Why’s he always so sorry?
So sorry for his existence?
So sorry for his breath?
So sorry for his space?
So sorry for his energy?
So sorry for his boundary?
His opinion?
His command for attention?
His shadow?
So sorry for being sorry.
So sorry.
…
Not sorry at all.

Standing proud from your lofty heights
Head heavy rich with medicine.
No more breathing in the sunshine.
Sat in your water filled coffin.
Bleeding your charisma your truth.
Contorting in search of the light.
You show me the grace of your fall.
What do you see o’golden lens?
What do you reflect back to me?

Walking down the lane.
A tension in my stomach.
I arrive on time.

I am the dreaming of the web for the spider.
I am the morning bawk of the crow.
I am the ambivalence for a custard cream.
I am the charge for my mobile phone.

Slave for the flavour diversion

Monday I am awake.
Tuesday I am tiring.
Wednesday the air is fresh.
Thursday I get goosebumps.
Friday I am dreaming.
Saturday I am free.
Sunday I melt.

I am the dreaming of the web for the spider.
I am the morning bawk of the crow.
I am the ambivalence for a custard cream.
I am the charge for my mobile phone.

Cheeky by circumstance.
Perky by nature.
Rambunctious in spring.

I walk in your slippers
You show me your foundations
I hold you in your light
I fan the flames of your furnace