Rain of rain.

Spring fever,
Always leaves me,
Cut short,
And dust eyed.
Drowning it seems,
It heavy air.
Beauty blossoms,
And clogs my lungs.
Rain of rain,
Come down.
Curtain of mist,
Blanket the ground.
Like silk on a woman.
Mother nature,
Clothed in denser,
Colour.
Vivid plants, tress and mud.
All manor of small detail,
Brought to focus.
Changing layers,
Through down poured waters.
Gentle silk screen,
Vapour on my face.
Springtime blossoms,
Look randomly placed.
But, budding leaves,
And peaking flowers,
Bring a smile to my,
Drenched lips.
Rain of rain,

Come down.

Window blinds.

Blinding light.
Window blinds.
Grey and white.
Definite verticals,
On an unknown plane.
A striking resemblance,
To the outside sprawl.
Urban decay.
Fallen walls,
Solid and unchanging.
The future pushes on.
Bold striking stripes.
Black, grey and white.

Like a fire in a forest.

A sadness surrounds me,
Like a fire in a forest.
Tearing through dry,
And brittle wood.
A tangled mess of love,
And loss.
My skin is burnt.
This will leave a scar,
No matter how visible.
A charred patch.
An addition to,
Previous stains,
Will always be,
A part of me.
So be it.

capitalist/incentive/whimsicality/fair

I think that I might start selling my poems. Pretty capitalist of me you might say. Well, I shall blog them too, so you do not have to pay, but I shall also add incentive.
Incentive you cry? Yes. It shall take form in pamphlet shape. I shall produce a leaflet of poetry and illustration and perhaps photography work too. All for a minimal fee. Perhaps £1.50 plus p&p. Is that too much?
Well now, this shall be fun.
One periodical of whimsicality, nonsense and scribbles for the masses. Each month I shall add the poems from the previous month. This seems fair.
I think it is a wonderful idea.

Richard.
x

Goodbye Springtime Island.

Goodbye springtime island.
Your sun and chill,
Was bliss,
For a while.
But now I return,
Reluctantly,
To monotony,
To forced smiles,
And an office crowd.

Oh, Airport Lounge.

Oh, airport lounge.
You’re making me frown,
Bitter and sweet.
Orange juice and coffee.
Preying on my last,
Shred of sanity.
Abusing my wallet.
Oh, airport lounge.
Bright white,
And clinically clean.
I am always seen.
Big Brothers friend,
D-503,
Keeping me company.
Security cameras overlook me,
As I write.
So, my glass eyed voyeur,
If you read this,
Go away.

*sigh*

I have nothing to say at the moment.
I believe this is called 'writers block', I call it 'Exasperating Insanity'.
However, I will say this; Variations of Static by Ólafur Arnalds is an incredibly beautiful ep. Especially the last track Himininn er að hrynja, en stjörnurnar fara þér vel.
Pretty much, it sums up how I feel at this juncture.
www.myspace.com/olafurarnalds

the land of fire and ice.

Reading through this again I have realised how much of a negative picture I have painted of Iceland. It is bad here, but I don't think they are loosing as bad as I have suggested. Things are bad here, and it is astonishing to see how the financial crisis has hit this country and pulled it to pieces. However, I have furlongs of admiration and respect for the attitude of the people. I would not be at all surprised if by the end,  they come out on top. I hope this is so. As ever, time will tell.

Richard x  

This town is dying.

Nobody is sure what to do.

Or how to fix the problems.

how to carry on.

And so,

This town is decaying.

Falling apart,

From the inside out.

Sad and sorrowful.

Paint chipped and derelict.

Rusted and weather beaten.

Heroic in its fall.

Victorious,

In its lack,

Of giving up.

And who can blame that?

That admirable last gesture.

That which humanity is built upon.

Struggling through,

Hard times,

With your head,

Held up high.

A beacon to fellow man.

"Come follow me",

They say.

"Do Not Sink,

With your head under water,

Sucking in death,

Through sodden speech,

And ill placed worry",

Needless and painful,

It is diseased,

And it is fighting,

Do they have any other choice?

