Category: Uncategorized

Shorn of faith
Too bloody serious
Dipped a toe in the sea
Not funny, just cold, just cold

These gadgets do not help… or do they?
I certainly feel very connected and in touch.
So the absence of attention from people who are not listening is more noticeable.
I will fight to improve my share of the pie.
I will grow sick from its poor carbohydrates.. cheap white sugars…
Convert to fat, convert to fat! Either that or head to Damascus.

Experience of not knowing, acute, ever more acute.
These limited post-its will run out of steam shortly.
A splatter gun round of hurtled mirth.
A chain fence pulled sharply tight.
Night falling across the time zones.
I will soon drift into a bed without your arms.
But there is a curfew on these lousy emotions- they call it adulthood.
By then it should at least be possible to act out some sense.
Or beat it in through repetition.
Like a panel beater with a crappy old banger.

Welcome back, old bangers, to the roads and driveways and car parks!
Welcome to the flip side!
Now we finally get to see the underbelly of the circle, the bottom of the curve.
We are poor, we are broke, our tiger boom, gone up in smoke…

But back to before, when all that mattered was whatever it was, and change everlasting sought to spell its name across the ember sky, while the sun dangled above the dark earth, spewing old light in lines at the rock and bog.

And all mystical embraces were spent of their force, when upon them the eyes of the cameras turned.
And the unpolished lines of the dancers provoked the knowing upturning of many mouths.
And the rituals once cherished now looking innocent, vicious and viscous, and their replacements somewhere running amuk untethered.
No, tell me, is it always possible to laugh and find mirth in the audience’s mirrors?
Every day around you in every molecule’s expression, life, death, and the social middle.

Now, inwards, is there anything wrong with
Sweeping out the skull to see if anything stupendous hides under the dust?
But as the little specks are brushed out the ears, consciousness reneges on its promise of honesty, it’s throne of reason thrown out for treason and its attendants fleeing with their pensions. I am just trying to connect, from that particularity inside, to the outside, also inside. Everything inside, but far too damn big to see at once, and always subject to the droning of the senses, pushing out and pushing in and constantly distracting the holy centre. Of course, if you plug them out, one by one and drop the power cables in a pile, no signal remains. Only cold, dark, interior.

So what of the oneness, and what of the grand nature? Or have I missed the point, and has society failed to instil the right measure of social purpose to spell out to my self the nature of my being? What, after all of those institutions have been dismantled, have we left to bargain with, on the face of evidence in the face of total nothingness?

But drift I did and too far, now pulling reins and gripping the mane and hanging on and waking back to another level. You, maybe asleep, with bottle of alcohol consumed and coursing in your system, crying over the lines from a million miles away and despairing at the distance, needing a touch as much as myself and unable to hold back. Unable to reach though too, bitter tears useless at melting physical absolutes. But give it time, time time time. See what happens. Why are these the only comforts I can afford?

and on and on and.
pulled from the crowd, blessings beseached
now get back to your seat

the very most reverend,
getting irrelevant
but not on this watch

a space where we tie our laces and learn how to count
suspicious and statistically out of the picture
crouched down but the spring in our step has wilted
crouched down and slumped into the same angle
leg muscles eroded and siezed
no getting out of this squat

A long time ago there was a plan,
but so short a space so long and goodbye
does it even matter how exactly we got here?

well it cuts you up and if it didn’t you wouldn’t be human,
It grinds you down and no other way about it
A piece that held things together has fallen away
A reference point has been relocated. Too far away.
My orbit has been shaken, an errant dance in the cosmic ballet.
But which remains- -the satellite or the planet?
Or maybe neither, maybe only a hurtling rock on a lonesome path.

The first has become the last, and what time for notes or afterthoughts.
They would not make sense anyhow.
But no harm to sit still and listen and repeat after me.
Try and think things through and work something out.
Painting by numbers will not make you an artist, but it might get you started.

so you have tickled some frilled fancy with a word or two.
But have you drunk your fill from the teaming edge?
Is there a lead somewhere and a format to distill some sense?
And in which sentence exactly lies the insight and idea?
Or are you as yet still wandering textually on with no end in sight,
A pretentious preening bird cleaning its feathers with beak.

