A Song For Sale


They said do come along, we shall take you to your home,
There are many of us here, So don’t travel all alone,
The night is falling fast, soon the fiends will be about,
If they grab you by your throat, you shan’t be able to even shout,
And if you trust us less, you can take the backseat,
Keep a hammer in the hand, and out the door keep your feet.

The man who then sat in the carriage, His name was Trotting Trevor,
He lived out in the farm, and never took no favor,
But he was happy to be helped, on that fuzzy night,
For miles he had travelled, without a soul in sight,
So Trotting Trevor the farmer, brought the good brandy to his lips,
And he talked about his life, in between the frequent sips.

He told them all about his hard fought golden days,
Those drunk and sober habits, and black and rotten ways,
He boasted all about, his foot long lily white,
And how it thence pleasured him to dig tunnels under twilight,
Tales of the broken stereo and it’s halting, wheelchair rhyme,
He told of his numb ears, as he heard it hundred, thousand time.

Now old Trotting Trevor, he was a gifted storyteller,
He darkened the dark parts, and the bright he colored paler,
And how his company laughed and urged on him to go,
And how they wept in earnest, hearing his crimes in times low,
They shook his sweaty hand, and ruffled his hairless rack,
They promised to take him along, if he didn’t turn his back,
But he knew that was it, his wife must be turning blue,
Thus he bade adieu, to his borrowed friends new.

Soon the road struck lightning path, and the lot all made their choice,
Of them one was Booty Bard, with warm honey voice,
She travelled to old tavern towns, and set the stage on fire,
The men named her Tipsy Angel, the women called her squealing liar,
So when she trotted then, to one town for room and ale,
Booty Bard decided to tune, the old man’s rainbow tale,
She added a pinch of warrior’s lore, and a bit of fairy fun,
Their were demons with soulful eyes, and them Angels with vintage gun,
Love came stumbling often, burning a scarlet red,
Sometimes it ended with castles, sometimes it ended in bed,
And the people found it lovely, and they found it mighty alluring,
So much that they keep asking, till old Booty couldn’t sing.

And deep in that drunken crowd, there was a man with hairy ear,
Who sat writing on a napkin, all of the song that he could hear,
His name was Blackhand Boring Brown, and he wasn’t any bright,
He thought of writing all day, but never did really write,
But on this special occasion, he had heard the lady dressed in rum,
And decided of writing such fantasy, people would praise for years to come,
So he went back the way he came, into the burrow that was his house,
Muttering something to oneself, like a nut cracking mad mouse,
He wore his wise man’s glasses, with lucky underwear,
With a bottle of frozen ink, he sat to write; upon a chair,
He rocked his muted mind, he broke then boiled the song,
Used verbs that only rhymed, and words a hundred meter long.

For pages and pages, he mused upon cobwebs in the light,
Upon single, half sketched sheet, he ended centuries of fight,
Blackhand Boring Brown, he scribbled seven days straight,
Burping old sandwiches, he had a someday ate,
But the man never complained, nothing of flesh he did miss,
Stopping only once he had finished the masterpiece.

Trotting Trevor sat behind a dusty desk, reading a book without name,
His wife said it’s unique, for to all it felt the same,
And true the farmer found, the writing to his taste,
Like a ocean of adventure, without a drop to waste.

Of Love And Life

Tell me where I shall find you,
In this mismatched world,
Travelled as I have from pole to pole,
My desire in design,
In colours only you can see,
Of texture only you can touch,
I painted the deepest oceans,
With my stillness in motion.

This journey has broken me,
In pieces of a man I once was,
And so I may fall short of your measure,
As you would tower in mine.

The long distance has brought our past closer,
I am naked once again,
My form without patience, frail and brittle,
Like an old man’s corollary, newfound and foetal,
Hold me in the cluster of moonlight,
Watch me in the ripples of river,
Beware, love, the closer you come,
More blur shall I become.

The passing mist of time, is finally here,
I wish to hear your voice,
Feel the wind behind it’s whisper,
Drink the fragrance of your breath,
And wash all my token faces,
In the fall of your tresses.
But I know not if you are,
As alive as I imagine,
If you would leave me all again,


I saw the man today,
Yet had nothing to say,
He seemed the same as ever,
Just older everyday.
Each day I greeted morn,
With his form upon the tide,
Years I saw him thus,
With his shaggy dog beside.
He loved that dog, I know,
As he whispered things to it,
Still the dog disobeyed his master,
For he stood when told to sit.
Once I saw them dancing,
An hour without fail,
Only when they stopped I concurred,
That they were chasing each other’s tail.
I hope I see them tomorrow,
And all days yet to rise,
For they give me deep solace,
Life’s sermon from the unwise.

I woke up today, ages ago,
Stood up for my prayer,
The day had dawned as usual,
But the man was not there.
I crossed the road in haste,
Feeling a crippling dread,
And stared with mute surprise,
At the empty makeshift bed.

I stand by my footpath,
The night has fallen down,
My feet hurting and sore,
From running all round the town.
Just when I wanted,
To calm my weary feet,
My dog whimpered softly,
Demanding his hard earned treat,
I laughed at his fallen face,
And leaned close upon his ear,
Saying with untamed glee,
Secret my do hear.
It was my mocking test,
I have passed and you did rightly fail,
I took you through the town,
Chasing your own tail.

The Eternal

How far can you see,
Into this fading night,
Doth the smouldering wastelands;
Sacred to the ghosts of symbols,
Yield shadows as you reach,
By it’s fading edge and listen,
The old echo of mute prayers,
Shatter the purity of silence,
And raise words harsh and illuminating.Doth these new voices,
Predict an arrival,
Of an age where,
Men designs men,
As the cold knife, naked with naive desire,
Drips with exalted impunity,
Curious to carve,
Another face, another being,
So scarred by errors of life,
That being immortal is the only answer?


If the days are cold,

And the nights are bright, 

And the sky’s too tall for your deep sight,

If your feet dance on without any song,

And can’t remember if its soon or far too long,

If your face all smile when your lips do too,

If the seed you planted, now shelters you,

And the dreams you held have passed your hand,

If the mysteries of life you understand,

And you look in the mirror and see the other face,

And need to learn once more to tie your shoelace,

If the dusk don’t scare you as much as the dawn,

And know you can win with a single pawn,

If you can close your eyes, and recite your home,

If you can close your doors and still can roam,

If they came from far and in you seek,

The wisdom you have but struggle to speak,

Know then friend and shed all fear,

The ocean awaits, you are here.