From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.

A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.

Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.

Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.

The lawyers, Bob, know too much.
They are chums of the books of old John Marshall.
They know it all, what a dead hand wrote,
A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling,
The bones of the fingers a thin white ash.
        The lawyers know
        a dead man's thought too well.

In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob,
Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers,
Too much hereinbefore provided whereas,
Too many doors to go in and out of.

When the lawyers are through
What is there left, Bob?
Can a mouse nibble at it
And find enough to fasten a tooth in?

Why is there always a secret singing
When a lawyer cashes in?
Why does a hearse horse snicker
Hauling a lawyer away?

The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue.
The knack of a mason outlasts a moon.
The hands of a plasterer hold a room together.
The land of a farmer wishes him back again.
         Singers of songs and dreamers of plays
         Build a house no wind blows over.
The lawyers--tell me why a hearse horse snickers
         hauling a lawyer's bones.

My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.

My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three,
You don't know how it hurts me when we go somewhere to tea,
And people tell her on the sly we look like sisters, she and I.

It hurts to see her secret glee; but most, because it's true.
Sometimes I think she thinks that she looks younger of the two.
Oh as I gently take her arm, how I would love to do her harm!

For ever since I cam from school she put it in my head
I was a weakling and a fool, a "born old maid" she said.
"You'll always stay at home," sighed she, "and keep your Mother company."

Oh pity is a bitter brew; I've drunk it to the lees;
For there is little else to do but do my best to please:
My life has been so little worth I curse the hour she gave me birth.

I curse the hour she gave me breath, who never wished me wife;
My happiest day will be the death of her who gave me life;
I hate her for the life she gave: I hope to dance upon her grave.

She wearing roses in her hat; I wince to hear her say:
"Poor Alice this, poor Alice that," she drains my joy away.
It seems to brace her up that she can pity, pity, pity me.

You'll see us walking in the street, with careful step and slow;
And people often say: "How sweet!" as arm in arm we go.
Like chums we never are apart - yet oh the hatred in my heart!

My chest is weak, and I might be (O God!) the first to go.
For her what triumph that would be - she thinks of it, I know.
To outlive all her kith and kin - how she would glow beneath her skin!

She says she will not make her Will, until she takes to bed;
She little thinks if thoughts could ****, to-morrow she'd be dead. . . .

"Please come to breakfast, Mother dear; Your coffee will be cold I fear."

mr ronald speckleton, the 1100s magician




you see in  the 1100s, there was this man named ronald speckle ton, who to a lot of people

was a real joker, right from the tender age of 1, he’s the son of peter and prue, who were

too ****** realistic , and in those days realistic was a big thing with no TV an d all.

robert through every day of he teased his mum and dad with silly little practical jokes,

he also put cuffs on his hands and said the police have me in their horse and cart,

can you save me mummy and daddy and then said, the bushrangers have me kidnapped

in their cave, save me, and his father got out the snippers, and boy was he angry, but ronald was having fun

doing this, and, yes, it was under his parents expensive, ronald joined stage coach road trips to try and be noticed

and everyone laughed at his jokes, thinking he was a funny dude, he was a good magician for 5 generations

all of ronald’s friends thought of ronald as being a fun loving guy, who loves the world of magic

and ronald would do clown shows to all of his chums, and all the kids and members of the general public loved him

ronald tried to pull a rabbit out of his hat, it never worked, and the crowd yelled out boooo hiiis boooo hiisss

and ronalds friends and parents said it’s over, but it was fun while it lasted, but ronald was determined to make his magic happen

and then his friends said, how about if you can put on a regular show for the king, and  and ronalds best friend roslyn resin

was given the title of girl being cut in a box, you see roslyn would get in the box, and ronald would put swords in

the box, and yell, abracadabra and roslyn walks away unharmed, and the townsfolk who don’t believe in magic

and then, roslyn resin and brendan schultz were dragged by ronald down to the sea, where ronald tied them up

and threw them in the lake and yelled out ABRACADABRA, but they never escaped, because there was no such thing as magic

both these kids died.   when ronalds parents found out about the body in box experiment, they drove the stage coach away from this weird life, saying ronald

isn’t ready, and they moved into this town where everyone liked ronald except for this bully who hated ronald because, he was brendan schmaltz’s little brother

ronald was determined to get these tough kids to like him, so he showed him his magic tricks, but brendan’s brother said, he will tie you up