The bus rocked when it hit the slush, and thumped over the cat’s eyes separating the slow and fast lanes .
The driver didn’t seem stressed, but the roads were in a bad state. It was still snowing, and the right lane was bounded on its right by a tapered ridge of frozen drift. Morning, but the sun nowhere in sight, just clouds and grey and the road to Dublin and the wipers scraping and new flakes drifting down and pausing on the big flat windscreen before melting into transparency. And on my windscreen too the wipers blinking forth to stem saltier water, while two bodies trying to melt into one and sleep in unison while the time is still there, but being eaten away by every second and metre. Ah, how can we count that time and that distance now, it is too late and too far? For ten months only minutes and a short walk between us, and then after one day half a world. Was I hoping that the bus would slide to a halt, or that the planes would be frozen to the runway tarmac, or that the world was not as it appeared, and that emotions could take precedence over visa or protocol. But if it were not so, then it would not be… If it was not stopped, the momentum would not be noticed, the depth not apparent, and everything as ever would be taken for granted. The bus arrived, the bags lugged off and wheeled across the hard ground and weighed in. The first game of pool and last cup of coffee. Last last last- everlasting lastness of each step and action. Rising stress of looming departure, staff looking on while goodbyes are made. Surreal goodbyes that sound dry and empty, brave goodbyes that are curtains hanging over open anguish. You wave until out of sight. I turn and squint, try to jolt some composure into my frame, drift and then get dragged back by the normality of your friends and the banality of the airport- but how can it be? Later on, on the bus home, I begin to become aware of the absence, and later still it engulfs me, but what of it? What can I do? Move on? Move out? Move away? I try to find solace in the usual motions, the habitual efforts to learn and stay busy. But I have been deceiving myself, did not notice that what I assumed were external frills and special effects were the foundations of my edifice. And now I have to lie here and accept it, wait for those supports to collapse and reform, do battle with the inevitable pain and wait to see how long it lasts. Like all barbed things it went in easy, but cannot be taken out without tearing flesh. And now it feels almost zero-sum, that the many little showers of happiness must be balanced by an equal share of tormenting arrows, back to claim a pound of flesh and to hell with the safety of its blood, an insatiable urge to get back to zero with mathematical precision. Sleep, sleep, needed but joyless, though hopefully when I wake I will have the power to untie myself from the bed and kick myself into the day, one arm longer than the other, wisps of old and odd ambitions smoking and smouldering with some tiny hope of ignition. At least let my heart warm a little, and beat fast enough to send blood circling round some open centre.

What words, but deeds?
Ardent, aimless, flooded, forced.
Fool full flung,
Music without moment.
Current circling out of boredom, no laws between.
Natural appetite, natural order, ask Marcus.

It’s just a placeholder. Somewhere a header and beneath a footer and between and betwixt some random stumbling. He has been pottering around of late, tangled in the usual threads of fancy, maybe pedantic, maybe procrastinating, certainly diffused and confused and settling into old ways with poor manners.

The winter this year has come upon us with a hard snap, sounding like the crack of ice and the crunch of snow underfoot. Hard not to shiver, but there is some comfort in the warm shelter. From the inside looking out, cosiness abounds. In ways it is a time to retreat, from the scorched summer flesh, from the flies and high sun and melting roads and outdoors. Not that much melts around here bar the price of property or the knowing smiles of bankers and developers. A great balloon of certainty released into the vast sky and blown until kingdom came and now lost and limping, deflated, calling time and claiming blamelessness.

Now getting ahead of oneself. Get over it. Or more precisely, get over oneself. All of those pretty plans and only one plot to fill, a day dallied down the drain, an evening balanced on cushions giving little repose, a night scratching calmly and chaining together clumsy phrases. No plan, no piercing punctures in the canopy of dreams, no global satisfaction and sharing in the meaning of things. Rattling away at the keys, fingers moving like the ground beneath her feet, as she leaves, departs, and is gone. It could have been a good story, had I but the confidence to take the reigns and not just follow the accidents that fill in the spaces. God bless the will and its intentions. Wings shorn, tasting supermarket chicken, stranded in the isles of endless choice, reaching too close to close the gap between the cheap and the essential, and bounded by the end of decision making. Bounded by the emptiness of pure choice, a dice rolling in a gust of wind, and toppling from some direction to where it now lies. That is where we are- here!

