I dipped the tiny spoon in
I took out the sticky liquid
Put it on my tongue
taste the sourness
Royal honey they call it
Making common people special
They overspend for this ccol con
Tell themselves it's unique
These tubs of royal honey
validating thousands of triers
aspirants and strivers
Excited to empty wallets
They'll not delve into the science
They'll leap into the next fad
shredding the parachute
as they leave the cliff in droves
He dreamed of death.
Great distances death walked.
No interpretation!
He would wake, simply remember.
We living cut through reality.
Little razor blades if you will.
Proud to be sharp until we aren't.
Obligated by gerunds working and cooking...
Answering meaningless messages!
Holding feelings back.
Repressing excitement.
Until it all disappears.
The shed is plain!
It is yellow and hollow.
Yellow fades more slowly than hope.
Handprints on old cracked concrete.
To signify ghosts live inside.
My brave father indeed.
The railway runs on through.
Beside not toward nor away.
T'is neither fate nor afterlife, it just is.
They stand where men stood.
Ghosts of men occupy, lost identities.
Quite stationary yet obsessed with direction.
Still as if to ponder but no thought emits.
Just snail pace withheld emotion.
Banked energy unspent in living.
The Railway iself led nowhere.
But the yellow shed was adjacent to a small town.
Always movement there, illusions of that old earth.
Grandad sat down with his son Phillip
The crates didn't creak.
Smiles were intended but didn't form.
They began counting nothing together.
Sharing that same space for long warm eternities.
The peeling paint whispered rumours of life.
The eyes of my dream were welcome to visit.
But not allowed to stay.
The shed was originally painted yellow.
There it sat next to rusted train tracks.
The color of pollen now.
People stood inside.
People once alive and obsessed with movement.
Now they stand like mannequins.
Avoiding eyecontact.
Begging their ears to simulate the sound of a train.
But no boards tremble, no horns hoot.
He did not look at me.
He didn't look at his own father either.
Was I to join them too, the clumsy faithless.
I can´t be your fan
I have my own dedicated haters
my own scribbles reaching for fate
May I be promoted or banned
On my own growing demand
I can't be your fan
I don't fit in your audience
You'll bear my absence
We all choose our offence
on your opening night
I can't be tilting the lights
On traffic jammed stage
Not part of your plight
Not interested in your page
Encouragement from me
Certainly solid sincerity
But I don't need your image
Your approval and badges
Why do you need me to rate it
I have my own craft and trait
I build these things in me
Since never did I plea or demand
I'm no one else's fan I'm my own brand
So go be big in soul, be big in japan
I invent words, with own pen do I ponder
prefer my err and my own ugly blunder
Over another's replicated thunder
I'll never be the admirer downunder
A drop of my own golden glory
Powers the hunger in my spirit core
fuels me a decade forward
Its my gut, brain creative reward
never expecting, given up hoping
Sweat and mastery my only trophy
Outsiders snide my failures
leak out before me when I nail it
Focus on your own game
Lest world find your lameness
You are your own jailers
Tough exteriors inside all frail
I can't sign up to your group
I have my own universe to expand
You've got a cliche to polish
All routine borish and bland
I've irregular rhymes a million stanzas to kill!
A thousand springs of messy minstrelsy to fill
You see my errors not my unbreakable Doggerel
