Perforations on a notebook,
Variations on a theme
Accusations in her writing,
Bad sensations in her dream.

Keeping up her outer image,
Dressing down her deep turmoil
Showing up for work and home life,
Damping down the blood that boils.

Inventory of her lifetime
Crooked story, twisted prose
Imagery of her writing,
Stationary English rose.

Holding still for family portrait
Holding fast to moral code,
Trying still to uphold values,
Thinking faster than she knows.

Ever trying, always failing,
All the while succeeding, yet
Ever after, all her chances
Always bring her past regrets

To the surface ever higher
To the eyes that burn with tears -
To the past her back is turned now,
Face to the future's outstretched years.

It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I turn to them and tell them
That I really do not know

Well I'll wake up in the morning
Feeling like I've had no rest
And the fear that lies within me
Will rise and constrict my chest
But I'll stand up and be counted
I'll work hard, I'll try my best
And if you're lucky then I might even get dressed.

It's my day at home today
Some people say I work too much
But if they want me to socialise
Why don't they keep in touch?

Still I'll sit at home and surf the web
And text them from my room
And I'll look at pictures on the net
Of people on the moon
Sing **** the ashcloud with Miss Palmer
She'll be Mrs Gaiman soon
And if you're lucky then I might just pen a tune.

It's my day at home today
And people ask me why I'm here
I say that's because I have no plans
I play my life by ear

But it's doing me OK so far
I'm living with it well
Even if sometimes it can feel like
A flaming pit of hell
Still I'm learning and I'm trying
Poking out beneath my shell
And if you're lucky and you're good then I won't tell.

It's my day at home today
Sometimes people ask me why
I shut myself in yet seem so strong
And never, ever cry

And I tell them that I'm happy
And that's why I don't look sad
And I try my best to help them out
When they are feeling bad
But they don't know what I cannot say
That I've been driven mad
And if they're lucky then they will not understand.

It's my day at home today
And some people ask me why
I prefer to sit behind a screen
And watch the world go by

I say the phantom of the opera
Composed in a secret place
For he never wished the light of day
To fall upon his face
Even if I'm sat behind a pane
I'm running my own race
And if you're lucky I might let you keep the pace.

It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I'll turn to them and tell them
That it all depends on you.

Beware the fuzzy rolligog
That smithers in the myre
(Confuse it not with golliwogs
In fuzzy blue attire)

Beware the rolligogan wrath
(They can breathe fire, you know)
Just feed them up on tigermoth
And bathe them in the snow

Beware the rolli appetite
Which consumes dozy trees
Where zigazots and clambermites
Weave pathways through the leaves

Beware the rolligogan song
There’s poison in its tune
As rolligogan night grows long
Prepare: they’re coming soon.

Quelquefois
Je me réveille
Je chante, je ris
Mais cachée.

Quelquefois
Je te connais
Je pense, je lis
Mais cachée

Quelquefois
C’est comme tu fais
Partie de moi
Mais cachée

Et quelquefois
Je lis, je vais,
Je ris, je vis,
Tout cachée.

In the middle of the city stands a building
Made of glass, though you can't see inside
Like the sunglasses worn by the people on the street,
Who in their dark brown shaded world hide.

At the bottom of the garden is a frog pond,
But you can't see the bottom for the mud
Like the people bleeding from internal ruptures:
Needing healing, though you can't see the blood.

In the centre of the woodland is an oak tree
Covered up with the climbing ivy green
Like the girl who sits behind you each and every morning,
Hid behind her black-clothed metal music sheen.

Hanging in your living room there's a picture
That you don't see until you step away
Like the boy who lies on his bedroom floor sobbing,
But is the life and soul of the party in the day.

In this cataclysmic lifetime twists a labyrinth
You won't see til you use your other eye
Which sees more than the self put forward by others,
But looks beyond it; looks them in the I.

But what is a full moon anyway
When you are not with me to fill it?
And what if philosophy leaks from my brain
All the time you're not there to instil it?

Can I speak my own thought, can I hope my own dreams
Can I tread on a path that's been torn?
Can I carry the mountain right here on my back
Or sit on it to welcome the dawn?

If I torture you first will you confess your sins?
Will you scream if I stretch you out here on your back?
Would you tell me such secrets I couldn't have made up
If I just ensure you have time on my rack?

If I save myself for you will you spend your time on me?
Your silver is not what I need at this time
But if you were to keep me wrapped up in a blanket
I'd come to you midnight like Mary divine

And I'd stand with my candle and call to the angels
We all would assemble the shepherds of old
For I know how you love to see men working nature
Freeing other young creatures from nightmares untold.

And when nighttime is over and my dawn is broken
I'll swallow my stories back behind my chest
I will remove the nails with which I had bound you
Roll back the great stone and lay you to rest.

And so today I sit and stare
Whilst wondering where I stand
A gypsy child of bright red hair
Far from her family land.
I watch and ponder, sense the wind
The leaves lie at my feet
Serenity I have found here,
Far from the bustling street.
The autumn leaves that grace the earth
By falling softly down
Leave their home trees, find their rebirth
In repose on the ground.
The leaves and I, as kindred friends
So far from knowing home
Are appeased as we comprehend
That we are not alone
For having quit our family trees,
We're closer to our roots
And as wind moves beneath the leaves,
I feel Life underfoot.

grass spinning by the window of the car
whipping round and round
round and round
far above my head.

a memory like an oil painting
the first time i saw evil
shining from someone's eyes
like a beacon.

running, packing, running
as the roof came crashing down
the insects gathered, parasitic
on the shell of their burnt-out home.

thirteen snails and i
making a journey
oblivious to how it would shape the course
of our lives.

they're blue eyes, not brown
you're wrong
how do you know?
my answer rocked the very sky.

crawling pathetically
dragging my exhausted self across the grey
like some kind of bizarre slow worm
a leech on my own house.

the swooping, the draining, the sepia walls
it was the fault of the beads, of course
of me, and of her
for giving them.

seeing her slumped on the floor
dressed in glass
with crimson make-up
shivering in my nightclothes
as the dogs howled behind.

he had fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows
and the evillest laugh i ever heard
his wife gave me a sink
and signalled to keep quiet.

soon i learned
not to trust items with censored details:
boarded-up windows, blacked-out vans and
chained-up rooms.

soon i learned
so many things

People crumble
People break
People cry
People ache
People live
People die
People hate
People lie
People smile
People smart
People hurt
Inside their heart
People love
People give
But do such people
Really live?