Style unknowning. Self awareness can be an acute and ugly light. Searching for self truth can create its own deceptions. Meaning is only ever a muddle, and the onion’s peeled layers of doubt are ever repeating fractals, warped and wrapping themselves around some entangled core. Light, bending, time, ending, the flutter of an electron’s heartbeat, the muttering of that wino with his frozen beard and listing leftwards along the icy pavement. Unsteady feet, unsteady mind, ah sure I can at least share some of that, I too am blown by a sonofabitch wind and scuttle from warmth to warmth. But worlds apart, anon.

Opening a stuck lid by forcing it between the frame and the door. Gather together what thoughts we have left and harness some leverage. The law of the leavers, do they flee with impatient step or fight back tears as they wade through airport and foreign tongues, bags and belongings trundling over the many options. But no worries, no sweat, no pain no gain. The salt on their skin will not have time to crust and will be washed off by some distant water.

It is a complex thing, to be simple. It is a brave thing to be brief. Life is a carousel at night in a huge empty field, a short flurry of loud light and colour spinning in an ocean of darkness. And nations are but tags and forms and familiarity, countries are from here to some map’s edge, and where I make my bed does not define me. People are people are people, and my drift to the general, though persistent, is in constant need of endless revision.

I do not know how to finish, just like I did not know how I began. Persist, persist, transcend as best you can and remember that your mind is a part that can touch the whole. In the morning the markets will open and shares in your belief in my faith in our fate in this world will rise and fall, rise and fall- a cycle of invisible buyers and sellers, a library of jargon and distinction, a chaotic investigation and creation of speculation, and still further removed from the cave, the light, the shadows, and the treading of my cold feet.

On the Eastern side of the wood, with the sun just gone down over the hill. The rock is wet and cold and slippy, a bare line of slate ninety degrees to the shore, and well away from the path. I know it because I was here before, and skidded across its surface many times, usually in the May, usually crouched low with a wooden box in the afternoon, with waves breaking mayflies onto the rocks and my young fingers hauling them away and up and into the box with a snap.

Now, I still have the time to wander the shore but I am no longer made for it. I could try and recreate but that time is punctured, vanished, disappeared. Instead I hear the same sound of water and wind, and see the same islands in the same lake, but stand taller and with different streams running through my head.

And the feelings of shoulds and oughts follow each other in their bitter chase, winding up the spring that will dampen all forward force. Entropy. Friction. The birth of information and the the great misleading. Atoms and quarks and strings and whatever else can fit in the bucket. And then rising with the green wings between your fingers, wet and cool and fresh, with a full two days to live and breed, and the odd time I let one go and marvel in that power.

Unused to this cold, and unused to this swing of things.
A simple patchwork man, more breath and less reason.
A country that has thrown off its clothes and sanity, running cursed between the cars of a real capital.
Not like our capital, our soft and embarrassed low fixtures
Our double-chinned talkers and stricken lenders.

Unused to this cold, and now motionless in a rolled in winter,
And in the rolled up notes, the smell of over-indulgence sickening.
And comic faces popping from corners with their I TOLD YOU SO sneers,
And pride fizzling and snapping and sending generations to twist and turn

No comfort in this climate, an outpost ripe for invasions of vertical seasons or vagrant ideas.
A knuckle-rapped child whimpering in the corner with stolen belongings a spilled guide to his hiding place.
And confidence beaten back and arched, buckled like hawthorn,
And on the roads off the roads still leading between the grasses and bogs,
A frost settles and hardens
A skin of ice and dank cold.
A wet sullen carpet, savage and shamed and stained.