I do not know.

But they are here,

And they continue to be here.

As victory falls through,

Their fingers.

Slipping like sand,

In an hour glass.

They smile upon black angels,

Cursing the scythes,

Of dark purpose.

Humanity at its strongest,

When it is weak,

And futile.

The land of fire,

And of ice,

Speaks to us.

An example, 

Of hope.

Found in a dark hour.

magpie

Magpie sitting upon,

A twisted tree.

Tail feathers,

Wagging at me.

Black contrast,

Against the morning sky.

Blue shimmering,

down side feather,

Catch my eye.

White tarnished glasses,

Mildewed and worn.

Natural ladder,

The bird in the tree.

Awakens the smell,

Of spring in me.

bike

The gentle clunk of gears,
Brings me joy.
Winding tight,
A spring in my tired legs.
Speeding down,
Through a mild spring morning,
finding nothing,
so instantly enthralling.
The moments of time,
Slips past,
As the wind,
Trips through my hair.
On a bike,
I have no care.
Its whimsicality,
Is a familiarity.
Such is the nature,
Of a flippant cad.
But I am glad,
Glad to be on my bike,
On this morning,
Bathed in this low sun.
The hint of newly open flowers,
Fills the air,
And my lungs.
This bike makes me breathe,
It makes me alive.

I don’t want your sympathy, I just want everything to be ok

It has been a little while, but here we go. more saddness for you;

I don’t want your sympathy,

I just want everything to be ok.

But it’s not.

And I don’t see how,

It can be.

So what the fuck should I do?

My skeleton is clawing,

At my flesh.

Talons revealed,

Scratching with flashing ferocity.

My soul is disgusted,

By this pathetic body.

Turned away,

And with averted eye.

Ignoring the hideous wreck,

Of a former man.

Crawling through glass and nails,

Toward a solid wall.

What escape can there be?

I do not see,

Past the misery.

Past the pain of feeling,

From this awareness,

Of insecurity.

Like a whip crack in the night.

I awake in a sweat.

Shaking and scared.

Not of my death,

Fearful of this life.

No relief in this mind.

No relief in this head.

Just emptiness,

And a little withered plant.

Dried up and crying out,

For the rain to come.

So, let the flood barriers,

Age and crack,

And pour down my spine,

Into every heavy limb.

Lank arms and legs,

Dragged forth from a hellish bed.

And in this nourished theft,

I could revitalise,

My roots, perhaps?

Perhaps not?

I don’t want your sympathy,

I just want everything to be ok.

Tell me how I can win?

Tell me to cheat,

And I will.

I need to be ok now,

And I need to be still.

Pamphleteer

'Pamphleteer' by John K. Samson
I'm standing on this corner.

Can't get their attention.

Facing rush hour faces turned around.

I clutch my stack of paper, press one to a chest,

then watch it swoop and stutter to the ground.

I'm weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight,

and waiting for a winter to be done.

Why do I still see you in every mirrored window,

in all that I could never overcome?

How I don't know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you.

How you don't know where you should look, so you look at my hands.

How movements rise and then dissolve,

melted by our shallow breath.

How causes dance away from me.

I am your pamphleteer.

I walk this room in time to the beat of the Gestetner,

contemplate my next communiqué.

The rhetoric and treason of saying that I'll miss you.

Of saying "Hey, well maybe you should stay."

Sing "Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one"

like me remembering the way it could have been.

Help me with this barricade.

No surrender. No defeat.

A spectre's haunting Albert Street.

I am your pamphleteer.

stop the clocks.

I think everyone knows of this poem. No doubt because of Four Weddings & A Funeral.
But still....

