I’m not at all sure if the blue of the smoke
is a trick of my eye or what causes you choke.
Is the plume ringing upward as sad as I am?

This faggot knows nothing, not even it burns,
but you’re full aware it’s your life that it spurns.
It’s your flaming ember you’ve chosen to damn.

One day this fool habit will take all of you
and leave me here thinking that I made it blue.
All meaningless fault I shall lay at my feet.

At last the tires stop their crunching.For I have now reached the final end of this long gravel road.
And the beginning of the journey's destination.
The engine dies and I step stiffly out
groaning at flexing old legs
and inhale cool air untainted by man.

Autumn leaves
floating colours
winter creeps.

The swarming crowd
teeming larger than life,
descends into your molecular life
with singular strife, a bugle and a fife.

Now, in the jungle of your bungle,
you bang your drum slowly with
all that is holy and still you can't
get that secular design out of your
prehistoric mind. You learn to walk
on your own two misanthropic feet,
though your knuckles bleed and you never
run out of things to say, this way and
that, at a drop of a hat in a magician's empty act.