When I was still young and fresh
A million years ago
I walked on edges
Always on the edge of something
Something wild

Bright lights and long nights
Lots of laughter and music
Always music
Singing with the band
Dodging the flying glass
When fights broke out
Howling to the moon
Oh, wild indeed were we

All shadows now, alas
Visions from an addled brain
Pubs, clubs and smoky dumps
Leave no turn unstoned was the cry
More fun than fundamental
And fundamentally flawed, it was
A couple of hours sleep 'fore the day job
With eye-lids stuck together
And walking into walls
But still I wouldn't have swapped it
For all the strait laced straight faced
Wealth in the world

                                 By Phil Roberts

Walk the edge
A tightrope.
Steady.
Building to building
Moment to moment
Pen to paper

Commit me to forgetting
Forcing is the the same as letting
Last time I checked
You were some gold flecked
Feather
And together
We staggered down the tightrope

This all was a way to hope
Melted candle now.
Steady.

I would write, speak and sing

all of dreams

and their hold,

and their shouts

in a quiet surrounding.

I would write, speak and sing

all of flowers;

anthurium, and its gentle flame.

I would write, speak and sing

all of swords, and their unsheathing,

all of wounds, and how I'd heal.

everything.

the streets, still wet

ice and fire

winter and exhaust;

travelling tires


rope burns and hostages;

pale against fires


past ghosts

and rising sails

to scrambled notes


jail cell floors

and rosemary coasts


simple men; folklore

rain and closed doors


worldly hours;

time and how it'd tower

over shores

early wings soar

over sunlit moor

two birds and one stone,

no more.

I am my own heads aching

I am still-framed fire

and roaring ocean

I am sky height

and grounds nadir

I am children; cower from thunder

I am fervent visuals

that linger on your tongue

with sour taste

I am soft-spoken

with shrieks and screams

I am bitter

I am content

I am ill