Her City

The artists and poets, whose years past,

Are washed away in ordinary grime;

The dirt of centuries of worshippers

Who did not notice as gods left their shrines.

All day, her city is frantic

With the mirror's ennui, her twisting visage.

Preoccupied with arts of finance

Poems of blue sky.

Parisians walk by quickly;

This is well known, but

I shall not quickly forget

Their looks of disgust.

Her city is become a whore,

Whose romance is cheap, too well practised.

Where are her dear poets?

They show us they are alive

With lipstick kisses on a gravestone

And the sounds of hearts breaking at night.

Apple Pi With Mustard

I woke up this morning
Thinking pi equalled three;
Crooked birds flew through
My window, sang out of key.

Walked ceilings for hours,
Cause it's more fun that way;
Then misshapen sun
Heralds ending of day.

I stand up to sleep,
I sneeze, and I sigh;
It's a messed up world
When three equals pi.

Moving On

Get out of my head!
I shout the words
At your photograph
That I've gone and found again.

It seems so easy
So free. I am exhausted after
Shutting you out for so long
And in weakness I relax.

Sometimes it takes a second,
And sometimes days, but then
I remember what it is to wake,
And remember to forget.

Fuel For Your Fire

Hogmanay in a mental home;
We sip our drinks and weakly
Wish one another glad tidings.

Sing Auld Lang Syne
For the schizophrenia patient
We used to know.

Fireworks outside: I get upset,
And they decide it's better for me
If I am sedated tonight.

A new year means nothing,
No new calendar upon the wall.
It isn't me who makes my plans.

How many of these tedious 'years' must I suffer
As they cheerfully introduce themselves to me?
My quiet brain laments its absent friend.