I had my time
and while I never counted the waking hours
nor the long dreams of better days to come
I found myself drifting through that thought
like I never quite understood — fully
what’s occurring

but as I now realise I had my time
those waking hours matter less
than the dreams long forgotten,
the drifting will never truly stop
as long as I report and register
what’s occurring

what’s occurring? what’s occurring
as my time ends while others’ go on?
what’s occurring? what’s occurring
as I ponder choices made?
what’s occurring? what’s occurring
to the boy that failed in growing up.

I had my time
I had my hours
I had the dreams but the spores are gone—
my well is dry and I have reach the bottom
the last chapter of the bespoke tome
where thoughts end their final journey.

I heeded your warning
kept my eggs in separate baskets:
one for each passing day
and yet with each passing day
one egg fell — crushed
by forces exceeding the henhouse rules.

I trusted your advice
yet here I perch — legless and eggless
seeking without proper sight
a way away — a way out
of a today far too trite
towards a more merry tomorrow

without eggs
or henhouse worry.

Someone google me — then tell me
do I love peanut butter jam
on soft white bread

do I like to spread myself thin
over barren wooden lands

waiting for the search — to cease.

Every lonely dove dies
alone — I prefer company

[ feathers flying free
(I keep no company)
& quiet kisses by old canals ]

to carry on

…

Someone search me
google me
search for me
then tell me

if

You

found — Me

stranded on a ledge
far above the hedgerows
of the everyday — or if

if … no signs … were

uncovered.

I fear no walking dead, no snarling face
nor teeth detached from lapis lazuli lips,
I fear the smiling face of the everyday
the bleached white teeth with crimson lips.

Walk with me, I told the legless ladies
parked at every corner slowly passed,
walk with me towards a better heaven
but none accepted my prayers.

I fear all life, the dead and the living;
let them not lead me astray — the way
towards the azure abode beyond
is just a single snowflake’s sway

and a hand to greet it.

I lied to you. Said I was merely a clown
walking idly down the aisle
towards that cross of burden,

boundaries I could never properly define
now wallow beside me
like a plucked duck

ripe for a run run — roasting. Fumes
from that furnace of oblivion
tinge every Sunday sermon.

I lied to you. That door you searched for
was never locked, the frock of fools
and the red nose

simple lies — that I chose
out of spite, to render anew
their severed garden.

Why is my love so frail, seeking only comfort
among shadows that can’t be had —
the taken? Dismissing love for foolish labour
— the last line passed a long long time ago.
Their pause to consider, to reconsider, I envy
those that never found doubt
among the weary thoughts
hounding the everyday.

Why is my love so frail, finding only comfort
in pissing on a stick — plus or a single minus
to determine the fate of a multiverse
of minds.

Why is my love so frail, spineless I seek another
path towards the final binding.

Why is my love so frail. So pale.

it was twelve minutes past the hour
when the hour began to huff
then puff — at the thought that time itself
might run out of causes and slowly dissipate

into the void; meanwhile — a red rooster ran
rampant through a silent countryside
filled with the only memories that mattered
to a fowl — hedgehogs

lined the long country lanes
as the hour drove slowly by —
intent on making better
on promises made

before; erstwhile time would not be deemed
culpable — homocide not applicable
to hours and seconds and
long deep breaths taken

alone; while these times are altered
becoming more like causeways
floating on top of the deplorable
the erroneous — the wicked

ways of our time.

You told me to be grateful,
but my mind’s eye
saw only shredded cheese
atop a flat pan bread
doomed to ripen
in the oven’s hellish heat.

You told me to be grateful,
as the corpus turned to slivers
sliced to be shared
among looming vultures.

You told me to be grateful,
— of what? — I asked.

Life as you know it… mine’s at odds.

Sailing through sighing sands,
invisible footprints left to find
by neither friend nor foe
as ghosts can not be traced
among the shadows
— of spectres.

Singing the Song of One
in the void joining minds,
a blessing of the Chef
needing no recognition —

Only a voice-over tuned
to the narrative misgivings

Of a life in need — of gratitude.