Restless again, turned to another tomorrow,
Out of sorts, a scattered age waiting to board
And drift to spread the word
Or collapse with the weight of beer in belly
Too much to feel
Too much to understand
Beyond the grasp of the little people
And yet boring holes in their pockets
Refreshing truths left behind
And packing bags for those corners
With new reputations to overcome,
roads to build, and no ticket home.

Just to say, in some other way,
With music in my ears,
And raindrops light as tears
Today, today.

The boiler abruptly stops, the dryer’s rumbling ceases.
The dishwasher sloshes to a halt, the microwave beeps and then.
Domestic silence finally.

With nothing to add, the shadow-dragging man wanders the cold nights. Closed hands in empty pockets, he wanders from street to street, always at their edges, as though following some plan to get himself out of a maze. But aimless is his agenda, and filling time is his mandate. The paths become carved into his skin, etched into his being, wound inside his soul. But they are strange to him yet as ever, and he must wander further still, for there is no comfort in the passing lives of others, and dark are the days as the edges yawn and beckon further into the shadows, where the high lights burning are not beacons but the eyes of beasts above. Slow too is the descent, and blind from its own progress, the gradient slight and gradual but constant. The eyes of the world can desert, and as they do they can no longer be seen. The reinforcement of daily being gives way to the disintegration of a self, and the memory of purpose is distorted. Every journey from door to door, every road connected to another, every end the end of some beginning. Thinking more and more, but feeling less and less, the shadow-drawing man is more sure and more real and more disconnected with every step away. Where did the plans go? How did the days leak as though through a hole in a bucket? Or like cider from a bottle, or blood from a fresh cut. Every mind must find its balance, and its own laws imposed can drive out the fiercest arguments. Feet on stone, moving so as not to stop, so as to keep the silence at bay by filling it with endless snippets and snapshots of the lives of others. Constant motion to soothe the turbulence within. But the dizzy patterns of his maps, folding back over themselves and projected inwards and out, lead on as though they had their own force. Now pushed, now pulled, now an impenetrable cellar of damp belongings, and a broken window that lets the November breezes blow sharply into his bones.

Demo (snippet): [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/lookAlive.mp3|titles=Look Alive]

you’re so worn out
everybody look alive
everybody look alive
everybody look alive

you come, you come
you’re too worn out
you won you won
I know I know

everybody look alive
everybody look alive
everybody look alive

demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/starReachingPreaching.mp3|titles=Star Reaching Preaching]

Keep it in order
Keep on the border
Keep it for me and I will need no other.

Ready for motion.
Ready devotion.
Ready to try your latest ‘Drink Me’ potion.

I know it’s under- understood, that this situation is no good.
I know it’s over- over-done, this Deja Vu is far from fun.

So near, yet so far.
I hope you know just who you are before you’re far enough away to touch the stars.

Still sitting listless.
Still bearing witness.
Still life of you and i in cut-throat business.

Stand up and be heard.
Stand up or play dead.
Stand in for me when I am lost in my head.
(Stand in for me when I am somewhere else instead).

I know it’s under- understood, that this situation is no good.
I know it’s over- over-done, this Deja Vu is no good for anyone.

So near, and yet so far.
I hope you know just who you are before you’re far enough away to touch the stars.

e 6 6 6 4
b 7 7 6 4
g 8 6 6 4
d 8 8 8 4
a 6 6 8 6
e x x 6 4

e 4 2 2 4
b 6 4 2 4
g 4 3 3 4
d 6 4 2 4
a 4 2 4 6
e x 2 2 4

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/BlankSlate.mp3|titles=Blank Slate]

It’s a long wait, for the blank slate, to begin to, make ammends to everybody
talking, without cables, disconnected, unaffected, wishing they were
alright- not so uptight, not so clued out, not so ignorant, telling others’ stories
going global, going postal, going everywhere and anywhere
broken, understatement, needs replacement, needs a long hard look, but it’s
too late, there’s a contract, it’s a cold fact, you have bet your bottom dollar on a
way out, on a last shout, on a gadget, must admit that it is tragic
overloaded, unexploded, all eroded, missing something necessary

called the way to go.
impossible not to know.
words come out confused.
can’t help feeling you’re being (used).