and leave you in the ocean, and ronald said, how about we play a game called tie the bully up, but as ronald tried to touch brendan’s brother

he said, get off me ya little freak, and the next day ronald and all his chums were brine watched by a weird predator, who has plans to lock them in his old fashioned dungeon

and then at the stroke of midnight ronald and all his chums were ******* in a stage coach and driven to  the mt georgia volcano, as hot as a

giant oven and ronald escaped from the stage coach just as they stopped, and because there were only 2 people who driving, so ronald ran back up the road, and after two weeks

ronald arrived at his parents den, saying, the other kids were thrown at the volcano and that christmas, when ronald was 12, a man dressed up as santa

kidnapped and murdered ronald, and cut ronalds head off, and threw him to the sharks, and the head was being brought to the stern of the ship, and

i believe the only thing that died in ronald iwas the body, the should will be passed onto each earth body year by year, now, the should is in his latest life, ME

totally cool dude

1549

My Wars are laid away in Books—
I have one Battle more—
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o’er—
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best—Neglecting me—till
All the rest, have died—
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away—
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity—

i am a fine eater i eat everything

i feel like eating chocolate and many other things

and i feel like giving up and i have a craving

a craving for toothpaste

but i don’t wanna eat it because it is for teeth

i feel like drinking orange juice as well as chocolate

i eat chocolate and i gain weight

i want to stop eating junk food

he;s eating junk food, he’s like us now man

i feel like a chocolate bar as well a a chocolate mousse

i feel like a packet of biscuits as well as a big bottle of coke

please stop theser cravings please stop these cravings

like LOLLIES, YUMMY OLE LOLLIES, makes you fat but still tastes great

lollies put on a lot of excess weight, too much sugar

i am 162 kg, from eating too much sugar

yeah, dudes, my sugar count is high

i like cheesecake or vanilla slices as well as butter popcorn

which, that tastes soooooo nice, like me, i guess

i feel like two flavoured milks which can put on a lot of kilos

and i feel like a nice packet of mint slice biscuits and a 2 litre bottle of lemonade

lovely lemonade, and a 2 litre bottle too, and a beautiful sponge cake

sugar causes diabetes, and diabetes is caused by too much sugar

and i buy a tub of ice magic and pour it all over the ice cream

yes, i do feel like a tub of ice cream

and i have a sweet tooth a very big sweet tooth

chocolate and vanilla slices and milkshakes make me tick

and the yummy ole lollies make me feel happy

but each ounce of sugar i do eat can add on the weight

like every bottle of coke i do drink refreshes my mouth and body

like red coke and vanilla coke and coke life and coke zero really adds the fucken flavour

i do a poem in the poetry slam and coke is my reward

i was walking today and i smelt the wonderful cake in my fat body

i don’t want to be fat, but the sugary is solo addictive

the toothpaste is so addictive, but i must stop myself

i know i have a sweet tooth but i need to look further down

because sugar causes belly problems and dental problems

and my mental illness medication is making me crave all these wonderful foods

like hamburgers and chips and mexican nachos and cream buns

puts on weight, i can’t resist i ****** can’t resist, it’s clogging up my arteries

but i can’t seem fro stop the cravings

money buys sugary foods and drinks, i feel poor

i want to be rich and resist  these foods, i would love to have mates

but i am poor and i can’t resist these foods

i hear old school chums calling out to me, eat it brian eat it brian eat it brian

sometimes i can’t resist not to

but i want to, i will eat all these foods in one day

who can give you chocolate for many times you knew

who can rip the strawberry out of strawberries and cream lollies yeah

yeah i can eat a whole packet of marshmallows and strawberries and cream

as well as milk bottles and freddo frogs as well as a packet of 10 cherry ropes

i can eat chicken twists and cheese twists

as well as a packet of cheese and bacon *****, again too much sugar or saturated fats

bad for me very very bad for me, but i still eat it

i got addicted to coke when i was buying my second coke, and the lady said

you must be very very thirsty, mind you i was very thirsty but the sugar put coke ahead of water

and i went to the club and had a few sugary cokes and i bought a few packets of saturated fat crisps

as well as another sugary chocolate bar, i was thinking sugar is better than alcohol

but they both are as bad as each other

it is a lot of food to consume

who loves orange soda, brian loves orange soda is it true, yes i do i do i do oh yeah

you see food is the wicked witch and your body are the children she has

today i bought a nice sumo salad, a takeaway option

and i had two oranges as well as two dips, still bad, but all this are my preferences for a dessert i don’t need

