Every noise he makes
every screetching noise he plays.
Louder and louder
i cover my ears.
I close my eyes tight
and think happy thoughts.
Its too loud i said.
All i want is for it to stop.
I cry every note he plays.
I want to bang my head
against the hard ground.
I want to see the blood flow out
as he plays his song.
It hurts to think
i cant even finish this poem.
It becomes more and more loud
even his song cries out for help.
We been through so much
even beaten by a clutch.
Although he plays till night
i am still in fright.

I just heard something-
Like a snake in the wall
A hiss then a thump.
I wonder if it was a rat
I thought they were dead.
I wish they were dead.
I'm so sick of constant
fear of my house, the
anxiety of the grisly 
undercurrent,
running through
the walls and making
The floor shake.
I'm sick of the thudding
under my ribs which
painfully quickens
as I stare out the
black, transparent windows
from the lit utility room
into the darkness beyond.
I hate how exposed I am there.
I'm sick of the chairs in the
the loft which, when you
are not there, softly roll.
Or the printer screetching
A print even though no one is
There to print!
I'm terrified of your ashes
sitting silently above me.
Maybe it's me though
And not this house.
Perhaps I am
just paranoid.

Real steel
Stepping into the train
Smell of old leather wafts the air
Deja Vu slip through the mind
Sits next to the windowpane reminiscing
Couchette and crotchet-blankets
The night fall asleep

Dark subway tunnels
Black fumes and rigorous hooting
Departure and arrival
Screetching brakes
Roaring engines

Weekend gateways
Sundress and hats
Codroy and bell bottoms jeans
Suitcase and newspapers
Home and away
New skies and Fading memories

The thoughts of a world... so disparate yet un staunched, for even from disease, disuse
It brings together all of us... no matter who
Lasting the day thorium lithium ****** the lot is truly a cat's sampled tongue on the lambs fur woven cot
Screetching yet perking the morning air, perching not to perish, as blackbirds languish in the scant thin air
Ardent stolid dressed for the ****, soldiers found plates, stained by bonfire smatterings of smokey air
Yet in the brash contrasts when life closes down expositions and forces festering thoughts one halcyon of it remains... that of hope
So with Leprechaun gold in the pockets, of time the daydream of a better future, still unstructured no pentameter or rhyme
Yet each creature throughout aviary schemes and broken with doubt sketches wisps platinum from a scry showing fires crossed,
skybound defiance , and rest
With the cache of changing seasons as gold in the pocket and the crisp bite of each night's cyclic affair brings us together, one in the same