Age old rock on primal grounds. Twisted streets run red with blood. Scarlet pouring between cobbles, Seeping into forgotten memories. Trodden day and trodden night,
A spider web of bare branches tangle with gelid air. Webs of naked silver birch trees trap Pacific sunsets in warmer sands.
Your mind is a Prison, Where you play both the guards and the inmates.
In a dark, dark house, There was a dark, dark room, In which a young girl sat, On the eve of her doom. She
The Sea and an Office Block The vast wave rushes across the ground floor as dull desks and dull workers swim in its ferocious tide,
I am the ghost of our life together In our lives, I was a shadow
The eyes of the young Forever fear the faces of the old. The eyes of the old fear…
Hundreds of children Born with imaginations Educated into blindness. “I am doing well in school I am getting the grades Am I living the good
Voices in the dark, Broken words. The Signature of torment.
Open marshes are dangerous places, like the minds of young girls. They’ll suck you in with innocent grin, and chase you out with your fear.
Chasing seconds the sun moves across the sky, to my mortality.
Dry skin, cracks on the back of these ageing hands. Time ticks on, eternally. Numbers patiently wait for shadows to fall on their moment.
Biff, brown Biffer the Labrador bullet. Bolted like an avalanche of dark, frothy chocolate. Hillsides, glades, parks, the front bumpers of cars, all these places
I try I try to stop smoking dope But there seems to be not much hope, I stop and stare and try to think Perhaps
The Violin City They strut, they stroll Through alleys of urgent scales They walk tunefully, holding their bows Through the meandering tuneful wails To light
Bathgate chance came and was blown Long before I was born. Big business was our Jesus Christ But local traders nailed it to the cross
Gazing intently across the savannah, I lean back in from the window, Pull my focus back to the repeater And the spent .44 shell casings,
oh lying being shepherd of mindless shadows cast eyes over land and sea build tower…fall down?
Got Superficial Shoreditch on my little finger, Hipsterdom where genuine imitation 80s fashion lingers, But Shoreditch has a rotten heart of sexual pity, More brothels
Run! the Old world is behind us We painted the streets, Wishing only to practice wishful thinking, And demand impossible things, But your answers came