They were wide, dead and empty.
They were cry dry, vibrant green.
They were gin-soaked drunken
... sunken.
( Molly's eyes I mean ).
She was dead to dread and heartache.
She was numb and would succumb
to the whims of pimps and pushers
unaware that she'd become
a crack-whore-junkie-hooker.
Injected and infected.
Disrespected by her peers.
Forgotten
and neglected.

Denial keep her ticking
and substance killed disgust,
until sobriety raised it's rare seen head
and she decide that she must
destroy the rancid shell
that housed this saddened core
so she trod the road to the station
as she often had before.
But this time,
... this time was different.
There would be no going back.
No more hiding in a bottle,
or behind the coke and crack.

She leapt to death rejoicing.
She embraced it open armed
and she uttered a prayer for the others
that the city slums had harmed.
They found her corpse beside the tracks
eyes open, wide and dead.
Death by misadventure,
the coroner had said
and no one now would miss her
or notice that she'd gone,
tell stories of her past
and sing the song of swan
or tell how they were open wide
tear soaked vibrant green
and no longer cry dry hardened

( Molly's eyes I mean ).

A man came to the door today.
Long hair, blue eyes, six three.
He said he was in the area,
giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn,
... do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls
or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed,
where the tools and the mower were stored
and I noticed the scars on the palms of his hands
as he reached for the mower cord.

I said, "Are you who I think you are ?"
and he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret.
He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road
that he thought he was meant to take
but it left him open to ridicule
and taunts of FREAK and FAKE
then psychiatric analysis,
intravenous aid
and tests that just confirmed
the diagnosis that they'd made.

" They say I'm schizophrenic," he said
and I think they may be right
because now that I take the tablets
I no longer see the light,
feel the urge to help mankind
or foretell of it's demise.
I have no interest in God and his love
or the Devil's hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns
and fix things where I can.
I am not the son of God
I'm just an ordinary man.

It seems that modern medicine
has cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary
with it's sugar coated pills.
Cured him of his caring.
and his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles
of his obvious insanity.
But what if he was right ?
with no illness or affliction
and what if the healing,
was in fact ... a chemical crucifixion.

I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.

Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out

... and keep me in.

A birthday comes but once a year,

Thank God! I hear you mutter,

That circled day on the calendar

Sets your tiny heart a-flutter!

Your creaky joints are bothersome,

Your disco days no more,

It's comfy shoes for you, my friend

And the latest bunion cure!

Your wobbly bits shake without mercy,

Your sagging parts reach to the floor,

When it's bargain day at the co-op

You're the first one out of the door!

Your wrinkles just cannot be hidden,

Tight jeans have lost their appeal,

You find yourself gazing fondly

At 'one-sizers' designed to conceal!

Oh I wish I'd looked after my legs more

And worn my support tights with pride!

Forget the latest mini skirts,

Your varicose veins they won't hide!

The bubbly you now know is Steradent

To get those chompers clean,

And the closest you get to raunchy

Is a mug of Ovaltine!

Big pants can look rather snazzy

When worn with a vest of your choosing

And elastic waists are a God-send,

When your youthful, trim figure you're losing.

You cough and sneeze now with caution,

Those tell-tale leaks are a chore

As the latest incontinence catalogue

Drops with your post to the floor!

But life isn't all doom and gloom

There are plenty of good things in store,

Cheap haircuts, concessions, a bus pass

And winceyette nighties galore!

Enjoy your celebrations,

Forget those old-age fears,

Just light another candle,

A letter came from school today,

You know the one I mean,

"We've head lice in our school again,

Please check your child's head's clean."

The chemist sold us vile shampoo,

It smelled like neat Domestos,

"It's guaranteed to work!" he said,

"And never mind the hair loss!"

I parted the hair with caution,

To take a look within,

Did that move? Oh God, I hope not,

No, I think it's just dry skin!

The plastic combs are nifty

For checking pristine locks,

They also come in handy

For de-fuzzing winter socks.

"But, Mum, my head's all itchy,"

The plaintive cry is heard,

"No, it can't be, all those creatures

From your scalp I'm sure I'd lured."

Stop scratching, you're imagining

Things crawling down your neck.

Now I'm itching and your father

Has become a nervous wreck.

Sit still and let me take a look,

The comb slips through with ease,

We haven't had such problems

Since next door's dog had fleas.

I know you don't like plaits,

But it's on the list of "do's,"

And with ribbons and a slide or two,

You've nothing much to lose.

I hope the school appreciates

The trouble that I've taken,

To guarantee those nits and lice

My child's head have forsaken.

I've combed and searched, the job's complete,

We've all been disinfected,

And now my child can rest at ease

It doesn't matter how so plain
Or rough the crust may be,
The kernel is what truly counts
The part we cannot see.

A piece of land perceived as good
And ripe for human toil
May yet prove unproductive
Without the proper soil.

Can we appraise the sabre
While still within its sheath,
Or comprehend the ocean
Unless we look beneath?

The sights we often fail to see
And thoughtlessly pass by
May yet be those that satisfy
The palate, not the eye.

Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time
Must alter the shape of the outer shell
Of a body once vibrant and moulded so well!
Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,
Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,
Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,
Comes the chill-laden wintry spell
Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;
Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,
In the thickening fog of Nature's scheme,
Midst muffled sounds of distant strains,
Are earlier years that knew no fear
Of time and age; what now remains
Eternity must rightly redeem.

I hear the same old sound of people groaning,
The same old cries of cruel death and mourning,
All mingled with the sounds of joy and scorn,
Words of trust and hope for those forlorn.

I hear sweet words of unity and peace,
Voices of affliction and disease;
Wails of pain in genocidal wars,
Dismal echoes of enslaving laws,

Songs of faith, equality and love,
All well-embraced by Heaven high above;
I hear of better times with liberty,
Prosperity without disparity,

Mad terrorists uttering savage cries,
Committed to Democracy's demise.
Are these what life is really all about?
Oh, weary ear, and ever-restless mouth!

The fragile span of Memory's bridge,
Through Life's most unexpected phase,
In a bitter spell of mental chill
Soon disappears in swirls of haze,
The crossing between now and then
Being lost in Time's cerebral maze.

There loom the hunting fields or years,
No matter what the numbers be,
Across which stalks in silence grave,
Alzheimer, subtle, wild and free,
Cold and totally unsparing -
A terrible blight on Memory.

Alzheimer's clammy claws of pain
Reaches deeper through Life's core
While evening shadows creep into
Nights much darker than before,
As the ship of life is berthed safe
Along its one and only shore.

I'm on a dream bus cruising
Through highways of my mind -
Highways of my choosing,
So clearly well-defined,

Where scenes are so inviting -
Refreshing as I travel
With feeling so exciting,
While mysteries unravel.

Together with my kindred souls
I find much comfort musing;
Worthy sights my mind extols,
Thank Heaven I'm not losing!

Oh, like me the're many who
Take in sights appealing,
Traveling mentally right through
Highways of good feeling.

Where good fortune ever greets,
There certainly I'll be,
Exactly where Fulfilment meets
With stark Reality.