.oh, i almost forgot, a post-scriptum as a pre-scriptum... what's the difference between Nero and Caligula? why does the bible defame Nero, and ignore Caligula? Caligula was a psychopathic ***-addict in comparison to Nero... Nero, a troubled soul, an emperor-artist... i could never lay my hands on a critique of Nero... Caligula was much worse, yet the bible doesn't cite him as a spawn of... wasn't Agrippina... who i think she was? Caligula, teased as a child for a nickname with regards to the legionnaire boot... could be worse, could be ****** made fun of his surname... as i was when i was younger, and then much older... but Nero, the fragile soul of a poet... mad, sure... but at least overcome with all, if any, emotional response... aren't those guys at Linux autistic? you know, the ones rebelling against a code of conduct? oh... i see... time to pick on the autistic kids then? fair enough!

oh come on man...
the internet used to be so much fun
a couple of years back...
these alternative journalists
are becoming... droll...
  same ****, different cover,
i'm almost happy i'm not asking
people for money or selling
stuff to viewers...
   i don't like soap opera,
never did, never will,
esp. English soap opera...
****'s so fresh it hit the fan
and the fan is spinning and
the **** is getting coverage by
exfoliating its supposed,
perfumery into the air...
that's done...
    i just like my westerns from
the 1960s...
my sudoku...
  my Jack n Charlie
  (enough of caffeine in pepsi
to leave you riddled),
my Julian Windig -
the moon, the stars,
and all the space, visceral,
but somehow un- breathable
in the gloomy thickness of
the night...
      but... given this whole
charade of the cloak of anonymity...
i can give you my home address...
and i know a decent part
of a reduced forest made into
a park...
  we'll have a few sly slugs
of whiskey downers...
  then we'll face off
burning cigarette stubs on our knuckles
till we reach the soft pouches
of our flesh, and wait for a month
for the skin to grow back...
and we'll talk...
   i'm currently reading
about the Ellie Soutter tragedy...
suicide, aged 18...
prettiest girl in the whole wild world..
snowboarder...
          i'm serious:
you want certain aspects of a DOX?
but my rules...
we go into a forest and
have a drink...
and then we put out the cigarettes
we're smoking on our knuckles...
hell: what's fun if the fun
doesn't invoke a pain?
****'s still stuck to the fan...
i'm getting whiffs of: strawberries,
and Coco Chanel...
   maybe both...
   but then again...
i guess i'm the one with the *****
to propose this meat-ing...
      such a pretty girl:
devoured by the world...
  shame, really...
   and all these girls who cut...
****... you want a tattoo and self-harm
at the same time?
putting out cigarettes onto
your body is the way forward!
am i attempting to inspire
the practice? NO STUPID!
    but i guess we men always
were more willing to... EXPLORE,
variant avenues...
    i can't believe the internet
was fooled by focusing on an introversion
of its content creators...
   but, hell...
i'll post you the address,
then the coordinates to the spot
in the woods i like to frequent
when winter comes...
  a few whiskey slugs and a few
cigarettes later...
  and we'll be... CHUMS...
hé hé!
    Michael Jackson style of that variant:
he said, she said...
  but from what i've seen...
no chance in hell, some mutt,
will take the offer...
                     i only hide:
behind a mirror,
   and with that:
that's hardly hiding to begin with;
but no, i don't like urbanized areas...
throw me into the thickening
darkness of
               a deforested wood
made into a mark...
  and tell me to walk blind...
   it's as if...
                   my pupils dilate outside
of the iris, and consume the sclera.

My second biggest fear is that
I will lose my mind one day...
My biggest fear is that
I never will

ANZAC CHUMS AND THEIR MUMS

In Oz the possum grinds on thorn and gum
Far too stretched to visit mum -
Things are hard outback of Bourke
And there’s no time for anything but work.

But Kiwi possums like to visit ma
With flowers for her crystal jar -
They’ll even take a shopping bag of buds
With some greens and beans and spuds.

In Oz the possum is protected
As indeed might be expected -
Beset by fires and drought and prickles
And parched out creeks that slim to trickles.

But Kiwi possums are heaven sent
To slurp and scoff to heart’s content -
When they dine they have the best
And not surprisingly are deemed a pest.