‘Stop The Clocks’ by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He Is Dead’,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

There's a reason

'There’s a reason' by A A Bondy
And I gave my hand to the fates

And they took me around

They showed me the seven wonders

The sights and the sounds

There was a man with cinders for eyes

There was a girl with a dress made of flies

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that turns them around

Say it is so

And the ballroom is filled with the joy

Of making old friends

And jukebox girls trip the light

They wiggle and they bend

Blind Joe, he's feeling no pain

Sweet Georgia, she dreams of the rain

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that will turn them around

Say it is so

When the moon follows you where you go

And you cannot hide

And when voices of doom ring your ears

And horsemen do ride

May tomorrow the land be anew

May every bird sing unto you

That's the reason

That's the reason

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

Say it is so

Are you drinking?

‘Are You Drinking?’ by Charles Bukowski
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life,

the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.

Messes of Men.

'Messes of Men' by Aaron Weiss.
"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

Sailing in our separate ships and from each tiny caravel.

Tiring of trying, there's an unnecessary dying,

like the horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell.

Such distance from our friends,

like a scratch across the lens,

made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood.

And our paper blew away before we'd left the bay.

So half-blind, we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood.

Caught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,

and heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.

I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,

It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters.

The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves,

as there are mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun.

The cloth low on the mast, I say I got no past;

I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

The tarnish on my brass, the mildew on my glass-

I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me.

But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure,

and I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be!

I still tastes its kiss, that dull hook in my lip

is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel.

To an anchor ever dropped, sea-sick yet still docked,

Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel.

Floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong,

we keep our confessions long, but when we pray we keep it short.

I drank a thimble full of fire,

I'm not ever coming back...

Oh, my God.

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

while watching sink the heavy ship with everything we knew.

And if ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror.

Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!

Everybody Tells Me Everything

'Everybody Tells Me Everything' by Ogden Nash

I find it very difficult to enthuse

Over the current news.

Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens, And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Not a poem, a statement.

I am going to go away from this blog for a while.
I need to collect my thoughts and cease posting mediocre writings which I am not all too happy with.
When I have something more tangible and virtuous and worthwhile, then I shall return and pin it up with all the other rubbish.
Thanks.

Richard
x

p.s I have had a thought. I shall post poems by other people for a while. At least this way my 6 disciples shall receive some poetic nourishment and I will have something to do whilst I am work.

Love.

I want to write about love.
I have no idea,
Where to begin.
I will say just this;
Love: everything poetic is within.

Do I give in?

This is really terrible but i feel i should post something today and it's all i have.
sorry.

Do I give in?
Do I give up?
Do I carry on,
Feeling so stuck?
So lost and so blind,
No pathway I find.
Just brambles and confusion,
And hopeless reminders.
I have no reasons,
And have no help.
I am alone,
I am adrift,
I am churned to a pulp.
Self pity,
Right now,
Is all I know.
And when we’re scared,
We cling to familiar things.
So right now I’m stuck,
I’m lost in the dark.
I am naked and cold,
And have no spark,
Of warmth in my heart.
Just an empty dead space,
And a longing for sun.
I am lost and alone,
I am no one.

The smell of cinnamon and winter sun.

The smell of cinnamon
And winter sun,
Reading about a writer,
Who likes to run.
Stretched out on a soft single bed,
With a book and tea,
Or a beer instead.
No happier place for me,
That’s for sure.
I am relaxing and enjoying,
The frivolity I implore.
Alone for now,
With peace of mind.
Calm sensation,
And serenely blind.

Rank red monster and a green eyed sign.

" Be young and shut up"

A red monster
Rank with rust
Rumbles by.
I sit on a low wall
And wonder why.
Afternoon traffic
Frantic and erratic
Ignores me.
A green eyed billboard
Thirsty with provocation
Notices my position
And declares
“560 New Houses!
4.5 Acres of Garden!”
‘At least this land,
Is condemned’
I think.
Sinking before it even set sail.

Natural scenery.

These pins on my arms,

Stretch toward my bag.

Reaching like crooked branches,

On a naked tree.

Brown leather bag,

Lit white,

By the cloud strewn sky.

The void on high.

An emptiness,

Drenched in winter white,

And deep hazel haze.

My limbs ache,

And creak,

With fatigue,

And want.

My body is screaming for you.

Natural scenery is aged.

