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A Cultured Fool
Why do we not dance,
Instead of walking?
It would be so much more
Clear
If we could
Just trot along.
Step forward out of the door way
And twirl your little dress
To the beat of the sun
And the rythm of the sky.
If everyone did the same
Then all of this pain,
That corrupts worlds,
Could join us instead.
To so many problems
There is no solution
Except just to dance.
Why can't we just laugh
Instead of bickering?
So many broken noses
Mended
Without the use of a pair of pliars.
The questions of an entire generation
Made as light as the breeze
That flits across a field of grass,
That spirals down a country lane.
The budget comes out,
And we laugh.
Who is the government to tell me?
Let's go sort them out,
But not when we laugh.
It is all stopped, the foolish pursuit
Of happiness
Gone.
Endurance
Building this big old house,
Braving the bold designs,
Bossing the work around the site,
So it is up to our high standards.
It will be the best we can do
From top to bottom,
From roof to rafter.
The house will stand proud
Perched up on this hill.
It shall be a clearly visible spectacle
For the work we have achieved,
Bracing the timbers; keeping it still
Whilst raising it inch by inch.
All our trimmings we have added
To beautify this structure
Have made it look so rich.
The original land was so bleak,
It was bare up on this steep.
It is so grand, so very regal
It is the definition of a mighty house.
But there is still one thing that is missing,
Way above most folk, on this mound,
Some life to transform it into a home.
Algorithms
One,
The same.
Ringing bells
And we begin.
Faith marches onward
Halted by certainty.
Life flickers before our eyes,
We are bent by eternity.
Every stolen breath slowly kills us
But we live on through our passions. Believe.
He,
The whole
Knows all truth.
Made the bell toll
Cuts the string of life.
But it will not succumb,
It knows no whole, wants no peace.
From the corpse of despair springs hope,
As one whole merely becomes two halves
There is renewed for man his different paths.
Dover Soul
Then it will be noted,
You're the same as the rest of them.
Your soul
Will roll
All the way down to hell.
That's my final word.
It is the final word.
Remember it well,
Keep hold of it in your
Wretched Heart.
I do not care for your soul though,
Let it be clear.
You think I would stop it tumbling?
Do you think that I would lift a finger?
Because I wouldn't.
Your soul is like an ant to me.
I could easily crush it without noticing,
But if I did notice then I would still not be affected.
You're less than an ant though,
You're nothing.
So I have devoted this piece to your soul,
Do you think that means I have tripped up
Myself?
I tell you what, you have read my piece
Therefore I have crushed your soul,
And yet I feel nothing
For nothing.
My Feet on Solid Land
I plan to sail,
On a ship made of wood,
Over the many waters
That coat this world.
To an island
Fit for habitation.
Where the sun shines
And shores sprawl.
That's the plan I've got.
But it's currently locked away
In a safe place
Under lock and key.
I should mention one more thing.
I have not a penny to my name.
I only have a cup of gin
Coupled with a back catalogue of sin.
It is also well documented
(By the medical profession no less)
That my brain is falling apart,
The only vessel under my possession,
Stocked to the rafters
With my very essence and bad thoughts.
So this may force me to act soon
I could rent a balloon.
With the money stolen from the Queen
I can live out my dream.
I'll float over the war scarred fields of Europe,
Over the heat scorched plains of Africa.
Then find a nice place to settle
On a small hardly heard of island
In the middle of the Indian Ocean.
The Big Book
The world has decided
It will
Pick and choose it's morals
Depending on what
A few can get
Out of it.
If we are ever to learn,
Then surely it is up to us
To teach ourselves.
And keep clear on what
We feel and how we connect
To every single person that shares
This Earth with us.
Love thy neighbour.
Cherish them as you would
Yourself.
Take not their stock and spit not
On their
Grave.
To refuse yourself to be taught a lesson.
Is to close and plug your eyes and ears
In a storm.
So we must look to all courses
That speak as if from high.
Not to question them would be a mistake,
But to never listen
Would be a fatality.
There must be codes to try
There must be people to scorn.
They are not wrong
They can never be wrong.
The deception is the interpretation,
Therein lies the evil of choice,
And the madness of belief.
The Narrow Path
Far from the grasping hands
That reside in town.
There is a winding country lane,
To travel down.
It leads to a village
With a few houses and a pub,
Where one can breath,
Beside the empty river
One can love.
Looking across
It's grassy banks roll
Over the horizon
To an unseen world - beyond.
I stood by it's eternal flow
Thinking of you.
The fond farewell we shared,
As you marched to another sphere
To the beat of dreams, you left me
Wondering if you'd ever make it back,
Down the winding lanes
And through to my heart.
That's when I imagined
A plethora of those left behind
Gazing into the stream
Hoping to find
A missing piece
Amongst the reeds.
Their souls strung out
Across the endless green banks.
Their ever watchful eyes
Filling with doubt
Just like mine.
At the end of this quiet country lane.
Interior Vision
My goggles are made
Of ice cream.
And I'm not quite sure
What that means.
I think I left them
In the sun's rays.
They got a bit hot
Was out there
For a couple of days.
Of all the places to leave
My goggles I left them there.
What a silly thing to do.
What a silly thing to share.
I don't know why I tell this tale
It has no merit I can see.
I lost the ability of judgement
That's evident and here I go
Showing the lack to the world.
Well I suppose it all makes sense
Actually.
Can't Help It
When I feel low
I use coffee to feel
High!
I skip to work,
I do not walk
Like some sort of
Decafenarian trout farmer.
They need not energy,
Their faces resemble their fish.
Mine resembles a cheetah.
I often feel low,
But coffee gets me through.
It's just sometimes
I cry.
Well a lack gives me a headache,
And I feel like the coffee will run out.
It's a recurring dream, that I have.
I just love it more than life,
Or what life I have.
I hate it because
Sometimes I feel like
It doesn't
Love me.
So I have to say more
Because I cannot for my life
Keep still.
My leg rattles beneath me
And my brain beats down
Like a steel hammer
On my spine.
I don't want to end it.
I guess I'll just have to
Pull myself off
Or get pushed.
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