‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et *** illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.’

                For Ezra Pound
                il miglior fabbro


I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony *******? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
            Frisch weht der Wind
            Der Heimat zu
            Mein Irisch Kind,
            Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to ***** ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

‘What is that noise?
                          The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
                    Nothing again nothing.
                                                    ‘Do
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’

    I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
                                                     But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
                             The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
hurry up please its time
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
hurry up please its time
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
hurry up please its time
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
hurry up please its time
hurry up please its time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female *******, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

      The river sweats
      Oil and tar
      The barges drift
      With the turning tide
      Red sails
      Wide
      To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
      The barges wash
      Drifting logs
      Down Greenwich reach
      Past the Isle of Dogs.
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

      Elizabeth and Leicester
      Beating oars
      The stern was formed
      A gilded shell
      Red and gold
      The brisk swell
      Rippled both shores
      Southwest wind
      Carried down stream
      The peal of bells
      White towers
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’
‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start’.
I made no comment. What should I resent?’
‘On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of ***** hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.’
              la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                                A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                               Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock wi

It was near Christmas time
and you went along
to see old Pete
who lived alone

in a two up
two down house
not far
from where you lived

he was about 96 or so
and still went
to mass each day
and did the collection

at mass on Sundays
dressed in his best
suit and tie
you knocked

on his door
and after a while
he opened the door
come in

he said
and you followed him
into the main room
where he had a fire going

and sat
in an old armchair
sit down
he said

so you sat
on a chair
beside him
there was a cat

on the mat
in front
of the fireplace
sleeping

want a whisky?
sure
you said
( you used to drink

back then)
the bottle's
in the sideboard
over there

there's a glass
in the kitchen
so you went
to the kitchen

and took a glass
from the draining board
and took the bottle
out of the sideboard

pour yourself a drink
he said
what about you?
you asked

can't drink
I'm on too many pills
ok
you said

and poured
a couple of fingers worth
more than that
he said

what are you
some kind of woman?
so you poured
half the glass

and put the bottle
on the small table
beside you
Pete sipped

his milky tea
well here's to Christmas
he said
and raised

his mug of tea
you raised your glass
and said
here's to you

and you sipped your drinks
he talked of his wife
who had died
some years before

he spoke of his son
(without much affection)
and his grandson
whom he seemed

to speak well of
and his grandson's wife
who he said
was quite pretty

but not as beautiful
as my wife
Pete said
she was one

in a million
he went quiet
he sipped his tea
and you sipped

your whisky
he talked about
his master builder days
when he worked long hours

and over six days
and saved money
where and when
he could

he became silent
my son is always
on the want
he knows

I have money
and he is always
asking
for this and that

he drained
his mug of tea
you drained
your glass of whisky

want another?
he asked
I must be going
you said

have another first
he said
so you poured
more whisky

into the glass
( half a glass again
he having insisted)
and he talked

of the women he knew
and how he teased them
and flirted with them
and made them laugh

you know those old dears
like to be flirted with it
makes them
feel young again

he said
when they laugh
you can see the light
flash in their old grey eyes

and their dead dugs
tremble with memories
and he laughed
and drank

from a bottle
of mineral water
by his armchair
he sat gazing

into the fire
you sat draining
the whisky
from the glass

the room smelt
of cooking meat
and wet cat
and you said

look Pete I best go
the wife will wonder
where I've gone
OK

he said
and so you washed
the glass in the sink
and put the bottle away

in the sideboard
and patted his shoulder
see you around
in church

he said
sure
you replied
and walked swaying

up the road
you'd only went
to Pete's
to wish him well

and to deliver a card
and framed picture
of a female saint
he liked

but the whisky
had been a bonus
a kind of
THANK YOU

for being
a friend
to an old man
it was the sort of gift

you liked back then
the whisky kind
sorting the boys
from men.

