top of page


Some days
The weather
Or the particular light
Or the pace of the clouds
Passing by
Or perhaps it’s the
Birds that hang
At a distant height
floating, gliding
Almost out of sight.
There’s a certain
kind of melancholy
On those days.
I find myself sliding
Deep down
Into the sweet misty haze
Of late spring
Which seems to bring
A longing,
A lust for something
Perhaps a change
Or maybe it’s for nothing more
Than the some old beaten
Mistaken dream
What I know
Is that this is a space
A place where my mind
A bit forlorn
My body bowed and torn
Well on its way to decay
Lays waiting for it all to be described.
I hope it’s not just
A proscribed fucked up lie.
And on those days,
Like today
I go out and work my flesh
As I attempt to get away
From my mind,
And it’s constant request.
And later,
I am left with wine
And endless time
To see if I can derive
Some meaning
From all the things that I do
Those days of pain
That ring so true
They leave a bruise
That quietly speaks
Of my constant
Self induced misuse.
I watch the birds
That whirl and swirl
And know that soon they too
Must abandon
Their days of endless

bottom of page