Nestled
in a gyroscope
of allotment, haybail and heath
is the scenery of
my solemn country.
The skyrise, hollows. the
dripping
fat of the land.

The cities have boomed
and they're beautiful.
Like open roses they're
garlands of wire,
pylons and street-lights.
A thorny crown
on a girl in a nightclub. They're
blistering
they drink, kiss and drink.

And all the while
we live with whispers
splashed like
blood in a gutter.
As murmurs
pumped
through the strip-lit veins
of an office block.
Its a life where
prayers
are mist on train windows.

When we walk
we check our
reflection in car windows
and we're beautiful
we run
our hands
through our hair
knowing
we were babies born with
horns for this.

When we ride
its over
railroad boneyards,
the sleepers are
metal teeth locked in
asymmetrical laughter
at everything
at everyone
at nothing.

The skies are a
psychosis of sunlight, clouds,
vapour trails,
it's heaven
and
we're bent at the alter,
our shadow on
the crypt
has horns.

Brains are fickle things
Mine is a skyrise
With fifty floors

There is an open sign
It reads:
twenty-four hours,
seven days a week,
no rest.

Seven thousand zealots
Devoutly at their keyboards
Tap, tap, tap,
enter

Eureka!

Each floor oscillates in rhythmic unison
With the pulse of their caffeine ridden bodies

Eureka!

“Tell The Boss”

“Have you talked to The Boss?”

Whispers emerge:

“The Boss can’t appreciate our work”

“She is lazy”

“Our ideas are worthless then”

“I hate her”

Work isn’t mandatory, but it won’t stop. It can’t stop.
They work too quickly for me.

Robert brings me his last report.

“You are undeserving of this place - of our ingenuity - a waste of its capabilities”

Ashamed, The Boss hangs her head.

pleasure flowin'
with blue skies full of cigarette smoke.

puff. feeding the king,
make sure she's full
'cuz she's going higher.
not enough for me.

time out, clock spinnin'
like a skyrise,
cracking from its own demise.

queenie chuckles precociously
and the diamonds embedded on her tongue [staccato]
turn to tar.

i would **** for silence.
i smother her with a pillow.
she touched me there,
on the cheek. [accelerate]
i saw her wrinkles turn to corn stalks
and i looked away.

i was always wantin' that pleasure.
my release was at the bottom of stale marlboro lights.
where is QUEENie?

now i wonder where we land

Here lies a boy, physically no different from you,
The quiet one everyone thought they knew,
He would smoke so often he couldn't stop coughing,
Even after everyone's two cents, he was putting nails in his own coffin.
He couldn't shake the thought he was so different, he saw the world no matter the difference.
He saw the world's pain through other people's eyes, as if he was ontop of the world on a skyrise.
He wanted to be your hero no matter the price, to save you and all from their own demise.
He tried to save all within his control, but feeling so different it just made him a fool.
When the time comes for the pardon of his passing,
Do not shed tears for he is in heaven laughing,
Finally joyful he will cry out!
Mother I've missed you! with a great shout!

Through the years he was your number one fan
He was always just your boy classified with the number of a man.
When that dreadful day came he ceased to grow,
By thoughts aged as if He was on death row.
Time will pass without stopping,
Nevertheless he will never stop hopeing.

Hopeing for one day the ones he loved would turn,
From the way of the world, oh! his heart would
burn!
To one day see the ones he held most dear,
For tommorow they will live without fear
For one day they will feel no different from you,
Their life forever changed from a boy they hardly knew.

Something tells me
you never questioned
whether or not
you have a soul
resting beneath
that blanket of
thick, moist flesh

You see, ma
never sang me
a lullaby to sleep,

and now I rest with
weary bones
and crooked teeth

as though they were
toy soldiers
marching down
the streets of a ghost town

an army of woes

and sorrows stacked
so high, you'd think
the aches were
some sort of skyrise

And on, and on
the trembles speak

shaking what was never known
but could be known

if one only
went through the proper channels.