Let's dwell in the mystic land,
where birds and humans,
fly hand in hand
across the vast sojourns,
of deserted life.

Sort some parcel into a mail bag
Place the slip in a wrong box
Somebody somewhere somehow suffers
Count the cost on consumables
And the toll on time bad supplies

The counter hand for box entries
Offers services to the public
With absent mindedness
Testifying to the emptiness
A sorry state of our system

Dead sentence pronounced
On the National Postal service
Still struggling to survive
With middling personnel
In an age of electronic mails

we cleansed the wound
bacardi rum
sulpher powder from an old ambulance kit

cheering you danced
dousing your arms those
slender strong hands
mottled with freckles

and I passed out
vomiting on the table
when you pushed and hauled
taut the fifth stitch

waking from dreams
that boathouse
the sunken Chriscraft

"Fucking wake up!!" you
slapped me hard your tits
swinging..threw up again
(Im no big fan of Morphine)

The Crow

Lonely pines covered in snow
Tremble under moonlight’s glow
Anticipating high drama
As the wind doth blow

Singular black crow
Perched on branch below
Fluttering feathered wings
Although his movement slow

Taking to grey skies that grow
In solid winter’s throes
No screech of complaint
For gale or frozen woe