The rainfall collects in the gutter
It's come all the way from the sea
In bed I'm dreaming of another
I awake to find you and I'm filled with relief
The slot machines been spinning all evening
He's got dollar signs burned in his eyes
Not sure if he's losing or winning
Just aware of the image of freedom held strong in his mind

I'm lying at the foot of a towering coconut tree
its reaching for that golden disc and I'm sheltered by its leaves
And I can't even remember what it is I want

There's men farming deep in the ocean
Showing no respect for the dead
While windmills spin in synchronization
But there's no incentive in lining your pockets with air
As they tally the numbers keep growing
Til its impossible to keep up
It's the same with the ones that were owing
The scales are weighted, the system was created corrupt
There's logos pasted all over
our cities,
On every shop window and door
Soon there'll be no walls left to graffiti
And the streets marched in silence on route to the liquor stores

But i lie in the shade of the ever striving palms
Let the grove embrace me in its indifferent arms
And the detritus beneath me is giving me hope for our kind
Not swayed by the wind, nor longing for that golden light

Tasik.

Backing up while travellin

I pull my cart through the heart of the hills,
hawking fruit at the market
for as many hours as I will,
and when i have had enough
then I will pull my cart back home,
its not the high life that I've heard of
but its the highest that I've known,
and then ill sit,
and watch the tv for an hour or a minute,
or entertain the whippets with some stories of when I was just a kid.

now I'm not sure of the time
but when the sun sets to the west,
ill man the porch and watch the world go by
to ease some of the stress,
and then my daughter serves the dinner
to our growing family,
it warms my soul to see my great grandchildren
contented and healthy,
and then ill sleep,
and when the sun rises to the east,
ill again reap all of the rewards
of the day that I am so grateful to see,

and we'll wile away the day kicking balls and flying kites,
unable to distinguish mountains from skies

No Easy Road...

I was dreaming of soaring when I was sharply woken
by a low incessant rumble that had filled out the room
and as I stirred I realised that the window was shaking
from the shivers of discomfort that gripped at the moon.
Dressed, I headed out to find a riot in full swing;
had to pull my jumper up to keep from breathing the fumes.
From what I gathered it all started as lawful protesting –
a reaction to some changes they’d announced on the news.

So I’m told the police arrived with their intentions set -
some talk of order and then they set about throwing their weight -
they barked some commands at the people, tried to keep them in check,
but there’s only so much coercion a riled rabble will take.
When light returned front doors stayed closed and the streets lay wrecked,
the scene was haunting as the soundless morning after a quake.
Now I’ll be first to lay my sword down and I’ll never forget -
it can take seconds to destroy what took an age to create.

I proceeded on swift feet to get away from the brawl
and arrived upon the high street where the shop fronts glow bright.
Even though the street was empty there were eyes on the walls
and they all followed me intently ‘til I slipped out of sight.
Among entrancing displays I noticed someone had scrawled,
“Come on through our doors and you’ll be part of the hype!
We know the diamonds in our precious rings will serve to enthral
and if you’re hard up, that’s just fine, you can pay with your life.”

I walked on slightly perplexed but moreover uneased
and took the route on impulse to the bus station.
I’d a gut feeling that this wasn’t where I wanted to be,
so I picked a bus at random and I went to get on.
The driver stopped me at the door and demanded money,
but with my pockets lined with lint he said nothing could be done.
As the early morning rain came I retreated off the street
and in the doorway of a temple I waited for the sun.

There a boy with a curl either side of his head
warned, “be meek or you’ll burn in the fires of hell.”
I said “you circus tiger cub, you’re being pulled and not led.
I see Gehenna in your eyes and you’re not even twelve.
You don’t have to live in awe as your idols intend -
climb the ladder, put that heavy scroll back up on the shelf,
and maybe when you’re taller and you’re much better read
you can sift through that whole genre and decide for yourself.”

The words that left his father’s mouth, I couldn’t believe it,
and with his tone of voice rising I took off pretty fast.
I walked home with hands in pockets, soaked through, weighed down
with thoughts of that poor kid who had no questions to ask.
Back in my fortress I felt anxious and watched TV for a bit;
an inspirational speech about colour and caste.
I sat wrapped in a blanket as a man stood at the pulpit
shouting, “Thank God almighty,” but the moment has passed.

Indifference Blues.

If I could have my way within the prison of my mind
I would appoint you as guard to keep my sentiments in line.
You could seal my untamed adoration for you in a white chamber;
a clean, secure place where my doubts couldn’t get to her.

With my anger draped in chains, you could lead him to the chair
and with that action you’d ensure for us a worry-free future
because no matter how I try he seems impossible to supress.
So as my contentment yanks the lever could we quickly share a kiss?

I can hear the mournful wails of the convicts on the wing
as they rattle on the cages while my anger’s giving in.
His cleansing screams are echoed by my pride and vanity,
but in the true picture, the lever’s manned by my complacency

because not every breath is meant to be a sigh.
We should yell and howl and cry and sing and be silent when we die.
There's so much time spent waiting and wasted words said to the sky
that it’d be criminal to stay silent
when my words might act as treatment
and help dispel all those demons
that are a bane upon our lives,

so if you could leave the cell doors open, I think that’d be preferred.
You could help to quell the riots with some smiles and soft words
and my anger can run wild at the injustices that occur
‘cause in some ironic way I think that makes me happier.

Weeds.

Listen up good, kid, ‘cause it’s vital to see -
you may be a coin fresh from the mint to me
but in this garden you’re just another scattered seed;
of no exceptional value nor above decree.

And your mother and your father are no towering trees
despite what your admissible awe leads you to believe.
Like most of us they’ve accepted that they’re more like weeds,

so it’s about time you embraced humility
and recognised you’re just a puzzle piece;
a servant to sunlight and gravity;
a grain of sand at the will of the sea.


First post in a long time. Writers block is an anus.

Homes.

Your home is like your first love – you're sure they’re your only one.
And when you pack up and leave you’ll miss them to death
no matter how far you run.

In time you'll come to consider there are others out there for you
and while the search can be tiring, testing and telling
it's foolish to think that untrue.

And while the roads are endless, there are plenty of places to stop
and maybe when you do you can resubmerge your roots
yeah, you flower, you might open right up.

‘Cause soil is sundry and tailored, and though rainfall can cause you to wilt
some flowers will float on the water
and some plants, they grow down in the silt.

So don’t anchor yourself in one place and don’t let your roots shoot down too deep
unless you’re sure that you’re outgrowing everyone else
and I assure you that’s a misbelief.

Genovese Syndrome.

I saw a car crash not too long ago -
it lay upturned and burnt out, at the side of the road -
and most people driving by had slowed;
a stalling parade of spectators.

Safe in their shells they crept on by
with slackened jaws and peeled eyes,
wondering how many had died
and whether it’d be in the papers.

There's alien children drinking dirt
and an alien man with a bullet in his heart
and your love for them should be absolute
but you're fretting over your hair.

This life has left us broken or bent
and we ignore the reminders of the consequence
but know that we all make the conscious assessment
of how far we extend our cares.