Who do I give my love to?
Can I return home? To something
lost, found, lost.
Myself, the barren cage,
Do you ever stop and breathe
in where I place your love
now?

Now. *** is so commercialised, objectified, underrated and understated;
fearful and lust-driven;
you want me to give it
to you so badly ,
I don’t even get to quote
‘we made love’
anymore.

Being close with you has taken on
the same meaning
as talking
on the phone
with you for an hour.

It may be established,
as dull as the Amish
even nightmarish
but I want to publish.

It never seems boarish
The reading is moreish
in fact it, I would relish
the contracts most hellish.

I have just one wish,
and that is to publish
music to nourish
talent to astonish
and help it to flourish
and try to abolish
the commercialised anguish

Those frowned upon days would leave you unaware of us
Us
I think that if it hadn't been for the hustle and bustle of Saturday you would still be blindly stumbling around me
And part of me still longs for that day
You handing me a clay bowl you had crafted specially for me
And I returning the favour by swearing the gesture would stay  in my heart forever
I still remember the feel of the hard clay on my brittle fingers
Clay of gods
The clay of the unsilenced man who climbs through the bathroom window to feast on the partially digested moonlight
That was us

I remember that day so well
eighty seven green leeks sitting on the windowsill
The ever changing planet earth
That is where Saturday and I waited
We we're both awake
Awake
But thoroughly unsatisfied
Me and my grandfather
We sat in the old field that we had finally forgiven
eating partially grown corn
Full on the cob
But we would not eat it to the core
For we were starving ourselves for evening supper
Which meant Aunty Mason's famous Shepard's pie
And the two of us sitting beside each other was enough
For me and my grandfather had an unspoken bond
We were each other

These were the days, might I add
Before spaceships and the commercialised automobile
When a lazy Saturday would be enough to fill our hearts with bliss
And keep us going through the week
Enough to last the millennium
And Each single drop of ale we drank that day
Would echo through our bodies that night
And I would still cry
About love dismissed from myself
Which was, of course
No big deal to the watching eye
Not even a speck of light on a foggy night
And They say to us that remaining sane is like elephant tusks
Fierce and piercing
we would cling to that idea like nothing else mattered
And To be with you
Recreating old memories
Not thinking of meanings
Meant the world to me

And there I was with my grandfather
But years ahead he had died
And I had replaced him with those good memories in that corn field
I wish the same could be said for others
The ones who I had sworn not to mention again
Is it me creating this barrier?
Is it the same one as you made with that clay bowl that day?
Am I a mongrel, bison or bear?
A monster or a demon?
To shred up those memories
Those seven neatly wrapped parcels you sent to my office in London
Each containing another clay bowl
That was enough
That was enough
Being back in your loop was too much of a sin
An attempt to pierce my own armour
Which I had sworn on the overcast morning of my grandfather's funeral
I would avoid doing at all costs

And You were done and over
The pinnacle of my sad memories
How could I even think to look back?
And I was older now
At least to you I was
Then there was that strange third fold
The thought that you were still following my adventures
I began to think that another day alive
Would be enough to confuse you
To lead you away
But each stigma you had wrote was still attached to me
Weighing me down
I began to loose the desire to leave where I was

To the rest of them I was still nobody
A manager of head office
with lots of clay bowls on his desk
Not somebody to love
Love was for people who tried
I had given up trying years ago
In a bar in New York
under red coloured lights
Have I asked myself why?
Of course I have
But with each answer
forty one more question are born
God was playing a practical joke on me
And with the end result
The close of this chronicle
Ended me
For my last bud had blown
And my last hair had turned white
Yes
That was me, all in all