YOU gave, but will not give again
Until enough of paudeen's pence
By Biddy's halfpennies have lain
To be "some sort of evidence',
Before you'll put your guineas down,
That things it were a pride to give
Are what the blind and ignorant town
Imagines best to make it thrive.
What cared Duke Ercole, that bid
His mummers to the market-place,
What th' onion-sellers thought or did
So that his plautus set the pace
For the Italian comedies?
And Guidobaldo, when he made
That grammar school of courtesies
Where wit and beauty learned their trade
Upon Urbino's windy hill,
Had sent no runners to and fro
That he might learn the shepherds' will
And when they drove out Cosimo,
Indifferent how the rancour ran,
He gave the hours they had set free
To Michelozzo's latest plan
For the San Marco Library,
Whence turbulent Italy should draw
Delight in Art whoSe end is peace,
In logic and in natural law
By ******* at the dugs of Greece.
Your open hand but shows our loss,
For he knew better how to live.
Let paudeens play at pitch and toss,
Look up in the sun's eye and give
What the exultant heart calls good
That some new day may breed the best
Because you gave, not what they would,
But the right twigs for an eagle's nest!
December

i had a past drug addict tell me once that picking up smoking cigarettes helped them drop their addiction of the other dugs
it was a distraction that calmed their body and mind down when it wanted the drugs
they said they were clean for years but not a day goes by that they don't miss the drugs and the way they made them feel

you're gone
and i kissed a million different boys over and over  to replace the feeling you gave me
behind closed eyes and closed doors my mind and body replaced you with him for those few hours
i haven't seen you in years but not a day goes by that i don't miss the way you made me feel

Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing

as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed

the colour, the waves, the  
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with

the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.

He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind

her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross

without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress

who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding

an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;

hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.

He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,

the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just

gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,

if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.

They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.

Hers was a life of compliance.
Fulfilment of another’s wishes,
observance of another’s needs,
conformity to the rules set down
in stone. She was the rubber of
beads through fingers, touched
by thumbs; the beads of the rosary
would be sealed by prayers.

She was the self denier, who put
herself last, one who sacrificed
pleasures for a promised salvation,
whose menstruations were reminders
of babies that would never be,
children which would never be hers,
dugs that would never be ******.  

She carried the cross through cloisters,
sandaled feet trod the paved paths,
heard birdsong, saw butterflies in flight,
moths at night in the candle’s flame,
she hidden away, unknown, no fame
with a saint’s name. And each morning
rising with the bell, kissed by the early
dawn, touched by the chill of early frost,
she lived and moved, all for love of Christ.

Milka followed Baruch
along the road
to his parent's house
and up the stairs

to his bedroom
she looking about her
as she climbed
won't your parent’s

be home?
she asked
no they're at work
he said

my mother until
half two
Milka nodded
and thought

of the bewilderment
if they came home
too soon
and what if they did?

they came to the landing
and he showed her
the single bed
by the wall

next to another
by the window
whose bed is that?
she asked

my brother's
Baruch said
he's away
oh

she said looking
at the single bed
by the wall
with the blue bed cover

well?
he said
what do you think?
she looked at the bed

and then at Baruch
it's a bit narrow
she said
it'll be ok

he said
unless you don't want to
he said
she bit her lip

are you sure
no one
will be back early?
sure as sure

he said
he took in
her bright eyes
the hair

shoulder length
and well groomed
the yellow
tight fitting top

and blue jeans
she looked by him
at the window
can anyone see us?

he looked out
the window
I’ll close the curtains
he said

she looked at him there
eyes wide open
and alert
his black jeans

and white shirt
you don't have to
he said
just thought

that after last time
in the barn
it would be better here
she nodded

that was a bit
uncomfortable
she said smiling
hay and straw

in my *******
when I got home
he smiled
yes and that mouse

that ran over
my backside
she laughed
and relaxed

and I screamed
she said
he nodded
and looked at her

standing there
by the bed
we don't have to
if you'd rather not

he said
she looked at him
and said
I want to

it's just the anxiety
that your parents
will come home
and catch us

he stroked her hair
they won't
he said
I'd not risk it

if I thought
they'd be home early
she sat on the bed
and he sat next to her

she kicked off her shoes
and he did so too
she looked at him again
then  stood up

and unzipped her jeans
and took them off
and laid them
on the other bed

he did like wise
she took off the top
over her head
and placed it on top

of her jeans
he took off his shirt
and put it on top
of his jeans

then she unclipped
her bra
and threw it
to the other bed

he stood there
gazing at her
small mounds
the brownish dugs

she removed
her pink *******
and flicked them
to the bed

by the window
where they rested
by the windowsill
he took off his briefs

and threw them over
by his jeans
she breathed out
deeply and slowly

he put a hand
on right breast
felt the softness
ran his fingers

over the dug
she smiled
and touched his pecker
then she lay down

on the bed
and he lay beside her
his hand touching
her thigh

and she saw
the sunlight
through
the uncurtained window

in the bright
midday sky.

