Notes

He waited and nothing happened.
He waited behind the white picket fence.
Twiddling his fingers.
A nervous fidget.
He waited for true love.
Good sex.
Sweet pillow talk.
But it never came.
Then when he pulled up into his driveway.
On a sunny day.
He lost his mind.
Then not long after he smashed his head against a family picture.
He claimed he stumbled.
Then two days later.
He jumped off the roof of his office block.
He then simply.
Ceased to exist.






Take the flowers from the jungle.
Hypocrisy.
Is overrated.
Nowadays.
As people.
Starve.
And.
Die.
Unnecessary deaths.
As people speed through life.
So fast they create a little flame.
Wherever they go.
As People let themselves.
Have their lives.
Dictated to.
By people not worth a damn.
But hell. It ain't going to change.
We are simply.
Bees in nest.
In constant need of a queen bee.
As well we need our structure.
The bohemian ways.
Are no more (unfortunately).
And there's nothing we can do.
So I'll avoid the speed way today.
So I'll allay my joy.
That Guns N' Roses have reunited.
And hours ago this might have been a love poem.
But in this hour it isn't.




The loss of a good woman.
The loss of a good woman.
Can be more painful than:
Your typewriter running out ribbon.
The electric chair.
The firing squad.
The sound of a goddamned fantastic song.
The sound of an acoustic guitar with a heavenly voice behind it.
The most passionate of whores.
The greatest of whiskeys.
Than good poetry.
The loss of a good woman.
Tears your heart out.
And chucks it into a fiery volcano.
Making you stand there.
Alone.
Hoping you'll one day find another meaningful.
Good.
Goddamned poem.
Whilst an acoustic guitar plays.
And a serene voice in the background sings.
Whilst The fires continue to burn eternally.