In Oz a treasure - in NZ an imported glitch
There are mixed opinions either side the Ditch –
Mum’s the word on making possums able
To visit home with veggies for the table.

my wars are laid away in books
I have one battle more
a foe whom I have never seen
but oft has scanned me over
and hesitated me between
and others at my side ,
but chose the best  neglecting me-till
all the rest have died
how sweet if I am not forgot
by chums that passed away
since playmates at threescore and ten
are such a scarcity

"Ähoy" a sudden call, that speaks so much ; looking up I see,
a face familiar for ages,up above the dark, sturdy Palmyra tree,
thirty feet high, amidst  the lush canopy of thick green leaves,
his toddy tapper's gear, unchanged for generations, around his waist,
just a breast plate to protect from the rough trunk, while crawling up,
a broad smile, time couldn't wither, on that countenance.

An ancient avatar, he jumps out  from a favorite story book,
of  childhood, he animated a lot of memories of those times,
walking through the narrow path among trees,a loud "Ähoy"
would  unexpectedly greet dad and I,  from where the wind reigns,
unaware there is world above, ready to reach us, any time,
cut in to our animated talk on atlas moths with broad wings,
or amazing things, Malabar squirrels that fly from tree to tree.
"Ähoy! Raman!how'z toddy flow today? All fine?"
his voice booming  from below, dad would cheer our friend;
more like talking to the wind and trees, pleasantly surreal.

"Ähoy"makes all fall in place, Raman hasn't changed a bit,
time flows only down here, up there  it seems standing still,
my little village too has a trap, I suspect, time has no way to escape,
if it makes the river languid, no, Raman seems not to mind!
"Master" the old familiar endearment, "Ẅhat's the matter?
from here, above the clouds, I can see those brooding eyes,
The city, shall I say took all those smiles, you would gift
as a village boy , going to school with your chums, this way"
I know what comes next, fresh toddy served with love as an antidote,
right here under the tree, a brew that  brims with memories
of many guilty pleasures of adolescence,can I ever reject?

No worry lines on that gentle face, Raman is ageless, cool,
we sit on a pre historic rock, that extends  seating arrangement,
in to container, he made with braided Palmyra leaf,
Raman pours limitless love that for others would look like toddy,
to me this milky liquid, is a magic potion tapped from memories,
of a past that I thought has winged  away from me but still here.
I gulp it  and get transported to a time, I don't want to forget,
Now the wind, I can hear hums an old haunting tune,familiar
In mild intoxication, we chorus the wind's song on Palmyra leaves.

On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.

Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.

my buddy keeps me chained to the bed
he's like a dark shadow, consuming and-
and my pal, the one that's there when i look into the past,
thinks that he can be a good friend;
they double team me, pin me down,
choke me 'til i feel sick
'til tears leak from shadowed eyes.
it's one hell of a *******, let me tell you
i barely leave the bedroom
i've barely left the house in months

see my last lover cheated on me
so i'm sticking to friends with benefits now—
they don't mind sharing me
and sometimes they invite more chums along.
i'd give their names but you'd lose interest;
nobody wants to talk about my love life
once they can put faces to my promiscuity

all this company
and i'm alone as can be
did you know it's been over three months
since anybody touched me?
since i touched anybody else?
"what about your lovers"
they're teases, really—what else could drive me to tears?
i shed three today
i think they call that growing

but i could still see his shadow behind my eyelids
hear his voice inside my mind
and then i was three years old again,
no lovers, no threesomes, no gang bangs
just screaming and tears and
"big boys don't cry"
'daddy, i'm three'
his new girlfriend washes me clean
'why is daddy angry?'
"let me shampoo your hair, there's sick everywhere"

back in the moment and i'm eighteen years old
i taste acid in my throat.
there's a broken bowl.
another lover━this one cool and callous and uncaring━
she comes and sweeps me back to bed;
she's efficient like that,
i no longer care if i'm living or dead.
i still feel sick but-
i'm fine. all these friends slash lovers
it's okay because they're mine.
you don't know how much it means to a lonely child
to have something he can hold onto,
to say, "i'm gonna live with these guys for the rest of my life."

Have you heard about old Erik Satie?
He was quite slim and not un fatti;
Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee ****
(which must have given quite a shock
to his musical chums at the Conservatoire
where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire").

While sitting 'au piano' one fine day
At his Honfleur home so bright and gay,
Our Erik felt himself come over queer,
(le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière).
He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when
(that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes").

Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent
That certainly wasn't what I meant;
But there's no doubt he was a little odd
(indeed many called him an asexual sod);
For, although French, he loved not the ladies
(and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies").

Many piano pieces which Satie penned
Are rather silly and round the bend;
One was called "Prélude for a Dog"
(which he wrote whilst sur le bogue);
Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade"
Which some people think is quite avant-garde.

He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas
Which set him apart from saner fellers;
He had lots of velvet suits to his name
(and for some reason, they all looked the same).
But he over-did it on the *****, was often ******,
Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.

I confess I’m addicted to my phone
My observations tell me I’m not alone
For when you venture out it’s plain to see
The majority of us are glued to our screens

Whether on the tube or pushing a pram
We all have devices in our hands
Surfing the net or social networking
Everyone obsessed with being plugged in

It’s getting so bad even in company
We’re not fully there as we view our screens
And now there are warnings from TFL
Not to fall down escalators as a result of this swell

In checking our messages, writing posts
Face to face interaction up in smoke
We’d rather be alone in the cyber world
Than engaging in reality with other boys and girls

It is an epidemic that’s spreading extremely fast
Thus it seems that human contact
could become a thing of the past
No need to leave the house anymore
When everything can be ordered and delivered to your door

A society of zombies isolated could we become
If we don’t down devices and venture out into the scrum
And mingle with other beings physically there
Where we can look them in the eye
and maintain that stare

Connecting on a basic level without the aid of WiFi
And concentrating on each other
instead of being distracted by
Notifications and little beeps
Incoming communication that never sleeps

And keeps you up all night as your brain just can’t switch off
From all the incessant stimuli we’re inundated with
Time to give it a rest, take a break just for a while
Look up from your laptops and perhaps give someone a smile

Watch where you are going, don’t get yourself run over
Be present in the moment and you hopefully won’t fall over
Have a coffee with someone instead of instant messaging
Regard the world around you taking note of everything

Don’t zone out and go into a solitary trance
Assemble your tribe, spin some tunes, have a little dance
Limit your time on the World Wide Web
Grab yourself a hottie and get jiggy with them instead

I’m talking to myself
As well as anyone else
Your family and chums are precious
And deserve nothing less

Than your undivided attention
For one day there’ll come a time
When perhaps they’re no longer around
And you regret being online.

‘t was nice till now.
I’d be a sad fool to complain.
There are others that deal with
much more **** then I can ever imagine.
There are happy homeless chums
that don’t give a **** about sadness but, unfortunately,
their madness is voiceless
and, sadly, our ears get numb after 3-4 minutes of elevator music.

It was cool and everything but now it seems that you’re only
showing the back of your head, as you’re kneeling down in front
of everybody.

No spine. No dime. No nothing.

Death lies hidden in your breast pocket,
just waiting to bite your hand or that of your loved ones,
in a blink of a blind eye.

My inner black dog chased away the black and white cats
and all that jazz is just not enough for
a healthy restart of the brain membrane.

Get closer and hear me out.
I’m speaking through my heart – this yellow bellow fella’s almost done.
I’ll whisper and you’ll understand my stubbornness,
like an unlit candle in the wind,
like a simple quiet rocket/piano man,
like the unlikely event of crashing in a brick wall.

‘t was nice.
All the dreaming
and drinking
and smiling
and crying
and cringing inside my head.
Oooooooh, what a match!
The crowd goes wild and that’s so unlike them to do – clawless, fangless, white tigers.

You might not recognize this day as being amazing and wonderful and all,
but trust me when I say that you’re in a blind spot right now and
as soon as it will be over, you’ll see it.
You’ll understand.
Those were not drops of desperation but exquisite fine wine left unattended.

Hear the echo inside this caveman’s body.
Look in this broken mirror and admit that you cannot see the eyes.

This generation of morons will stay put and eat macarons all day long.
It’s just a burning house, as Robin nicely put it in his song.
There is still hope for this silly antelope.
There is time for the timeless universe that we live in.

You’ll eventually get tired of seeing everything backwards,
of going against the stream, like a red herring in a Quentin T. dark alley.
You’ll get tired and admit that
you’re the ******* queen of everything wrong in this world.

Stop complaining.
Get over it.
For now.

When love sat neatly on the stove
Bubbling with content.
I never dreamt a fuse would blow
And leave such discontent.