Isis knows
the finger

going down
her bony

spine slowly,
belongs to

(without doubt)
her girlfriend

young Jodie.
The finger

moves between
the valley

of her ***,
circling

the soft fuzz,
hovering

just above,
predator

of deep love,
moistening

the fruit cup,
wet mouthing

the dark dugs,
tongue licking

the milk mounds,
ear to breast

hearing soft
the beat thump

of her heart
as her thighs

spread wide like
the Red Sea,

and the hushed
voice and sigh

like buzzing
of the wild
honey bee.

Woolgar peered
through the wire mesh
at the girl’s playground
can see that girl you like

down there
he said
you walked
to the wire mesh

and stared through
see her?
he said
no can’t see her

there over by
that fat girl
with the blue
ribboned hair

you stared harder
they keep moving about
you said
she’s there

he said
poking his finger
through mesh
her with the dark hair

you peered
at where his finger poked
Jane was by the fence
playing jump rope

with two other girls
yes I see her now
you said
what’s she like?

Woolgar said
like?
you said
what do you mean like?

Woolgar sniggered
and gazed stupidly
through the mesh
you know

does she kiss
and such
and what’s it like?
that’s for me to know

and you to guess
you said
some say
girl’s lips

are like peaches
Woolgar said
or that they kiss
all wet and warm

you watched Jane
move the rope
around and around
with some other girl

while one other
jump high and laughed
does she have *******?
Woolgar asked

peering like
some peeping Tom
or is she flat as board?
Or don’t you know?

he asked
looking round at you
his eyes brown
and round

and aping dung
what’s it to you Woolgar?
you still ****
your mother’s dugs

or so I’ve heard
you said
seeing Jane
play skip rope

once again
you leave my mother
out of this
he said

rubbing his fingers
going red
walking off
muttering

and moaning
turning round
and *******
you turned

to gaze at Jane
once more
but the skipping girls
had gone away

to some other place
to skip and play.

Michelle has
just made love
to Nesta

her lover
satiated
she lays back

on the bed
Nesta's head
on her *******

her right hand
on her hip
Michelle feels

all her nerves
tingle hot
electrified

from hair end
to small toes
Nesta breathes

Michelle’s *******
the softness
pink piggies

tiny tails
of brown dugs
recalls wet

hot kisses
body hugs
******

deep probing
warm juices
then she hears

from the hall
her deaf child
from her room

loudly call
and swiftly
leaves the *******

and sweet smells
to rescue
her deaf child

and bring her
back to bed
with Michelle

her lover
who always
gives kisses

all counting
none misses.

Still born. The words stick
In the throat. Even if she sees
It someplace in a magazine
Some medical journal it hits home.
Some nights she wonders if the
Imaginary kicking she thinks she
Feels is her phantom babe or
Senses her dugs go hard at the
Mere mention of the word on
The tip of her tongue: still born.
Born still or pushed forth lifeless
But wanted and needed and lost.
What really sticks in her throat
Is seeing babes in passing prams
Or backyards unwanted unneeded
By mothers who **** and shuck
Without concern while she sensing
Her heavy loss and a vacant womb
Can only look on and walk away
Or sit and weep in a darkened room.

"Touch me", I was told.
I replied, in what way?
Cuz I can touch in ways I don't even have to physically even share skin.
A way that can run into an aquatic ocean, deep, deep within.
Adventurously exploring into your odyssey at an atmospheric pressure.
Bringing out the best in you, discovering hidden treasures.
Burrowing into your ****** not only through pleasure,
your eyes laid on mine is enough existence to fully measure.
The way I'd make your mind ******, you'd heavily swirl the seas.
Inhabiting through your waters, I could join the marines.
I am a water sign,
you know....Scorpios & their drives..
In the depths of your ocean, continuously helping you rise,
I'd dive through your mind
& keep you energized.
Feeling your waves, causing bursting tidal currents and dugs.
When I told you I'd touch you, I knew I'd make your water pump.
I felt your magical attraction & I knew I would make you come.
Enough to touch your bottom, I'd need a submarine.
Scuba dive as you spread, the deeper your sea.
I can balance you baby, so step into my scale,
I'll transform your credited life into good, how far we could sail.