(used) for, something odd here, something unclear, something cynical and clever but you’re
alright, you are hard-wired, you are just tired, and incapable of giving in to
pressure, that you measure, that you treasure, that you hold as long as you can
till it has to, find an outlet, and it’s ok, it is comical seen
looking foolish, feeling brutish, needing new things, when the nature of collapsing
is a sell out, for the neighbours, for the kids who, will adore you, till you tell them it’s a
miracle- a setup, you were cheating, they are leaving, but they will go on repeating
with the fashions, with their rations, in their nations, motherfucking situation

called the way to go
impossible not to know
the world gets too confused
can’t help feeling that you are being (ab)used

it’s a long wait, for this blank slate, to become full, to become dull, now you want to
start back, with a clear head, with a light touch, and appreciate the beauty of the
missed look, of the soft glance, of the lost dance, of the rush of the blood to the
head when, it has to begin, it will let you, have a second chance to screw up and to
try out, new disguises, new surprises, new ambitions to accept the world
around you, but you’re hard-wired, evolutioned, convoluted, tethered to your
self-help, in a manual, in a hard-back, what you must lack losing your
momentum, and you’re now undone, in the humdrum, left balancing on what you know is

called the way to go
impossible not to know
your ways have come unstuck
can’t help feeling that you’re out of luck.

chords: verse E A, chorus D A E

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/detour.mp3|titles=Detour]

chords:

strum each couplet 8 times quickly
d 4 5 2 0
a 5 7 3 2

chorus: C G

e 3 3
b 0 0
g 0 0
d 2 0
a 3 2
e – 3

I’m going all the way back home, I’m going to make it there alone.
I’ll keep my vision in full view, I’ll rest my eyes on thoughts of you.
I’m going all the way back home, I’m going to make it there alone.
I’m going to find a way inside, I’m going to find some place to hide.

I’m going all the way, I’ll keep my soul awake
I’m going all the way to the bottom… to the bottom… to the bottom… to the bottom.

I’ll take a trip through foreign lands, where there’s nothing I’ll understand.
I’ll keep a vision in full view, I’ll rest my case on thoughts of you.
I’ll take a trip through foreign lands, where I’ll never understand.
I’ll take the longest way around, I’ll find a path that runs aground.

I’m going all the way, I’ll keep my soul awake
I’m going all the way to the bottom… to the bottom… to the bottom… to the bottom.

I’m going all the way back home, I’ll take a detour on my own
I’ll spend a lifetime on the move, although there’s nothing left to prove.

Chords: A E (with 0-3-0 Hon/Poff on the A string)
Then C D for the ‘chorus’

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/NotFinishedYet.mp3|titles=Not Finished Yet]

World on your shoulders
Weight on your chest.
Getting ever older,
But you’re not finished yet.

They say it’s gone, stay calm, right?

Words on the airwaves,
Longest sentence yet.
Spent more than you’ll ever save.
But you’re not finished yet.

They say it’s gone, stay calm, right?

Passport in your suitcase
Next flight out to get.
Possible to stop someplace,
But you’re not finished yet.

They say it’s gone, stay calm, right?

Circles in the currents,
Loosen what is left
Lift away deterrents,
Cos you’re not finished yet.

They say it’s gone, stay calm, right?
They say it’s gone, but stick around, right?

We are not owners.
Despite the forms you just filled out.
Despite the full support of the finest judges.
The money in your pockets.
The land outside your door.
The car in your driveway.
The heart in your chest.
You do not own,
When it comes to rest.

What makes you think
You are a sovereign unit?
You have forgotten
That your logical unity is temporary.
If you own your own body,
Then what of the change,
That leaves it ragged and weary
And fading with age?
If you own your own mind,
Then what happens when you sleep?
When you lose it from sight
As you move into the final deep.

Surely it is less certain.
Passing through and renting rooms.
A shadow on a patch of grass,
Dappled by light through leaves.

Surely you cannot be positive
Despite the legal funds.
That everything belongs to you,
And bends to your will.

