Carpenter make me a dream, we strike at midnight despite building up reputation,
making pride beam in a infrastructure that's a team.
Two for the circular saw makes their rounds with noise splitting sound filling the room.
If I had a hammer and bucketful nails, hardwood planks would go down through floors that will hold four feet of shoes
belonging to love of life.
One or the other of us won't put our foot down when sewing curtains,
instead we buy shades at flea market where things are hopping with all kinds of stuff.
Day after day bouquets come through woodwork, wallflower moving violets to purple violence, explosion of color making bare wall appear.
Bandannas wipes brow, pocketing sweat stinging eye as panic room holds fright, pain and terror.

Night rightly ended, gathering black breeze while autumn lulls by and by,
cradling rock high with wobbly stone.
Bough breaks twigging drought, till bird catch fire, squabbling hen bit.
Cloud bundle up dear heaven, shushing sigh of blue which is full before broken lukewarm watery rain.
Windy breath bottoms out flower throated mum.
Younger still, half of day is long, tiring out elmy holler.
Staring light is seen all around by ground hoarding badger sniffing their sneeze with digging ease.
Gun is ripping holes in the sky where beaks are half cocked in honking geese swapping flight song.
Shoot-em-up V-neck mallard green ping are dying to stop bloodshed in waterlogged reed rushes ashore.

Day dawned, growing lighter, making Da Da's aura taller while his sundowner has a strong rise to here! Here!, in small beer full of town talk heard at night.
Shade lover is he, aweary under window of heaven, baby blue fronted by world round points.....
Pointing to carved upward cavern nestling tree.
They hunger for noise, clamoring din, din,.....
and wallah!
A pecking order of polka dotted perches sit across orange breasted skies which multiplies frantic crowded crow crowing caw antics.
The cricket rips silence to air whisper song, fainter still as Van Winkle make fast beating heart still.
Da Da can weather hatred, rear of face veiled in bad wishing.
He is a lumberjack, a work of rock hewn wood, chilling as black crucifer rot, curse to indifferent , unkind man.

IN April 1997, when a prostitute stole from an army man, a tragic event happened.

3:00 AM - DOWN town, somewhere along Murton street, four sex workers stand in a dark corner, in front of one of the city’s condemned buildings. The condemned building is still a home of the famous Top Bar where several murder plots have been crafted by top city wealthy men and security men. The murder ploy of a military man who died of a very dangerous poison was also made here, people rumoured.

It striked something deep within my soul, it was not intented to dwell on this earth, like so many things, people. It was too innocent, too pure, but yet spoke to the inner being of love, pain, hunger, passion, strength, weakness, things that are not bred from innocence. It did not belong.

It pulled my heart from within my chest. I at once felt at ease with the world but at the same time a sadness that filled me entirely. Why did this music touch me so? When others who would have heard it could have closed their ears, not just their ears but their souls to this sound, this gold, this piece of heaven. How is it that they could not hear the angelic note within the piano?

The air out here was cold, crisp. It shook my being into existance cruelly, I thanked the heavens for it.

The world had become like a foreigner to me, I no longer understood its thoughts, the pulse that constantly flowed from deep within. Had I been gone for so long? When did I forget to look further than the footstep ahead of me.

Nothing could beat the raging storm within as fully as love.

Its power radiating for all the world to see. Those who set their wandering eyes to it felt its flame, and it burnt, burnt into any other knowledge. It killed all that was not loving and caring, for what did it care for the all that was real, for pain. No mercy would it hold for anything lesser.

Where love was, all was well. She loved him so entirely it would not have mattered if the world fell, she was not the world, she was greater. She was not she, she was they... part of two.

Crawling into its warmth to hide, under its pureness away from the winter depths, that was everything. It would save them from themselves and they knew it. Hearts made whole, no hatred could follow here.

I wish I could paint at such times, as I wander through those rippling fields of grass I have come to know so well. My dark hair clutching at my cheeks to protect me from the sharp edge on the wind, warnings of a coming storm. But as I walk onwards towards the greying skies I know it will hold stern for me.

The clouds look down at me with eyes that are never judgemental. I could walk for days totally oblivious. Not that a single soul crosses my path. Only the gentle, four legged pair, waiting inpatiently at the gate to be greeted. The odd white tail disappears into the green beyond and I am home.

Catching lightning bugs is a tricky business.
Sometimes I think loving you is much like this.
You have to blindly lunge into the dark and hope you have grabbed the right piece of air.
You see lots of little blinks in your jar and are delighted at the show.
You may imagine this is affection.
After only a few minutes the blinks cease with a similar consistency.
Doubt creeps in about the worthiness of this endeavor.
You think about shaking the jar, but that really does seem mean-hearted.
Having a captive is a rather guilt ridden proposition.
That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
Occasionally there is a little blink from your jar and it brings no delight.

I may have spent it all too early.
I may have waited too long.

Today I don’t fit my skin correctly,
I used to have better ways of coping with this.
Those ways are long gone.

I love Popeye…he knows the secret…
“I am who I am, and that’s all what I am”

I pray for the acceptance of Popeye.
I pray to know that this intensity isn’t a choice
It’s who I am.
I came here and found that I couldn’t stand it a lot of the time.

I had to cry and cry and cry.
I cried for 6 years, then I suddenly stopped.
I didn’t cry again for another 30 years then I started again.
I don’t cry so much anymore, I write and I wail at this feeling again.

I don’t want to have trendy set up, a situation, a significant other