the tiredness in my eyes

weighed down by

hypnotic grooves,

distant sounds

distinct,

unforgotten voices

masked faces

dipped in shade

stirred by cigarette smoke,

glasses half empty, some half full

and the blues man

hunched in his chair

pluckin’ his four string guitar

his foot tappin'

those slow, clear

Mississippi delta blues,

dat teases

my soul

to inspire.

jingle bell,jingle bell,

jingle bell rock

Mrs Claus is on the block

snowin' and blowin'

she's, a bushel of fun

the jingle she's feelin'

up her rec-tum

those elves have only begun...

jingle bell, jingle bell

jingle bell rock,

pokin' and smokin'

she's lickin' their goo

all on jingle bell time

drinkin' wine

while Santa's away

feelin' fine

all on Christamas day.

tell me a story
old man

about

your ancestors
and their clan,

fighting fools
that died like men,

children

without fathers,
mothers in grief

mourn the madness
of their husband's battles,

with spears and clubs
to brake soldiers' bones,

old man

tell me that story
and I'll leave you alone.

By Dp

Heard it again

no one yelled,

voices jaded whispers

that try the mind

laughter [cynical],

inclination of sorts

illusions

not fantasies,

that sound

one has to thwart.

My mind's been blank

I have put up a barrier

between thoughts and my existence.

Trying to crawl out

of this desolate grave of depression

where there is no feeling no purpose

that stage where 'I can't be bothered'.

Yet only last night, a man

falls to his death on the pavement

outside the lounge window

that sickening dull thud

only a human can make;

that ( Read more... )

The coffee looks as confusing

as the images in my head,

contorted light-

the sound of silence is deafening

a rage, pathetic anger

desperately retaliates;

it wants repubution.

My thoughts like a mine field

that disfigures only.

People make judgemnet

from the scent of their eyes alone,

I know what its like

with no one here.

By Prince Labiel

On the otherside of the window

where reality lays

leaves me behind,

the empty carpark

weathered parking lines

on stone chip tar;

scares of a past

that has no meaning.

That sense of being judged,

looked down upon

not by a god,

but humankind.

The clock on the wall

memories,

reminence of making love

her moans, her touch, her sweat

a whole hour

from the table to the ( Read more... )

the energy is pure as the rain falls upon my head ( Read more... )

he sits in the dark wondering what to write ( Read more... )

I saw a coffin float on by ( Read more... )