Where jungles stood
Great cities rise
On desert wasteland
New farmland lies
Where man aspired
To rearrange
He dreamed a dream
And made a change
His mind is such
A shaping force
You wonder why
Man treds a course
Indulging pride
Enslaved to greed
For inexorably
They lead
To mercenary depths
So deep
His God must sit alone
And weep
As man improves
Each varied part
Except for his
Primeval heart

(20 minute poetry)

Them old Romans had good ideas, burn down the cities, cut off your ears, but we didn't take heed,
preferring to bleed I suppose,
you can't smell 'jack **** when they lop off your nose and you can't poke it in to what doesn't concern,
let it burn.

And who gives a ****?

the common man
the man on the street who treds warily?

Dragged into this world and dropped into the next,
who can expect any more?

I'm watching cities arise on the horizon and thinking they all look the same,
London
Paris
Scunthorpe and Rome, but what's in a name?

Babylon coming one day
when Jericho falls.

It's not trumpets I hear only
curses caulking
the back of my throat.

On a small boat in a big sea and later
the creator will be coming for me.

Always on the horizon,
eyes on the present and past.

Eyelids sink like a ship
Down to the bottom of a navy ocean
Careless and broken
No hope of being fixed

Limbs sprawl across filthy sheets
Crimson splattered in the background
This is a crimeless crime scene
No sirens make a sound

Head treds through thick fog
Tired of wasted effort
No energy to be given out
Only the constant unwanted cycle of dark thoughts

loctusts siftin closest to heart
thistles at large depths often
my treds cotton pressed coffins
spokesmen threads reaped
myself crepid forgot then lock
i wish death was rotten alot
butters speckles andrew poc, in
a depth of lucid drunk predicess
i need exorsists slopish ash
colapsed in the cage a frothin
this fox has more moxy than
moccosins blotch and clots bled
my head frought with led
as the bullet passed postives
christ my hearts been shot
thenn stop rotate hit falicitate
crips await drifts of space
liquid spock processed aswell
my hell produces pails of
wail like coronosis in an abyss
rational lists fail to eclypse

This is a letter to myself
about someone else.
Her soul is a part of mine,
those strange moments
when her presence
shines in me
like a chiming bell.
Such a calming parallel;
both a hoping poet.

I don't like to know that
she was this afraid.
Dancing in the night,
a hundred treds,
more weight to shed.
Anyone can be angelical
but still gauntly dead
and I'm slightly dead
but if I go, what do I have
to leave behind?

I asked if she wanted to
hang out some time
and in my distress
I was a baby again.
She kept holding me.
But my sadness didn't fall asleep,
my bones became ...
too weak to leave.
Angelic women don't eat
so why should I?

We are prone to
upholding an image -
it makes me sick.
But the familiar feels safe
so I convince myself
I'm just anaemic.
You can see there's something
there behind our eyes
and we're not as
pretty as we seem.
There's something wrong
and it cries.