Building 12 2_22.


No cheesburger – or fries – or chocolate thickshake, 

could possibly describe her as they would obviously mistake.

Her infectious smile for a cheeky smirk, 

and her fantastic nature as a faulty quirk. 

Her eyes shine bright and big and bold,

her hair hangs long – it’s brown not gold. 

I knocked – she answered – it was a match made in heaven,

and now I see her twenty-four seven!

Her confidence and presence is hard to miss, 

and I bet that all the boys be steal’n a kiss.

From this very special girl I know,

who’s taught me how I need to show.

The world – myself and all mankind,

Exactly how we need to find.

The joy – the love and all the noodles.  

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Staring at the Ceiling

Staring at the ceiling.
Dreading work.
Will work poorly,
Because of lack of sleep,
From lying awake nights,
Staring at the ceiling,
Dreading work.
Worried about past unpleasantness.
Fully expecting more to come.
Makes for restless nights spent,
Staring at the ceiling.
Dreading work.
But not just work.
Any conversational contact,
With others.
Snide remarks,
Underhanded tactics,
Inconsiderate humour,
Blatant abuse.
A stable of woe.
Faced daily.
With little choice.
Little real freedom.
But to suffer and internalise,
And sometimes write.
And so suffer again and again.
Knowing complaints to others,
Would only call in to question my,
With little to no regard for my,
I must work,
For long forgotten reasons.
But first I must lay,
Frustrated awake.
Dreading work.
Staring at the ceiling.

The Little Window

There’s a little window,
Where I work.
One of very few.
A little window,
Where I work.
Through which I wish,
I’d flew.

The little window,
Reminds me,
Of a world beyond the walls.
The walls between which,
I work.
The walls between which,
I work.


The little window,
Reminds me,
Of yearning to be free.
The little window,
Reminds me,
The world cares not,
For me.

The little window,
Shows some sky.
Sometimes blue; others grey.
The little window,
Reminds me,
This could be hell.
If I die.

Sitting in My Car

Sitting in my car,
Hoping for a miracle.
At once chastising myself,
For being a hypocrite,
Because I’m not religious.
It’s darker without the,
Light of day.
Quieter without the,
Hubub of industry.
Colder without the,
Exertion of work.
An alarm sounds nearby.
I wonder will it stop tonight.
Will I sleep.
Must stop writing this,
Because my phone will lose,
Its battery power.
Was tempted to write that,
The battery would “die”.
But I’m trying my best,
Not to think about,
Instead love.
Life is not the opposite of death.
Because without love,
One is not really,

Tonight A Pretty Sky

Tonight, a pretty sky.
Stars twinkle joyously,
Above transient cloud.
Slight sighs of wind,
Drowned by distant traffic.
Singing, a lone night bird.
My street’s light makes a ghost,
Of the palm it hides behind.
Sometimes a siren joins,
The just past midnight song,
Listened to not by a mostly,
Sleeping audience,
With balcony seating, all.
It pleases me to imagine,
That they as one might dream,
That which is my waking pleasure,
Till I join the closed-eyed crowd.

Existential Phlog Poem

Sometimes I feel as if a ghost,
Living life apart from most.
Watching them, their joy or sorrow,
Participating not, now nor morrow.
A voyeuristic existence,
Keeps me from real comfort hence.
It is as if a sheet of glass,
Divides me from whatever class.


People will do this or that,
And I can but an eyelid bat.
It is somehow a pleasant state,
For connection to abrupt abate.
Yet if I wish for something deeper,
I’ll be naught but the happy sleeper.
I do take comfort from the thought,
That earned solace be not for naught.


Until then I gaze quite patiently,
Thoughts of love savoured pleasantly.

Philosophical phlog poem

Started writing this while I was drunk the weekend last, and just now finished it (while sober (ok one beer)):

Reason be to wonder why,
It be to ponder pie in sky.
Why the sun do rise and fall,
To know it matters not at all.
I envy them of supreme being,
Them who see quite without seeing.


Me I know but mortal life.
Life and death and random strife.
The fruit of life be naught but love,
Found in an other or peace dove.
That be the solace I do seek,
In them others strong or meek.


I crave it so so very much,
And rarely do discover such.
Such that do feel its way to me,
While I do feel my way to thee.
So alone I be most every season,
Knowing not the rhyme nor reason.

Loneliness Phlog Poem

It’s more cold than a winter breeze.
Vacant than a logged field of trees.
Sad than a crying clown.
Painful than a thorned crown.
Endless than the moon’s orbit,
Mournful than a child’s obit.

Wrenching than a hangman’s noose.
Vengeful than an upset goose.
Frustrating than a stubborn stain.
Uncomfortable than lower back pain.
Crippling than the most intense stress.
Is fucking goddamn loneliness.

The Cold South Wind

While the cold south wind blew,
I sat alone outside and you.

You did not what I could know,
Just as I see not birth of snow.
Your entire life’s a mystery,
And if I could but find the key.
I would throw it in a deep hole,
Unlocking you is not my goal.

Instead it is surely to learn,
What good graces I might earn.
From you dearest bella mia,
At the risk of my warm tear.
If it should slide down my cheek,
Would you in time surely speak.

Before it becomes airborne found,
And splashes pained upon the ground.
If so I would not again weep,
Until I had failed to you keep.
Keep you by my loving side,
Because of life’s own high tide.

An ebb and flow that had taken you,
Where the cold south wind never blew.