Eyes glazed
shipwrecked
by a pink fizzing tide
absolution of worries...
Endorphins collide

Neck craned back
silently studying contours
of a spiralled artex ceiling

Neatly pressed pills
beginning to digest
will I ever tire of this
blissful abundant feeling?

Incarcerated by the current
drifting like a drunken log
barely buoyant, saturated
marooned in pea soup fog

My riddled words,
A mystery haunts me,
As if I’ve seen the ending
And it’s driven me insane.

If it wasn’t for the day,
I’d never leave the night.
I’d forget my way,
And my name.

Dancing on the edge,
Of a cliff that’s far too high.
I’ve fallen many times,
So much so I know the climb.

A delicate day,
Spring just a short distance away
Yet winter still promising May.
This time of rebirth reminds me….

I left the kettle on,
Before I woke up in this place.

Pupils wide and black
frozen are his emotions
an unforgiving mechanical schedule
he is the plastic poison in the ocean

A breath of carbonmonoxide
as he sings his workers tune
those who are close by
are asphyxiated by the plume

Where once blood flowed
copper wiring now lines his veins
robotically performing tasks
charging twice daily from the mains

Steel ball bearings
now form his joins
sewing needles
line his guts...
Yet somehow on the outside
he maintains his human looks

Where thoughts were true
and muscle was lean
now soaked in oil
part man/machine...
Following the pide piper blindly,
letting out an internal scream...

All in the pursuit of conformity
and the Anglo American dream

I wonder sometimes,
When I let my mind out to play,
On a late night drive
And when I close my eyes.

What happens when we die?
If life’s a game no matter how hard we try?
Is it a shame I smile when I ought to cry?

Life speaks in whips and chains
And sometimes in sweet summer breeze.
Disease reeks,
And I believe death speaks to me.

If there was an answer to these lines of poetry,
Perhaps there would be peace.
Mystics and priests,
Offer no lasting reprieve.

The poet of relief,
Speaks of the heart’s needs.
Jester of despair,
Bringing comical release.

I wonder sometimes,
Of the mystics, poets, jesters and priests.
What tonight will be,
Will my wonderings find relief.

I’m not going to be famous
selling strawberries
writing poems
or preaching till we perish
especially, not through
this poem
your poem
or any we may cherish
considering the pressure I am under
and the number
of one more follower
to follow me
while I’m following your poetry
I may write and write I do
because like you I like them too
and though they may be the best
I know I can be my worst critic
whether I loathe or I like it
I wont lay my pen to rest
with my words and ways
till then, I’ll have my own novels read
and applaud my own plays
and be famous
in my own head