles into the keys

The air hangs stagnant, not so much as a breeze
Leaving the room stale and depressed
It’s an instinctive unease

Some long forgotten face left these
Unused ribbons of ink and stacks of papers forever unchecked
The dust settles into the keys

A scrapped song begging for a reprise
Or a manuscript destined for reject
It’s an instinctive unease
The dust settles into the keys

Life without reflection
is like living in the dark,
it is one with no affection.

It is a difficult conviction,
a journey with no embark:
life without reflection.

When you do a close inspection,
the experience is stark:
it is one with no affection.

Without any detection,
without peeling away the bark -
life without reflection

is just a mere infection -
Like a dog that's lost it's bark:
it is one with no affection.

With no thought collection,
no strolls in the mind's park...
Life without reflection:
It is one with no affection.

Where is the Messiah?

Are you there God?

It’s me, your pariah.


I’ve become something of a liar,

a mystifier, a cad, a fraud:

Where is the Messiah?


To deliver from brimstone and fire?

Against the one wielding the iron rod?

It’s me your pariah,


son of the dawn, prince of the nebula

the gates of Judecca have thawed.

Where is the Messiah?


I’ll take silver, like Judas and Delilah

their feet are swift; to shed blood.  

It's me, your pariah.


Your ***** for hire,

Oh, how I await the flood.

Where is the Messiah?

It’s me your pariah.