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/limboTown.mp3|titles=Limbo Town]

There’s ghosts out in the ocean, enough to make it swell.
And the waves they go a rolling, from heaven down to hell.
I know I’m not alone here, wonder if I’m under some spell?
I know I’m not alone here- I wonder if I’m under some spell?

Now there’s postcards in the window, and raindrops in my eyes.
But nowhere left to send them to- to speak of my demise.
I’m sure I’m not alone here, must be someone trying to catch my by surprise.
I’m sure I’m not alone here must be someone trying to catch me by surprise.

Now I wish I had a vision, to teach me right from wrong.
But I harbour some suspicion, that I wouldn’t know for long.
I must be still alone here, to tap my feet and sing my song.
Must be still alone here- nobody tries to stop me sing my song.

Well I’m casting off my shadow, I think it weighs me down.
It’s hard enough to float already, in this limbo town.
You know I can’t be all alone here- there’s people leaving all around.
Yes I can’t be all alone here, people leaving all around.

Chords: Blues shuffle- E A E B7 A7 E (with random variations)

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/allTracks.mp3|titles=All Tracks Lead to Here]

In the image of a love, a parody of plainness,
I was knocking around, suffering from sameness.
On an edge, on a corner, on a line.

Now the sun is raised up, over ruins in back yards.
That centuries ago, laid low by old hands.
In a flash, in an instant, in our time.

Well they say it’s not good, they say it’s not worth it.
Put sugar in their food, eat sweet for breakfast.
Say why, don’t you buy, and sing along.

So I try to stem change, like a rock in a river,
But I’m harried by age, and the current grows quicker.
On a path, on this line, too far gone.

In the image of love, that’s easy on the eye.
Catch a glimpse above, of a shadow in the sky,
With the clouds, all around, rolling by.

In the turn of a phrase, the twists of a knife.
From a doze to a daze, how the game is played.
I know it ain’t my scene to steal no more.

Take the pieces of the puzzle, spread them all along the beach,
Let the tide roll in, pull them out of reach.
Let them go, let it flow from the shore.

Tag and you’re it, hide and seek for kicks.
When the music stops, teach your soul to sit.
Don’t let anyone, don’t let anyone bring you down.

Demo: [audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/noOption.mp3|titles=Your Life]

Here is nothing if it makes you want to go,
Is nothing if it makes you want to leave to get away and feel alive.
I say nothing and I’m rooted to the spot,
Say nothing while you’re standing in the doorway looking like the road is on your mind.

And oh, oh, it’s your life.

Come out fighting on your way down to the top.
Out lighting up the night like you’re above and you’re alone and you’re to blame
Stretched already and I’m far too thin, stretched right around the world until,
There’s no room left to move in any way

And oh, oh, it’s your life. Oh, oh, it’s your life.

Abstract ways to say that I’m concrete
A way to paint my wooden feet that drop and sway from where we meet.
Telling tales and bleaching in the sun
Hang round, count down to one
Who sings a song so simply sweet.

And oh, oh, it’s your life. Oh, oh, it’s your life.

Oh, it’s your night, oh, oh, it’s your night.

I can’t quite put my finger on it.
The value of what’s in my hands I guess.
I look away to see what others pick.
Can’t accept that they might pay something less.

The word on the wire is all so relative.
A reference point is nowhere to be seen.
The labels on loves are always retrofit.
Price of the night light where the slate’s wiped clean.

And we can make it from, we can shape it from our dreams.
And we can make it from, we can force it to be real.

I can’t get my head around it.
The worth of things I think’s getting confused.
As long as there is a healthy profit,
Don’t look in case you fall from the hook that keeps you balanced and true.

The sense on the street is not reliable
It’s common to meet a stranger with a plan
The rest of the globe is undeniable
The dry river beds where fresh cool water once ran.

And we can make it from, we can shape it from our dreams.
And we can make it form, we can force it to be real.

I can’t quite set the record straight.
It jumps and skips and the brittle needle breaks.
It is what we are and what we ate.
We’ve swapped the cheap handmades for expensive fakes.

