Gone livin'

This thing I made is finally

sentient, passing from

spawn to tadpole to

thing with legs that

can step out onto the waterside.

This thing I made has grown

lungs and chords in its throat

and so I am starting to think

it may even sing.

This thing I made is

wanting free now, banging

and rustling at the walls of

the nest, sending scraps

of loose twig and grass tumbling.

This thing I made will be

let out soon, and I'll be

proud that it's made it so

far

no matter what

those it meets may think.

prison cell city

and there's the city of his

dreams,

all black&white and breathless

looking,

all old-movie classic new-

wave charm.

all fashion sense and

suave seduction, as

dripping essence of depravity

hangs close in below the edge.

his fingers stroke the TV

screen and he sniffs the

air for cigarettes,

trying to break on through

and take a part.

he wants that city to be

his stage and his catwalk

and so he wants to get

a ticket, travel there,

but couldn't handle it

at all

if he discovered it to be

a prison just like this.

greeninkfingers

Here again this florid

prose that

I think in, in

particular on nights like this -

if any have been or

will be -

and the parts of my

mind in charge of such

things

string sentences together

all intricate, like pre-

concrete architecture. but

without the blueprints

being laid down first.

There is a garden in my

head, I think - that thought

itself cliché, unoriginal sin -

and it needs

tending

and defending against all

the dull-witted television,

newspapers and drink,

because, unless

it's nurtured, the coils

of it's climbing roses will

never scale up beyond

the weathered

wooden arches that I

fancy line the inside of

my skull, behind the

sockets of my eyes,

and make it out through

there

to pure blank paper

for my pen to find

and with its ink

get watering, dress

the petals up in the promise

of some different morning's

dew.

beating track

I wandered off the beaten

track

a while back,

and nowadays push through

undergrowth blind

groping.

Footloose, but my

muddy shoes

lament the

lack of firmer

routes,

yet persevere

because

adventure

keeps them hoping.