I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.

Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.

Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.

Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.

Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It *****. It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my ****, Lord Love-a-duck.

It happens on buses, in restaurants, or on trains,
On my work break, in waiting rooms, or on aeroplanes
It even happens on holidays and on nights out too
It drives me absolutely mental but what can I do?

I always get stuck with the one person, (I never seem to fail)
Who feels the need to tell their life story, (in all its gory detail)
Is it something about me, or is it just downright bad luck?
What makes people like these think I could give one f..k?

I try my best not to engage, but I do not like to be rude
Though I want to say Shut Up! I’m just not in the mood!
They start to talk, I disengage, it’s a real battle of wills
But they carry on regardless, have they no social skills?  

I try to make it obvious I’m not the type who gives a sh.t”,
that I am not someone who cares, even just a little bit
But they miss all the signals, that much is obvious
As they carry on regardless, completely oblivious!  
  
Now we all have our problems but we do not feel the need to share
So what makes these people think a complete stranger will care
Is offloading to strangers for them some kind of great panacea?
Or do these people just suffer from acute verbal diarrhoea?

As they prattle on I nod, make all the appropriate noises
If there was a competition for talkers these people would win prizes
While amazed by the fact these people never seem to draw breath
I fight an ever growing desire to simply beat them to death

Some things you don’t discuss with strangers, should it require explanation?
But nothing seems sacred, no such thing as “too much information”
These people tell me intimate details about themselves and their lives
Stuff you and I would hesitate to tell parents, siblings or wives

They seem to think I am their counsellor, some kind of therapist
When God was giving out social skills, they were obviously missed
They have absolutely no boundaries, have never heard of discretion
I pity the poor priest who has to listen to their confession!

And women are the worst, lest there be any doubt
You would not believe the personal stuff they tell me about
They get very inappropriate, though I do the best I can
To remind them of the fact they are talking to a man!

Some of these people have meltdowns, lose the plot altogether
And a little part of me just wants to say “Whatever!”
But I look in their eyes, where I often see tears glistening
And despite all my best efforts, I always end up listening

Those I meet just once on trips, well they are bad enough
But those in my social circle think I am their new BFF
Even though when I bump into them I could not be much colder
It is never long before they start crying on my shoulder

And soon they’re sending friend requests to me on Facebook
And following me on Twitter, God they’re everywhere I look
No matter how I try I cannot seem to shake them loose
So now I am seriously considering becoming a recluse

While these people are annoying, I have to say I’m worse
Because I really start to care, what an awful ****** curse
When I should just tell these people to please leave me alone
I start to listen to their issues, so I cannot really moan!

We should have more time for those in need; that is my belief
and my listening to these people seemed to give them some relief
but while these people seemed much better, having got things off their chest
I am bothered by all their issues and find I am constantly stressed

So if you meet me now I might seem very unsociable altogether
But my experiences with these people have pushed me to the end of my tether
And so I have taken my mothers advice, (she obviously knew the dangers)
For she always warned me as a child; “Never talk to strangers!”

I wrote her lyrics on the back
of a postcard. Half of them were
mine, the other half stolen from
an undisclosed source by the sea.
I meant to finish the piece with
hope or a splintered olive branch,
but instead I changed hands
and wrote illegibly:
I expect to hear from you
next time you are bored
or alone.

It has been four years now
and I haven't heard that song on
the radio. It has been four years
and the letterbox remains closed
like the reluctant mouth of a
four-year-old in a dentist's chair.
I haven't seen the doctor for a long time
and often I know that I am dying.
I close my eyes and slow my breath:
there are stellar clouds and old
Arcturus is falling from the sky.

The farmer's truck is offloading pigeons,
descending the cages as they fight
for the freedom of an updraught.
I watch it behind a television screen
and I see acceptable nature through
my parent's back window. I have learned
to experience everything behind
a screen door, to keep out mosquitoes
and compassion for far-off deaths:
Twenty-four dead in dust cloud,
as freedom spreads to the East.

I wrote her a letter the day before
my wedding and told her the whole
affair was simply to get a mortgage
and to have a reason to shave.
I knew she would likely have moved
address, or else threw out my envelopes
along with pizza leaflets and
charity bags. I wrote clearly with
my better hand:
*I have found a place to rest my wings,
but they still cramp at the thought
of a cloud.

The uncaring and unempathic
Make me so mad
Thoughtlessly operating
They fire around

Insensitive words
That can ***** and sting
Designed to hurt
Dark energy do they bring

It’s all about them
And their world of pain
So bitter and twisted
Verbal punches do they rain

Down on those
Whom have ‘irked’ them so
Unwittingly perhaps
But still they blow

Me me me!
They take precedence
Self-centred to the hilt
So others they condemn

Offloading at the innocent
To numb their misery inside
Makes them feel better
To cause another to cry

I guess they can’t help it
As they’re suffering within
Something is lacking
In them, something grim

So on to any poor soul
Do they their bile project
Thus be mindful of this
And yourself do protect.

a mind dump is so invigorating

To my home, the words take me
  each calling by name

Tearing walls from around me
  passion free, unrestrained

Their visions at midnight
  have lulled me to sleep

Their message when troubled
  my nightmare to greet

Through the long and the short
  it’s the words once again

Like the tide on the shore,
  they return as a friend

And lately I’m hearing
  an echoed refrain

From verses long distant
  offloading my pain

These words that I hear
  more whisper than shout

And what I once questioned,
  I no longer doubt

Through my voice they’re respoken
  to shield me from harm

Their peace like a blanket
   —under which I am warm

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

Five cent candles.

Plenty of pilgrims walking the road
ready for offloading the load
when they reach the cathedral.

Ah,
they used to sell forgiveness for less than the price of a beer, everyone making a little bit here or there sharing the love, hand in glove with him up above.

Now they moan,
but sore feet and tanned skin is not the hardest way to atone for one's sins.


Getting to the next place.

The bridge is being built by artesans, foreign men with artists hands, it will last for a thousand or more years,
give the peasants a favour and there's no shortage of labour
and we only call them professionals because
it helps them to keep their pride.

Whatever
I will watch until forever turns up its toes
and nobody, not even me knows when that will be.

The transferable tourist

The old ship striped like a rusty zebra
one, that has survived the big storms and attacked
by sea monsters how she still floated was a mystery.
From one obscure port to another, her captain had
forgotten how it felt to be sober.

She was like an old horse that knew its way by instinct.
Offloading clandestine crates, rats in the cargo hold.
When did the vermin come, and what was their destiny?
Morning in La Plata, tonight we will go ashore
in Buenos Aires eat fresh meat and dance the tango