He walks alone, the path unsure,
Yet sees beyond the present lure.
With eyes that pierce the veils of mist,
He speaks of truths the world has missed.

Clad not in robes, but thought and air,
He heeds no crowd, nor seeks their care.
A whisperer of winds and time,
He answers not to man nor clime.

They mock his gait, they jeer, they laugh—
Yet drink his words by quartered draught.
He is the stone the builders spurned,
Yet in his silence, worlds are turned.

I still believe in euphoria,
Just like I believed in you, for ya.
I was making love with your idea,
With bursting passion, a complete aria.

Healing takes time, they say.
Now it is high time I went on with this day:
Finally being present, taking time to smell the leaves of bay,
I dare say, the infinite maze finally paid.

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

Peasants squabble,
the homeless freeze,
repeating the mantra:
Spare change, please!
Magazines for bedding
The Big Issue, Forbes Rich List...
Maybe we should eat the rich.

Billionaires in ivory towers,
snatched milk,
now turning sour.
Poundland Tories,
in desperate hours
“Five more years!” they stubbornly hiss...
Maybe we should eat the rich.

A 2p tax cut
up their sleeve,
while children starve
and pensioners freeze.
So out of touch
those pompous ******...
Maybe we should eat the rich.

If monkeys exhibited
hording behaviour,
they’d be studied
to see what makes them tick.
The thought of watching others starve
makes me sick...
Maybe we should eat the rich.

We could solve the energy crisis
in two quick flicks
render blue fat
for candle wicks.
No point in playing
Champagne socialists...
I think we should eat the rich.

thank the maker who knew
that we did not require a
trained eye to love, appreciate
the reading of a poem

no the untrained eye still
leads the words for dispersal
to the other senses to ingest,
invest, instigate the insight
insides, to be moved by the
gifts of piety of poets, whose
eye see the life poetic and
command any all words
to train us to better understand
what it is
how it is
why it it
where it is
feelings word flowers
of that which is undeniably
essential

sometimes i think of myself as an angel in the bathtub
a hazy, glowing figure
beautiful beyond mortal comprehension
so that their faces turn to stone
perhaps that's my excuse for why they don't look at me

but you looked at me
and let me float in the steamy stuff of fantasy
yet it all condensed to the end

when it flows again it shall be with my tears