It is tired,

And leathered.

It cannot wait much more,

These trials,

Are endeavours.

Birds are brackets.

(Untitiled 27 has morphed into this new body of words. More limbs to come no doubt)

Birds are brackets.
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.
Signals and codes,
Are misunderstood,
By my untrained eye.

Untitled 27.

Birds are brackets,
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.

Office women.

I feel frustrated,
By the whining people,
In my office.
The overpowering squeal,
Of argumentative women.
They spew forth their spiel,
And they say nothing of worth.
It is gut wrenching,
Ear piercing,
Unnecessary.
Their words stab through,
This office space.
They are daggers to the heart,
Of my morale.
So, I feel frustrated.
I am irritated by disturbance.
By the ringing screams,
Of banshees,
In my head.
The little calm I have,
From an earpiece,
Blocks out some of this rabble.
Some of this racket is foiled.
But, I am discouraged.

The rain is here the snow is gone.

Lungs flipped upside-down,
Sway in a gentle storm.
Their Veins silhouetted,
Against Victorian sky.
Black white birds,
Swim through the clouds.
They dive in out of weed,
And grass.
Dipping toward lakes,
And colliding with the ground,
All muddy and wasted with water.
The rain is here,
The snow is gone.

People seem to think they can resolve my problems.

People seem to think,
They can resolve my problems.
Why do they not understand?
These are my problems.
No theirs,
Not any ones,
But mine.
In time,
I might get a grip,
On the situation.
I might clasp my fingers,
Around a good solution.
For now,
However,
I don’t have a clue.
And you,
Keep trying to help.
I want to be alone.
I push people away,
And they come back stronger.
Why don’t they keep out?
Keep their big noses out?
No longer!
I want no more of this.
I bid it to end!
But hope is not my friend.

all the birds that watch the snow

All the birds,
That watch the snow.
Sat atop frozen,
Cotton draped trees,
Watching ice flutter down,
In spirals and swirls.
The stone white sky,
Shudders gently.
Petals of snow,
Collide wildly,
With one another.
Miniature outbursts,
Of blizzard are familiar.
This snow is coming down,
It is laying blankets,
Across the ground,
And I frown.
I am alone today.
Alone in my house,
With but warmth for a friend.

nothing...

...but this

golden bliss.

The sweetest drink,
To touch my lips.
A gentle trickle,
Of bliss.
An endless hour,
Goes ticking past.
A nectar ale kiss.
A loving cup,
A golden mead.
A hour gone,
An hour I need.
Time to me,
Is an old wrist watch.
Battered and worthless,
Upon a wrist.
A gentle ticking,
Of golden bliss.

Frozen Rock

Give me an iceberg,
So I can point out,
One tenth of my problems.
So you can sit,
And figure out,
What it is that bobs,
Up and down.
Issues are yo-yos,
And solutions don’t come.
Sunlight is the answer,
And warmth would help.
That could melt this cold harsh mess.
But it is almost night,
And dusk makes,
A fool out of me.
Constantly mocking,
And heckling.
And at the end of the day,
When my problems,
Are melted away,
And the sea has risen…
Will it be my fault,
There are homeless and dead?
My selfish fault.
I have guilt,
And plenty reason for it too.
I’d do better to bottle it up.
To put a stopper in death,
And destruction,
And have hope.
Hope I can ignore this frozen rock,
Before it crashes into me once more,
And drags me deep down,
To the sea floor.

my empty head

My empty head,
Sits upon my shoulders.
Portals look out,
And survey surroundings,
Which are bathed,
In light and dark.
Sacks of meat,
Hang twisted,
Painted grey and blue.
Dull thump and a sharp pain,
Is not uncommon.
My empty head,
Is isolated,
Upon my shoulders.
It sees nothing of worth.
The eyes are a gateway,
And they lead to a cave.
Damp and cold,
In my empty head.
Aged and worn,
And lonely,
In my blank and empty head.

Intellect is little more than tiny rocks.

