Distract me, humble vibration.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind
Give me a pattern to find
And I will happily rip from reality
Like a shredded letter from an old foe.

Distract me, fleeting words.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind.
Give me a motive to find
And I will dutifully leaf through your pages
Like flat stones skim the water’s simple strata.

Distract me, passive chi.
Preoccupy this preoccupied me.
Give me a flavor to find
And I will reach for the bottom
Like the proboscis of a bee
Innocent search for mother’s riches.

Chasing an imaginary target.
There is a quota, must be met
Must be met

Every 4 hours
I stir, raid the room.
Must win

Impossible demands.
There is a clear opponent,
Cannot admit.

In this life
I chase literary pigeons
There are no real stories.

On the plateau I vacantly stride,
I fill this empty time.
Caring not for rain
Caring not for shine.

I possess an empty notebook
I possess the vacuum perched upon my neck.
Ignore it, and move on ahead.
Assiduous wreck.

There lies a broken compass
In the palm of my hand.
I smash it down into the sand.
A map so unused,
The energy confused,
This lifetime forever uttering old news.

On the plateau we dance.
And I strive toward nothing,
Towards the thoughtful hourglass.
Caring too much for now
Caring too little for the past.

There are many levels to this plane.
On the prairie, it is cats we tame.
I saw the steps, glorious before me.
And I wished to wipe this cold slate clean,
Of familiar and banal views,
This lifetime forever uttering old news.

Forever uttering old news.

There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways

There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.

It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.

Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is

…To make the tea?

He writes not for an audience
But for himself.
The flicker of the lamplight,
Upon the turrets of obscure allusions
He loses a hasty glance towards the ego
And it ages his soul.

The lonely room;
Co-authoring this melodrama.
Lays a gentle hand on his beard,
Despondent at the lack of support,
There is rarely support nowadays anyway.

In the bizarre night,
He calls it a day.
And packs his things away.
All the utensils of a domestic performer -
Back into the draw you go.
As he sips much needed coffee,
And reflects upon the meeting of the eve,
Of a weary winter he could not, would not, conceive.

How does it end?
The flourish of the sun.
In a volley of the scuttling plague

3 billion years.
I am old, cold and worn
Bearing no progeny,
But the flares of what is torn.

In a final burst,
The stretch and convulsion of skin.
I leave it for you to guess.

What lies herein.

Discovery used to be interesting.
Now it is mere platitudes.
It is long chemicals in leaves,
Or the dangers of common food.

Discovery used to be mountains,
And continents and zones.
It was once elements and reactions
And forces yet unknown.

I rediscovered myself today,
But it was not at all exciting.
Discovery was once so grand,
I wish to be struck by lightning.

Her Elysian eyes,
Abundant in splendour.
Her beauty makes the Gods cry.
My dear, Gentle and Tender

Months matter no more.
Time is so young,
And it graces the mirthful floors.

Although time is a neglected child,
And although my actions appear so wild
She is the Great Motivator.

No excuse is needed; no masterful guise or plot.
With her I am.
Without her,
I am not…

Never been held back.
I wish I was.
I wish there was an inner ethical tyrant.
I have no will.

My conscience sits back and nods complacently.
Cigarette in mouth. Casual, criminal.
Disregarding my behaviour. Thanks.
Who guards the guards? No one. I don’t mind.
Freedom hugs me and sneers.
A tap on the back, I turn around and cringe.
Eventually the reaction is minimal.

This Will is too liberal.
It suits me too well.
A bit of contrast never stings.
And healthy punishment won’t sing,
Of debauchery and revelry,
Or rioting and devilry.

Too close to the bridge
Shrill singing. Sirens screeching.
You played me, much too close.
To the bridge.

This heavy red.
Growing inside my chest.
Struggling to cope.
Despondence. Hope.

Don’t give me your aria.
I don’t need that now.
I’m sick of concertos.
They are the weeping barrier.

So when you scratch the grain,
Or pluck the strings,
And when all this love brings,
Is a hole in the sky.
I won’t ask why.