Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing

A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying

                                    By Phil Roberts

I started as a madwoman deep in my heart,
The paint on my face,
The stick figure on paper.

I kept going like a madwoman,
The school pencils as my main utensils,
And the lined paper as my trusty canvas.

I gave up like a madwoman,
Blinded by society,
And believing that I'd never be content.

I broke through the barriers like a madwoman,
Scribbling left and right,
And embracing the drive for betterment.

If I can just continue on,
Unsettled and free hands running,
I'll always be happy to be a madwoman.

"She's always smiling!"
they said. But they know nothing
behind those closed doors.