And we can make it from, we can shape it from, our dreams.
And we can make it form, we can force it to be real.
And we can make it if, we can make it if we run.
Yeah we can make it through, to the starting point of one.

[audio:http://donalkelly.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/amnesia2.mp3|titles=amnesia2]

And it won’t go right away
It won’t go anyhow
Can’t forget what has been said
Or bury everyone in sand

Streets are crossing through my head
Traffic jams at every bend.
Roads converge in tangled webs
Lights go green and then go red.

You can go build some walls
Experiment with your architecture
Try build a room over it all
To cover cracks of the latest fracture

So hard to make the day seem new,
But that’s just what you have to do.
Every thought calls memories,
That whisper what you seem to be.

Conversation echoes back.
So many steps lead of the track.
voices challenge every move.
but there is nothing left to prove.

You can go build some walls,
Experiment with your architecture.
Try build a room over it all,
To cover cracks of the latest fracture.

Take a pill to quench the rain
Take a jacket for the rain
Take apart the world within
Let it out but don’t give in

Gotta find a way to make it fresh,
A tool to cut away the mesh.
I’ll wait for you another while,
I’ll wait until you walk that mile.

So you can tear down your walls,
Explode the whole of your architecture.
Blow up the room that holds it all,
Discover order inside the structure.

I don’t know the when and where
I’ll find you then and meet you there
In the end it’s all the same
Stolen march and borrowed fame.

I folded it and passed it on,
A paper declaration of, my doubt
Take a chance and stick to it,
you never know where you might get, or not.

I say who,
What about you, now?
They say who,
What about you, now?

Skip the intro, skip the start,
Lets cut right to the stony heart,
Melt the steel and crush the rock,
Your petal’s edge is sharp enough

My confidence is compromised,
My faith in life is undermined, again.
But when you’re in my line of sight,
My heavy feet become so light, amen.

They go who,
is coming through now?
I know you,
And everything you do now.

If it’s so hard then why not stop?
Keep pushing on with all you’ve got,
Someday soon you’ll reach the edge,
I’ll meet you there out on the ledge.

Feelings come and feelings go,
The fastest words will sink so slow.
You’re in my arms and in my mind,
You’re where I can’t begin to find…

You say who
Who you want to be now?
they say who
who the hell are we?

*************

One of these days
One of these pills
A passing phase
Between the fills.

One of these days
On one of these hills
The fading rays
Of goodnight’s chills.

have to lose to want to get
space travel for dummies
space travel for life

the ether in my brain is candy floss
the crystals in my soul are stolen
you either know or not and I’m lost
the jump-starts of the heart at cost

now it made sense for a moment
suspended between infinities
dangled from a stare
behind cages of divinities

get up, get on, and get out of here,
your door opens on to the silent street
the mesh connects it to your feet
listen before you call
Go figure, go fall

In the memory of a Goldfish,
I am swimming away and gone.
In the memory of a goldfish,
None of us have long.

Find yourself in the unfamiliar
the foreign,
the other…
Find what, exactly?

Bloody changes changing changed
Welcome welcome sit and beat and rearrange
Can’t help myself the way it goes
Give it up until it shows

Easy in and never out,
That’s they way you get about
Why am I wired to wear this way,
The bitter breaks that stop to stay?

Closer the composite,
That void return type,
Scramble to the surface and,
dragged,
back down,
About as inventive as the taste in your throat,
Vague inclination of many many things,
That’s the anxiety arriving,
rising high and riding by and lapping at your edges.

Did I see another climber,
And what does it count?
What does it say about me, about me?
Turn about face and leave this place.
For Forever.
I will never ever see you again forever?
Another throwaway discarded,
Meanings intended and applied,
Inspiration burrowed inside…
A placeholder for love,
A proxy for reality

But the questions are not pursued,
There is only the sun, and the light,
And the surfaces to soak it or reflect it, share it.

I can say that I was there, but was I really?
Do we ever get beyond the moment, and the way the light is changing as the day goes by?
Do we ever, am I severed?

Several severed efforts,
In a bid to make sense,
I forced my soul to dispense
with itself…