Coming Around

And the rain falls down, the thunder roars, and the clouds roll on by,

It’s just another day and I’m stuck inside, a model of the evil

eye sits and stares, taking it’s time whilst I while away mine…


It’s another day, it is another day, and I think you’ve just gone away,

Perhaps just a brief holiday, but that idea holds no sway as I know

that you have gone away on indefinite leave, it’s a kick in the face

as I’m left all over the place…


The rain falls down and it’s bringing me down too, as I know I won’t see your

face again, but the heart is filled with love, even as I spread my arms and wish it all

away, knowing that this isn’t how it is meant to be, life left rotting like a broken

tree knowing that I’ll never feel free…


and I’ll still miss you.

The Snake

Can’t seem to place you, I feel lost in the miasma.

Can’t palpate you, I hope nothing will ever change.


I am silent inside you, growing for ten years or more.

Inane life, making every second count now that I control the clock.

Your flesh is my flesh, your blood is my blood, your life is my life.

I am the one that will erupt: engulfing your body, ripping up your social fabric, destroying all forms of personal privacy.  I will silence your voice and I will haunt your thoughts.

I will desecrate your organs, tear apart your muscles, bathe in your blood.

Yes, yes, I am here now.  You and I are one and the same, yet you alone will whisper my name in the dark hours of the night with fear.


Speak it with reverence.  Hear the hiss of my tongue, hear the rattle of your death.

Invisible Strings

In this aged body that wonders to and fro, how it surprises me still that it can make decisions that challenge me so.  That even as I trot and roll, tumble and fall, I know not always where I shall lay either by night or by day.

In so short a time, as one drink did follow another, I chose a path that led to nowhere and satisfied nothing, but one that was taken and one that shall never be retaken or retraced.

The waves lap against my feet, sit and I stir, squirm and I fear.

The step on the train, to stay on or to get off, to work one more day in a mind numbing environment or to take that step and explore anew.

As ever my mind wanders far ahead of my body, far over green fields and glazed mountains, gliding through the fresh grass, flying through the earthly smell of animal shit.

The invisible chain is rankled only by the illusionary option of choice that lies behind the intoxicant drink but lo, no it was no dream, no it was no freedom call nor lions roar.  It was squalor to make me think that I still feel, that I still have voice or a choice.

Do I hold it dear or throw it off, should I still remain flightless but forever moving – do I dream anew or do I scream forever more?  Chained as I am to nothing new or old, nothing solid, nothing to anything or anything to nothing.

What is this fear that controls me, that so taunts and bids me do by invisible strings?  Why can’t I shake my hide and begone, begrown anew as one should do.  Do I think or feel too much or not enough, emotions barely stirring beneath the shaggy mess of adipose filth.  Or am I contained by knowing I shall never be strapped to a bed for so long as compared to when I was young, leg tied down and healing ever so slowly one day at a time.

Is it my body that is restless or is it my mind never being satisfied, my curiosity never being quite sated.  Routine, damn routine, though I hold it dear, I try to forget it’s power and forgive its fear.

Another day, yes another day then.  Give me that morning light, give me that chance.


Misty Monday Moan

Sometimes it is hard not to feel like you are not drowning

In a sea of distemper, of ill fitting ease.

But for once I wish I could put my head above the waves,

Break out and escape, from this rolling broil of imagined toil.

Maybe I am stuck in a rut that has been years deep,

Engulfing me I am sure in its clothing of sameness.

Year in and year out with only short breaks to fracture

The great dull profundity of daily life.

Still it is not great when you come to hate,

That daily mash of circular friends who espouse hate because of difference,

Of shame, and long buried castaway hopes melting in the pot of indifference.

Not me, please, not me I seem to shout.

Pluck me from this life and give me my dreams.