OK I GIVE UP
Who is this who lives
… and dies
Seeking the possible
To the detriment
Of an already gifted
So densely woven
Hard to tell
Whether made up of many
Or of only one
Each their own planet.
Who dares calls
Look around then look within
And burst out laughing.
In sum non-breeding migrant
Waiting to go home
THE LIVING ROOM
We’re uncertain exactly where we are
Or what it is we are for that matter
One day we found ourselves cohabiting
No idea how that happened to happen
The bedroom’s not to either of our tastes
But that matters not, we pay little heed
Spend time in sleep, dreaming or dalliance
The living room – quite another matter
For here is where we spend most of our time
Agreeing, disagreeing, arguing
It seems important to get it just right
If only our visions weren’t so diverse
No that’s not it let’s try it over here
Or maybe a slightly different colour
You say we preferred it a while ago
I have to say I don’t remember that
Paint tester pots have left their splotchy marks
Loved by the one but not by the other
A whole rainbow of dissatisfactions
Look around – our living room is a mess
All kinds of ill-matching chairs and sofas
Piled with old issues of Ideal Home
Not a place we ever sit and relax
Let’s face it … we’re just as ill-matched ourselves
We strove to create our own mise-en-scène
The expression of that that which we are
Let’s give up as we are already here
For this is our truth – a study in contrasts
~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~
EYE is not crazy unless so believed,
EYE rests in the centre and sees,
In calm and quiet, quite quite quiet.
Acknowledging without judgement.
EYE is the quiet before the storm.
Swept away by the hurricane? No!
Simply covered in clouds of ripples.
Solution? Simple. So simple.
Return to the centre.
EYE is not crazy, simply I disturbed.
Still and silent EYE is as sane as I.
Like a butterfly
Like a startled starling
A well known character
Like a jet fighter
A burdensome disguise
A shirt, a skirt, our underclothing
Into the unknown
Taking on now
Disguise in love with you
This same old same old.
Born, child, youth, adult, old, dead.
Always different though.
It’s not about
To be you
It’s about your
WHERE CAN I COMPLAIN?
Oh for the writer
To conjure up
Within the glass
Behind the dramaturge
The true playwright
Turns out to be
None other than
To take the reins
And some responsibility
For time’s come