The fisherman pulled the line from the shallow waters and looked at his bait untouched
I don’t want what they have
I want my own
I just cant seem to
get that
I never died
I was never born
crossed the river I'm all alone
I always want what I cant have
to save myself from having
I'm not sad
It it just my truth
I just cant get that
After all these years still writing the same poetry
Shake the bells on the jesters hat
in the rain that is the preachers spit
beside the throne where
kings and queens
sit
and when the guillotine finally
falls
ill pick up my head
and have my friend
She has only felt jealousy or pity
She only ever felt admiration or desperation
its all the same
the warmth within the bubble
the laughs of the crowd echo
through the valley to
the ears of the hermit
with no value
chase the dragon to slay
it for how dare it flies
all this falling ink and still
writing the same
poetry
its alright
I just sometimes want more than
alright
I know that’s not
right
but that’s alright
He checked the analytics
and the same number
sat there,
bold,
like an old car with four flat tyres
The fisherman pulled
the line from
the shallow
waters and
looked at his bait
untouched
A large boat,
a ship even,
causes a swell
as it moves by
with a large net below,
catching everything,
the angry fish,
the happy fish,
who cares,
they’re all just fish
The best friend
did what every man
does and got a girlfriend
and that was the end of that
and now they talk about
what you used to talk about
and you aren’t sucking his
dick so don’t try and compete
just sift off into irrelevance
with the shade of embarrassment
you thought it
would be different
who is your fathers
best friend?
Exactly…
I am the prototype of solitude
and with all my vices
I am still never alone
and I stay in the past
with all the people who
are now just ideas because
their bodies left
I got what I always wanted,
I always wanted nothing…
You are going to manifest your life
no matter what,
the small step in a direction
becomes quite the journey,
and I am stuck between being
alone and having the history
of the universe in my pockets
My dreams are prophecies
I can’t decipher,
and someone I love keeps dying
in my mind,
and what does it mean?
They have all met someone else
They have all met someone else
They have all met someone else
They have all met someone else
Find the gem,
feel the coldness of the soil,
does a man change to
prevent the cycle,
or just his perception
of the inevitable?
Van Gogh suffered too you know,
he did,
and in between the breath
was a glimpse of serenity
and in the fields alone
with all he was
it was okay
They all have someone
They all have someone
I am just adjusting,
I am just recalibrating,
I am just dying,
I am just being born again,
a new idea,
the same wave,
a gentle hello to the sunrise,
a small tear at the sunset
who doesn’t promise to return
tomorrow.
Out of hope and ignorance
the world isn’t designed
to be alone.
Do
you
have
you?
I do.
Good,
Take him and go find things you like,
stop dwelling in resentment,
its boring.
The world is waiting for you.
Care for a dance?
I do.
There is two ways to go about it:
become likable so those who know you support you
or
become so good that people who don’t know you like you
There's a bee in the spider web screaming,
there's a hungry spider in the timber waiting,
and what should I do?
I decided to leave the bee
and he escaped on his own
I found my favourite incense
and when I lit two beneath
the foot of a paper weight
buddha…
it smelt like home
Home is nothing
but a moment all your
senses are predictable
The bees nest in the table
my feet are on
I am not going to
do anything to stop them,
the bees.
There is divinity in laziness
Bees sleep…
A bee having a dream
is enough
to keep me from suicide
Doesn’t take too much these days
I am attracting good spirits
I'm ready to have my heart broken.
But right now,
I have to go hang the washing.
Now I paint as the bees get busy
and we listen to the same music
like two tradesman sharing
a radio
Both free from the spider-web,
for now.
______________________
Note from the man himself:
I must admit my poems are a bit sooky,
but that is my therapy,
that is my truth,
that is my cleanse.
What is freedom without the ability to complain about it?
anywho,
cheers.
I am not going to worry about that anymore,
It is all just art, baby.
