I keep trying to find some kind of
deeper meaning,
to what this is ‘all about’,
but all I can see is the pink-stained bathtub,
grassy bruised knees and the
cocktail of tears
fading on my skirt.
I keep trying to solve enigmas
of why those beautiful fools are
so, but all I see is
the mascara-stained cuffs
of sweaters in the summer sun
and ***** dressed as volvic.
so I look for my answers
in the words of those who I wish to be
I search for comfort and reassurance
but ne’er do I see
anything more than
the tell-tale tear track of a lie
that although has been told a thousand times
does not cut any more shallow
than the depths of this pool
that I find myself falling into

a man walks the street at night,
a stranger walks up to him from across the street
asking him in broken english:
this man left this backpack at the bus stop,
i tried calling the police, to no avail...
what should i do? can you help me?
beer can in hand, the man inspects the scene...
a backpack is indeed at the bus stop, but it’s open
and there’s nothing in it... next to it there’s a bottle of adam’s tonic
with the title: volvic... the reply is said...
‘it’ *******, a man would not leave a bottle of water
with something he thought was worth something,
the water was worth is worth more,
had he taken the bottle of water with him in this cemented desert
i’d believe the backpack was worth something,
on a scale of having the police involved.’
somewhere else there’s less concern for a woman’s face
getting battered in by a drunkard... backpacks r’ us... but not us,
certainly not me... let me enjoy my beer, bother your shadow little man.