Selfishness

As in using others
To fill the hole in your heart
demanding they be a character
in your own myth.
And dragging them down
Forcing them to hide their atomic core
So they push it out
And then they're there
Up on the moon
Crafting their own doom
Having blasted into the sky.
With friends manning the station,
We all fly close to the sun.

Little Radio Come to Life

Im a watcher
Like a little listener, sniffer
Breather in,
Gasper, swimmer, deep sea diver,
Growling at the bottom.
Therefore
I am a faker at the top
mismatched, everything about money,
trapped in cap
in hand
Fighting a square peg
Ding thats the bell
A little lizard on a tree
Smashed up next day
14 wheeler
who knew?
Static on radio flip
back to
adverts
Flip static
Static
Im a watcher.
Im an exhaler. 

Expectations of Genius

My little sea
Over there, past the beach,
Flags of umbrellas
Planted
Dunes of fools. No
not fools
I write myself into a corner,
No, not a corner
A cliff edge,
to jump from
Into my lonely little sea.
Theres a scotsman behind me in this
Beach Bar
draft ale over us both 
A scotsman, no
A tourist.
Bukowski owns Bukowski
I want to own the sea
In it, evidence of God,
I'll swim about-
You spear me,
No,
Spare me, Romeo

fireworks

and little moments!
struggling
masochistic gearstick
to write down this thought
driving 50 towards a bend
will i turn or
will it write itself   ?

Wandering

Any old bastard can die
alone, conquering heros especially
to make it home,
aye, thats the rub.

God is Not Angry

After all the buttercream
is swept off the interstate highway
Im bumping and rolling
along in my little own Ford
Commandeered by a glint in my eye
gone mad mad mad
free
from dreary England
The great lord Catharsis
watches over me.
Greek probably, dem Greeks, huh

"GOD IS NOT ANGRY"
Blurts a sign, more
chamber silo cruise missile singularity black hole supernova
than billboard.
the clouds above my head
are for American Americans to walk on
Blown about on trade winds
Dare ye breathe
a word?

Flies

Im sitting in the Florida heat
by the
pool
Flicking flies off
my chest
Getting looks
from behind the
net curtains
hung up on
backdoor windows
I could be writing a poem
Setting the distances
Between whats
really nothing
and what
needing Something
But im flicking flies off my chest
Its a slow nothing
I guess thats something.