I wanna take you higher
Higher!
C'mon light my fire
Want to take you higher

Lay in bed
Nice and warm and comfortable
Bursting for a ***
I stagger to the toilet
And **** like a race horse
I get dressed and I'm ready to go
Sort of
The dog is waiting for me on the landing
His turn for a *** and
His eyes must be watering
Down the stairs and let the dog out
And now it's top up time
Too much coffee and
Too many cigarettes
As I curse and cough a lung up
Until, by now
My eyes are almost open
I'm not good at mornings

                                         By Phil Roberts

I dug up the last of them
from the backyard
and plucked each
from a rusty coffee can.
Creased and yellowed,
I smoothed them out,
tracing their folds
with my dirt-caked fingernails.

These are all of my secrets I tell you.
Synonymous with mistakes you tell me.

In that moment, something leaden,
like guilt,
threads through my pursed lips,
but I don’t let it pull tight.
I carefully rip each stitch, instead,
and remember why they were buried.
With my seamless smile,
I grin widely, without doubt,
knowing it was okay
to finally let them breathe.

I breathe in all shades of purple
and exhale in all shades of blue;
faded plums to cornflower petals—
a bruised kind of exchange
that makes you look up to the sky
and feel something for no reason.
A contusion I keep fresh for
whenever I let someone
close enough to press it.
And if the pain makes my skin
sing notes only my conscience can hear,
then I’ll write lyrics to match;
they'll say
*I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.

Robert Johnson went to the crossroads
And fell down on his knees
The wolf was howlin' at midnight
McKinley Morganfield stirred the muddy waters
Singing of hoochie ******* men and mojos
Right back to Charlie Patton and Son House
And Blind Lemon Jefferson too
Men from the land of cotton, corn liquor and jukes
Always travelling hard and hard driven
Playing hard and hard living
These men who became legends
Who touched the deepest part of souls
With their elemental music
And they still do

                                   By Phil Roberts

88
The supertramp tour
Back when gas was lower
Back when music made sense for sure.
88
A date that never ended
Bob Jones a friend Or intended,
Or tryed to be at least.
The band came out
Veil opened
Drumming beast.
Keyboard freak
Startled the keys of america
Supertramp,
No one cared but us!