The Bus Trip
We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take
the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.
On the bus, you might risk sitting by someone who can't afford
water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to
use a ***** and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water
away when it is raining

I'm  a tonic water socialist and read the Guardian, crystal glasses
and a sneaky *** on the loo. To meet a proper working class person
would shatter my illusion and bring back a memory of my father last time
I saw him it was on a bus and he was drunk.
I will drive- anyway- not long from now I will not be able to they are
putting up obstacles to stop us old ones driving

this is the moon's
quiet rose, the unfolding
of the clouds, tranquility
resting her head,
the beautiful sea.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I still shave
And later scratch the burn atop
My, “apple.”

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I wake up. I go to work.
I hate copy-machine jams.
And I hate my boss.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
In China, poets often drink.
I drink,
Therefore I’m in China.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
Which doesn’t excuse,
It creates my, “excuse,”
At the least, to wander.

And I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
If I weren’t, I’d never sleep;
I’d never live, never dream,
And’d never know you.

F                                                           F
       *a                                                           a
               l                                                            l
­                       l                            *and                         l
                              *i                              ­                              i
                                ­     n                                                           n
                                              g              ­                                            g
                  ­     In Love                                                   Apart


                                          At The Same Time

My emotions, easily swayed...
My heart, easily frayed...
My mind, overpowering, confused,
Conflicting, raw, my soul... diffused...

I lay there, dazed, alone,
My eyes dart, tired, no moan
Escapes my lips, as the shadows encompass my soul,
I lay there, limp, thoughtless, imprisoned in the body of a doll.

I stand, eyes unfocused, the days flitting by,
My eyes are still, I cannot cry.
No tears are left, no tears reside,
In the empty body of the doll aside....

Dyed... tainted,
Blind.