When all my cakes were browning well
And soufflé neatly risen.
I never dreamt the heat would cool
And leave me in derision.

For many years my cooker worked
I was proud of all I made.
I never dreamt the power would fail
And leave me so dismayed.

But when the hotplate starts to cool
And pots refuse to simmer
I never dreamt your love would die
And leave without a glimmer.

My thermostat no longer clicks
My tiny red lights gone.
I never dreamt I’d miss them so
And depend so much upon.


The food of love that fed my heart
Is suddenly all-cold.
I never dreamt I’d lose it
Until I grew quite old.

Now I’ll starve and grow quite weak
I’m living on stale crumbs.
I never dreamt we’d come to this
No longer are we chums.

I cannot find the right fuse wire
My circuit breakers stuck
I never dreamt my torch would go
I’ve run right out of luck.

Oh God! Send someone to fix it
Before I’m without light
I never dreamt a love like that
Could leave us over night.

I wrote you a letter that you will never see
I wrote how I feel about you and how you treat me
I talked about my love for you and all the wonderful things you do
I said how I feel apologized and told you I would deal
I talked about your smell, your voice and your face
I talked about how special it is you invited me to this place
I mentioned how you can be kind and warm.....eventually gettin' around to the part where I'm torn
I wrote about how you are blind and don't allow your heart to see
I put emphasis on how you confusingly treat me
Your silly *** likes them short, blonde and dumb so you and I are seen as chums
I'm the best thing you'll never want and the treasure you'll always ignore
I'm destined to watch you choose wrong and bed ***** after *****
It was the most truth I've ever written telling you how I'm in love and smitten
I'll never let you see it because its already torn up and destroyed
Soon I will be gone taking my feelings and burrying them in the void
I'd rather have you this way than no way at all
Thats why I have to leave this place so I won't continue to fall and fall
You certainly don't deserve me if you can't see me for who I am
God didn't make me to be a stupid girl who is rail thin
We could have it all but you don't like a girl with curves and bends
Even though you treat me like a wife, a lover and gem you will never let me be more than just a friend

"Respect" is a word many people use
"Respect" is a word many people abuse
Most people spend their life to learn it
Most people spend their life to earn it.

So they can all say "look up to me"
and prop up their false identity
But respect doesn't come by achievement or funds
or looks, or houses, or car type or chums.

You find "respect" hanging on a cross
not by the gains but by one's loss
You find "respect" between sky and land
with a different crown on a crucified man.

The Italian coast is a dangerous place for an American
Its full of sharks, so I’ve heard.
Englishmen consider the wogs chums
Americans more as the singular
With a hat from Chile,
pants assembled in Mexico,
and bananas grown in Venezuela,
The whole seems to be  lesser than its parts.

Loving her is an obvious error,
Over past few years I found so,
Virtually pure untouched love,
Experiencing it just with her...

Cutest mistake I ever made ever,
Housin' myself within her heart,
All for her is my world & myself,
Not bowing down for this world,
Getting one are our hearts daily,
Equally divine are our feelings,
Setting for a lifetime they are..

Edging the long cliff of life we live,
Very risky is this road taken by us,
Era of love awaiting us maturely,
Ruling my heart's land is a queen,
Youthful eyes tell not a single lie,
This is the life I was wishing for,
Hiking across the romantic hills,
I'm that moon & she is that Sun,
Now I get close to her everyday,
G**elling as good as childhood chums.

After one year of isolation,
I finally realized
the role of real friends,
in our lifes.

room's awhirl
sounds collide
banal speech
mirth escapes
clustered holes

stand alone
children pass
chasing chums
they relate
playing roles

noises clash
confined space
worlds apart
I'm alone
flee outside

under trees
hide behind
thumping hall
swirling beat
amplified

close my eyes
dare to breathe
sense some peace
feel her smile
in mind's eye  

sweet relief
friend I know
welcome to
solitude's
lullaby

A posse of cronies
With button-marked thumbs
Were part of a ring
Of cyberspace chums

With crimson-lined eyes
They played night and day
Till some solemn stranger
Took their machines away

The stranger stole through the dark
Before they, could awake
To tip their technology
Into a lake

The groups sleep-rested eyes
Opened to see
The redundant space
Where gizmos should be

Some shouted, some cried
Some just couldn't speak
They rose from their beds
Confused and knees weak

Once clothed and clean
And breakfast was through
One cry could be heard
'Now what do we do?'