Intellect is little more,
Than tiny rocks.
We collect them in our shoes,
We remove them when,
We find them unfit.
We pick and choose,
Our knowledge is groomed.
It is biased,
And it is ugly.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
We all fall into that trap,
But perhaps that is the point?

Panda eyed.

Punched out panda eyes,
Like planets with dark rings.
They show the signs of age,
And they show the time of day.
Bright sun makes me squint,
And I feel on edge.
Rest would be welcome,
But at no point exists.
Awake and weary,
These eyes are blurry.
Rain rides down my face.
A gentle splash,
Of salt water on skin,
And I’m home again.
Home in a loose sense,
Riddled with meaning,
And metaphor.
A home I abhor.
A home for torment,
And a home for regrets.
A home for my natural shape.
Panda eyes,
No surprise.
When I burn the candle,
At each end.
An effigy to you and me,
A dummy of my core.
Panda eyed,
And howling blind.
I want sleep once more.

room.

Dark grey light,
Spread thin,
Throughout this room.
A green so final,
It ceases at the threshold.
Limited time,
Jeers at me.
Its teeth are bare and gritted.
Empty spaces,
Seem lonely.
But clutter is not welcome.
Middle ground is hard to find.
The contrast is striking,
And infinite.
Negativity Is passed unto me.
A positive is lacking,
But hardly misplaced.

Enter firefly.

i think this is a bit rubbish, however...

Bright in the night.
Little light.
Flitter of flight.
Duck and dive,
Through soot black space.
Round dark doorways,
With enchanted pace.
Enter firefly,
Light my way.

Knowledge is a withered man.

So, enters a man,
Old and callus,
To withered to work,
But wise beyond words.
The man leaves,
Stench tails him,
Mould rises as his feet,
Leave the floor.
He is dust.
Wisdom is with you,
But only for so long,
Before it becomes old,
And used.
Second hand information,
Is infested.
Knowledge and death,
Ride hand in hand,
They are sand,
And pass through your fingers,
Fleeting, unobtainable, remote.

My life as a spec of sand.

Untold.
My life story.
But then,
Why would it be told?
Who am i?
I am nobody.
But then,
We are all somebody.
To someone,
Or something.
We are all,
Grains of sand,
On a beach.
Some in the sun,
Some in the dunes.
But we are all there.
All of sand,
For all of time.
Who are we?
We are the rocks,
Which make up the earth.
We are the dirt,
Beneath Gods nails.
We are his cultivation.
Some is swept up,
By wind,
And carried like a sail,
Over our heads.
They land on pastures green,
Or they land in the sea.
Change is common place,
But it doesn’t happen to me.

i am alone

I am alone.
Alone for all time.
Alone with my thoughts,
And my expectations.
I sit and I stay.
Stay for all time.
Stay with my thoughts,
And my expectations.
I am away.
Away from time.
Away with my ideas,
And infatuations.
I am riddled,
With the imprint,
Of crooked teeth,
From grinning clowns.
I alone,
Know the route,
Of the problem.
But I ignore it.
Ignorance is bliss.
Bliss is expected.
It is in my thoughts,
My ideas,
My infatuations.

Hiccups, monster, mole, queen, raisin.

A green grassy meadow,
Hiccups dirt and rocks.
Monster claws scratch,
Through the ground.
Raisin eyes gleam blind.
Queen mole has come,
To gaze at the stars.
But, daylight prevails,
And she returns to the underground,
Leaving a mountain in the wake.

ten

Turn back time,
Till you were ten,
Away and free,
And happier then.
No struggle,
No worry,
Just innocence,
And fun.
Not now my dear,
Not now I fear.

Leap onward,
Till now,
I am 24.
I have not a lot.
I don’t expect much more.
I have worry,
And struggle.
I care less and less.
I am lost at sea.
I digress.

If life is a roller coaster then what part am i?

