The queue

Reflections in an airport window

A pointless song playing on the radio

All these people really no place to go

I count the heads and faces

All are from my past so many places

I recognize every one of them

Thought I left them behind. Last time.

What I fear most when I reach the end of the line

Is that all these dipshits will have gotten there first

And all the good ones are still in the hearse

Leaving the EU

Sitting by the lake there wasn’t even a ripple

I dont feel safe here anymore

One cloud in the sky.

As I waited for the sunset I counted

Minutes in denial

I walked myself home til sunrise

Its what I gave. To be

I’d kiss you if you were asleep.

So awake. So far from me

Spiel Burgh

I was rubbing my fingertips
Across my scars
When the phone rang

Why do they play “on hold” music
In lobby bars
Waiting we are for that same old thang

On the news today. Same sorry story as in ’93
What will the new kids tweet.

I was rubbing my fingertips
Across her scars
Crying herself to sleep
Bleating like a sheep

Doc martens

Under then streets

Under pavement and the ground

Lay some roots lay ones boots

Without a sound

Under her pavement lay her


And some days the roots they rise

Rise against

Under your boots. She was past tense

Look again. Look


What we endure when young

Can’t be unlearned. Its part of



What makes a circle. Can’t be a square

What can’t be undone

Must be part of. (?)



Pushing on graffiti walls

Staring into puddles of mud

Dirt and roots and human piss

Fried dough the food of the populace

Kids cry when moms say eat their peas

How bad can a few cots and cages be

When they grow up they’ll be like you and me

Accustomed to what they sell us dirty food dirt is cheap

The best thing about a rock festival

Might be the bats flying overhead

Always nature gives us guidance

While the Humana spread their dread

The fires that we set they set us back

Everything we meant is gone.

Read the ingredients on that heart attack

Read the writing on

Pissed on graffiti walls

Creme brulee

The chef builds a house around

A sinkhole in the ground

Out of ashes rises concocted oceans

Fusions and potions

Flavors from the soul. splendid notions

All his aspirations and moneys abound

Spent in his desire to make a new sound

But little Betty Yelps her review

Her mirrored reflection on her knees in a pew

Her own sinkhole it spews

The chef closes his doors as she texts from her bed. The power we’ve gained with discrediting threads. Entitled from birth resurrecting the dead. “I just came for the comments” they tweeted and said. It’s a bible study and no one breaks the bread.

The internet lord and saviour

creme brulee on your screen it has no flavor