When I was a kid all I wanted to do was smoke ****
But nowadays its harder stuff that my body really needs
In my teenage yeas smoking on a spliff
It would seem to be a substantial lift
Before long though my depression took hold
Alcohol and cigarettes making me look old
I fell into a bad crowd, moving drugs that were illicit
My life moving so fast I probably could have missed it
MDMA in my system and I felt so loved
Ecstasy wasn't enough to see God above
I experimented with psychedelics and I had a real ball
But my habits got deeper, and my friends, I lost them all
I turned to the streets to pay for my increasing routines
But my job on the street interferes with my dreams
So now I'm just a shadow of my former self
A syringe smiles at me from the bottom shelf
Sometimes I need a little bump just to get my mind right
But often times a bump can turn into a wild night
Sometimes I need to get level with some golden dope
But too much of that **** and my life can lose all hope
I often wonder if my life would be alright
If I was never molested on that dreary night

Its 6AM again and the cigarette laced ashtray is smoking
There's a joint burned down to the roach
Through the foggy room, lurching, tired and choking
I sift through forums seeking a reproach
Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes from the speaker, I'm forlorn
My eyes are red and I am in need of rest
I peep through the dingy curtains, the world at peace and I feel scorn
The ******* keeps my heart rapid in my chest
Feral cats quarrel and screech through the alleyway, maddening
Gentle hum from a depression creeping
The abuse of my body on these long summer nights, is saddening
A shot to the arm and finally, I'm sleeping

Smoke stacks, shadows cast
Looking back, into the past
Industrial town, all around
Look at me, I wear a frown
Pretty girls, in wedding gowns
and here we are, falling down
For all around this ***** town
Is a crumbling council
and shops run-down
Golden brown, sweet ****** sound
The summer sings, sun shines down
But the government continues
To let us drown

There's a city under water and she sings to me with pride
(I sit alone and wish you profound gaiety)
The rains continue to pour across my face, I refuse to go inside
There's a man without a home, free from the ******* of love
(I wish to find within myself a sound laity)
And so I return to the church pew desolate, searching for God above

Born to an atheist household, deprived of propaganda
(I suppose learning now is enough)
I sit here, a church in drowning Uganda
The rains of a thousand brutal homicides leave me with a sigh
(The rainfall allegory, merely a bluff)
But still I sit on a bench in a church yard and the LRA pass by

It was well trained cats in the cattery calling, pats on the back, back door, kicked in, mooring boats on the mooring in the morning and the phone call, cost cut, cold calling, and we're falling, falling, we're falling in love.

My best friends are criminals, and the jail cell crying is trying at times but trying sometimes feels tiring. The tire track tiling is abysmal, freewheeling in reverie, revving engines readily, sitting, settling and stirring imaginary cups of tea until eternity gives up delinquently.

I fail to recognise the narcissist in me until the inadequate rantings fall of the page at me. I want to be free, I want to be me, I want solidarity and I want that cup of tea, I want patriarchy, I want matrimony, I want monogamy and none of this is hyperbole. I have no apologies, especially not for the words I string together so irrationally. What else could you ask of me?
What else indeed, if I can't be naked I can't be free, if I alter the way I write I relinquish personality.
It doesn't seem right to me.
Dada is too crass for me, I need a cult of spontaneity. The English language is too brash to be...

Philosophical ideology and the books I read, all tell lies to me, are all absurd you see, I embrace the monotony, let the waves of the sea wash over me. I let the dictionary pages fall off the quay, like that moth on me, like the sloth i've been and cloth on screens. A dead dog can't scratch it's fleas, but to appease the beast we must first release, all creativity and return to being.

I've decided to write a novel because that's what Father John sings about
(my only reality is a vicarious one)
I shall sing the words through a pine tree, caterwauling
(social media passes for inspiration in my wilted mind)
But Kerouac's stream of conscious prose appeals too
(plans often deteriorate so freewheeling seems apt)
My biggest problem though, is my inherent inability to write anything of substance
(and my poetry leaves little to desire)
Cognitive dissonance can be a brutal *****
(my warring mind never ceases to distract me)
I'm tired of forcing words from my brain
(i'm going to lay down and read)

- From the trees, from the trees
I hear the solemn breeze
(A soft whisper, loving, sage)
Enough to bring me to my knees
It's a precious thing to have
(In this lonely age) -

Degradation of decadent sprawling cities,
there's a beetle trapped between a house and a hard place
Wind tunnel determination, gusts like ocean waves
Traveling on pillows of air, the heir is here
and he's insignificant
Window pane, wan to the wanderer
Oscar Wilde with a bug-brain, scanning
Feral animal skulking on street corners
- and the wind dies with me
Resting place, settled, solitude
Insect evolution
Populace, putrid, passed in the past
and language dies too

(This poem was never written)

Ek Ek Ah Ek ee ee neep nee AHHH Ek Ek KKKKKRRRR
SSSSSSSHHHHSSSSSSSSHHHSSSSSSSHHHSh

And silence falls
as the world sighs.