If life is a roller coaster,
Then what part am i?
If the rails are wooden,
And crumbling with age,
Will I die quickly?
Or will I not cease,
Until the cart stops?
And does my soul ride,
In my body?
And get off,
As the next life gets in?
And do birds fly past,
And shit on me?
And does the sun beat down?
Am I by the sea?
Does the wind blow around?
And the rains drench my bar?
And what if I jump from this car?
Life has its ups and it downs.
On a ride it is reversed.
The down the fun part,
The up is boring.
The anticipation of a drop,
Is more invigorating.
How can life be like a roller coaster?
I think it is not.

The only gage I know

My body is water!

My eyes are half filled,

With an ocean.

It rages and it fights,

With my skull.

It sinks through a plug hole.

It spirals down my spine.

The icy shadows of my spirit,

Are drenched,

And cleansed.

It spreads to my feet.

It settles.

My fingers tingle,

As a chill wind,

Brushes past them.

This is how i know,

I am alive.

Discomfort is the only real measure.

The only gage I know.

bats

Dead leaves hang shrivelled on sticks.
The bats on the trees,
And the sky is a cave roof,
Reflecting light not dark.
One by one these tiny beasts fall to their peril,
Where fun can be had.
Small children openly kick,
And shuffle through their funeral pyres.
Adults, during unseen hours do the same.
Autumn is a time for sleep.
We await the winter.
Where we rest,
Until spring.
When maggots creep from woodwork,
Then bloom in an array of colour and beauty.
The bats will return,
Only to die again.

this is our time!!

The sky between my eyes,

Fades between light and dark,

Cloud and smoke whirls,

In tornado patterns.

The sun appears,

In the gaps the mist creates.

It stretches golden fingers,

Across your body.

Taking time to glide,

Down mountains and valleys,

A spark ignites a gentle fire,

This soon becomes,

Burning desire.

The tender hum of your lips,

And a purr from your mouth.

Haze spreads over the giver,

And I receive the moon.

Its crooked smile reels me in.

A cloak is spread across the ground,

Enveloping all land and sea.

The darkness is thick,

But we know we’re here.

This is our time!

I am a still-life

Lights waltz with ripples,
On the surface of the glass.
The ghosts ascend,
Stretching thin fingers,
To an empty grasp.
Five lights ahead,
Illuminate the boatman.
His lantern embers burn bright,
In the dim light.
Hi crook falls,
Burning to the floor.
The water,
Now unmoving,
Hides my body.
I am a still-life,
Frozen and immortal in a hot bath.
Violins screech in the distance.
As music plays on,
It builds with dramatic cry.
I hear the music,
I slow down.
And I melt into a void,
Within myself.

my eyes.

I think my eyes might fall out their sockets,
They are the leaves on a dying tree,
They are the gateways to my soul,
But, they no longer see.
They are limp and lifeless,
They are the willows branch,
My eyes are tired and restless,
They are in a trance.

Sweep me off my feet

Sweep me off my feet,
What a gentle wind.
You play in my hair,
And rouge my cheeks.
I float and drop,
To my surprise I don’t land,
Swept off my feet,
I don’t understand.
Caught in a twirl,
A spiralling mess.
I might sit and lay,
But I do not rest.
Sweep me of my feet.

peace

Silence,
Peace,
Come to me,
Please.
Over the coming days,
Walk by my side.
At night time,
Lay your kisses on me.
And when I sigh,
Rest and hand on my shoulder,
And tell me,
‘You’ll be ok’
‘You know you’ll be ok’
Peace,
I need you now,
I need your warmth,
I need silence,
I need peace.

the time is now

i found this old one....

The time is now; anyhow, my face is changed.
Your dress is nice, by candle light, you dance.
If I get a chance, I’ll kiss you, but first leave.
And so we move and we move, through the busting streets,
Down a covered path, it makes me laugh.
When you trip, with such heals, reveal.
No real skill in walking yet.
We arrive, right on time, dead on nine.
My drink in your hand, and then on the ground.
Your smile fades and mine turns round.
To my joy, your ply, comes kissing over me.
I’m happiest you see.
“this was never meant to be”

friendly fires - paris...

there is a better video for the tune. however, this version has a far better audio quality.
so....