No matter how much you try,
You can still hear your baby cry.

The doctors and nurses
Fussed about, gave advice,
Gave cold comfort words that
Fell from you like dying birds.

Maybe you imagine your baby
Lived, that secretly they stole her
And took to give to some other
****** up drained out mother.

You dream you have her in your
Arms and she comes to life with
A cough and splutter and opens
Blue eyes; her small lips wanting
To **** the dried up dugs, seeking
The absent milk, the warmth of hold.

Then you wake up with tired eyes
To dark dawn feeling the biting cold.

Some nights you feel her about drop,
The ghostly babe, and crouching by a
Wall, wait and feel the phantom pain.

Men passing by think you want to ****,
But all you want is love and baby back.

The peacemaker
My father made peace
With the people
That has a drug problem
And do street drugs
Also, my father is not happy
To see his people
Killing their selves
By smoking street drugs
Yes his people are now also
Addicted to street drugs
That is so ashamed
That is what my father
Thinks about them
Also his people
Are buying
Dugs from the drug dealers
On the street
Also, they are making lots of money
It is called laundry money
Also people please don't gamble
With you health
The only people that are allowed
To end your life
Is my father, people
You just don't have the right
To end your life
Also, you don't have the right
To overdose on the medication
Yes people I must tell you
That you are lucky to be alive
Every single day here on earth
Also people you are going to
Die someday
When my father is ready for you
People, I must tell you that you
Are not going to die now
Because you still have a life to live

The peacemaker
My father made peace
With the people
That has a drug problem
And do street drugs
Also, my father is not happy
To see his people
Killing them selves
By smoking street drugs
Yes his people are now also
Addicted to street drugs
That is so ashamed
That is what my father
Thinks about them
Also his people
Are buying
Dugs from the drug dealers
On the street
Also, they are making lots of money
It is called laundry money
Also people please don’t gamble
With you health
The only people that are allowed
To end your life
Is my father, people
You just don’t have the right
To end your life
Also, you don’t have the right
To overdose on the medication
Yes people I must tell you
That you are lucky to be alive
Every single day here on earth
Also people you are going to
Die someday
When my father is ready for you
People, I must tell you that you
Are not going to die now
Because you still have a life to live

The peacemaker
My father made peace
With the people
That has a drug problem
And do street drugs
Also, my father is not happy
To see his people
Killing them selves
By smoking street drugs
Yes his people are now also
Addicted to street drugs
That is so ashamed
That is what my father
Thinks about them
Also his people
Are buying
Dugs from the drug dealers
On the street
Also, they are making lots of money
It is called laundry money
Also people please don’t gamble
With you health
The only people that are allowed
To end your life
Is my father, people
You just don’t have the right
To end your life
Also, you don’t have the right
To overdose on the medication
Yes people I must tell you
That you are lucky to be alive
Every single day here on earth
Also people you are going to
Die someday
When my father is ready for you
People, I must tell you that you
Are not going to die now
Because you still have a life to live

The peacemaker
My father made peace
With the people
That has a drug problem
And do street drugs
Also, my father is not happy
To see his people
Killing them selves
By smoking street drugs
Yes his people are now also
Addicted to street drugs
That is so ashamed
That is what my father
Thinks about them
Also his people
Are buying
Dugs from the drug dealers
On the street
Also, they are making lots of money
It is called laundry money
Also people please don’t gamble
With you health
The only people that are allowed
To end your life
Is my father, people
You just don’t have the right
To end your life
Also, you don’t have the right
To overdose on the medication
Yes people I must tell you
That you are lucky to be alive
Every single day here on earth
Also people you are going to
Die someday
When my father is ready for you
People, I must tell you that you
Are not going to die now
Because you still have a life to live