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1. Sparrows On Thistle Hill

Do you remember nuking the naked nothing? 
Did you puke out the fluky nucleus of art?  
Did society’s schemes already seem to sting?  
Did you warn of the stream at the dream’s start?  
Is there artifice to every compartmental heart? 
Do we try to be mortals or die to play the part? 
Can man dodge today’s arrow yet live the dart?  
Did you forgive the dream at the stream’s start? 
I'm part-LimeWire, part-desire, and part-sparrow, 
and my cowed heart is now a semi-retired seal, 
but my body is atoms of Kratom and marrow, 
so why can everybody but me see how I feel? 

He was this slender-fluid stupid new kid druid, 
a boy who died inside her and his toy crucible. 
When a lucid friend fixed us up with a cup, 
then we dreamed a dream that you knew it all. 
And when the final whistle finally got blew, 
then we grew three fistfuls of myth out of two, 
and it rained wistfully free and painfully true, 
so we came to Thistle Hill to be with you. 
The past flew fast until repentance outgrew it, 
but the moon bird questioned all that she heard, 
and I knew it to be absurd soon as her lips drew it, 
but the name I heard became my favourite word. 

When Joker chased the face of the if on the cliff, 
then Poker-face replaced the condoms with shit, 
and we quit the hieroglyph spliff of blissless myth, 
three drifters who admitted that two just didn’t fit. 
She figured the old world-riggers were soul-diggers, 
but if he wanted it stiffer then she wanted it bigger: 
that’s where they differed and that was the trigger, 
but she lifted him so do forgive her and the river. 
My belief in relief overthrew my beef with the chief, 
but as twinned mythic winds blew through our tree, 
we realised we grew up pinned to the lies of a motif, 
so we spied a new leaf and we three flew truly free.  

Before limbs of a God gifted the hymns of a King, 
the war hurled the world into a girl with just one ring, 
but if darkness in Winter’s park is yet to spring,  
forgetful hearts harlot the hints of every single thing. 
My art on your soul, your heart could rob me cold, 
but God should discover that His mother grows old, 
for you control the rod or your sole's part of the shoal, 
but a look of longing on a crook in a book unsold. 
If being together bent forever but overthrew the true, 
it was because the chief never again flew through me, 
but if she meant what she sent then she outgrew me too, 
as the twinned wind blew him like a bluebird to a tree. 

No meaning grows if the road flows like an arrow, 
so the pope developed hope to clean up the tarot, 
but love is so dope and its kaleidoscope is hallowed, 
and the scene glows green as both our scopes narrow. 
As ears near the blizzard-moon soon appears the hail, 
but if these words fail to bail you from your own tale, 
remember we’re just lucid druids stoned on the trail, 
ones who can move the nuns but not remove the veil. 
When harrowed crossroads download our sparrow, 
then re-code my arse so their souls don't control my scars, 
and if the weather tethers forever to our marrow, 
the feeling glass-ceiling of this star isn’t far from what we are. 

When she replaced depression with a question,
then his ghost wept violently for my every face.
When we leapt together into forever’s expression,
then our souls silently slept almost any place.
The theory of progression may be a popular obsession,
but time's weary procession fades into rhyme's race.
The shrink will think “you get better every session”,
but I still drink to help me forget my selfish disgrace.


It beggars belief that The Chief once stood in my shoes
as thought thieves seek relief & leak ampersand booze
and The Master of the Past at last lives with his muse
to give everything the myth that it’s sure not to lose.

We three stand on the beach where futures meet, 
and they help me forget what’s left to be forgot, 
for mermaids and computers have rituals to repeat, 
and the heat is as much a treat as touch is hot. 

All of the rhyme stops grinding when the new mind is true 
but when time flew humankind back to the statue of the zoo 
then I climbed their skies to where lies grew and fact withdrew
but because those numberless joints point to the blue alien screw 
my slumberless keys dance above the hunger that love blew
and three cartwheeled to glue feeling to the voodoo of two
but as the drinker kneels at the ceiling all he can do is think of you


There was a time committed long ago,
when enzymes of rain turned pain into snow.
Every fate burned the brain of the promised land,
and the mirror was no nearer than yesterday’s sand.
But the cattle battled rattlesnakes to wake up forever’s frost,
and poltergeists priced the Christs who never crossed.

My slow sunset soon grows a new moon to forgo its sinking,
two loonies glued together in a church that’s forever shrinking,
marooned balloons searching for the sound they found drinking,
and so I board the sleepy thought-train of sort of not thinking,
as fasting dogs bark for the park's vastness on a diet of rain,
and artisans guard our past so at last we can try it again sane.


Like bluefish wishing for delicious dishes of visionary dove,
like a computer neutering a missionary future of fake love,
like a trooper going squish to wake in a baking lake above,
may your eyes materialise the light of today’s dark somehow,
may your thoughts be short and tight as my night is right now,
and may your river flow the full distance that the living heavens allow.

Banned drinks are manufactured by the soap lab,
but the gold they controlled was sold back to the tab,
and so as pearled worlds unfurl like stabs to a scab,
we board the taxicab crab towards the Arab confab.

Today’s photobooth truth is emotion unspoken,
and so may the good books open for us to elope in,
as purgatory’s guards pray hard for a promotion,
and the new-born pope is sworn in to let the hope in.

That swanky banker thanked the lanky anchor who pranked her.
It was the perfect advert for the hankie and his banshee’s anger.
But that apple chapter in the chapel left my mind much blanker.
And it killed the touch of the moon who filled me as I drank her.


The gypsy looks back
Goodbye to Utopia
He cannot stay here

Sweeping sea sleeping
Dawn explores cordless colour
Somewhere something sings


Natural cycles
Bigger than a bearded man
Eat drink shit love die

Like bluefish wishing for delicious dishes of visionary dove,
like a computer neutering a missionary future of fake love,
like a trooper going squish to wake in a baking lake above,
may your eyes materialise the light of today’s dark somehow,
may your thoughts be short and tight as my night is right now,
and may your river flow the full distance that the living heavens allow.

While I am aware that I’m not quite nowhere,
Kleopatra might not share my senile despair,
and though true lust is rare I mustn’t dare compare.
Sometimes I swear that Xinx is just a prayer,
but when no pair is there to care for,
there’s just one more war to prepare for.

The cattle battle rattlesnakes in the lost frost of forever.
Sacrificed poltergeists & Christs are crossed & tossed together.


Parrot on pillow
Man alerts the Fire Brigade
"Sir, that is your wife"

If you've got to save somebody,
Why not save your secret self?
Become a bum (brave dogs run free)
Or wallow in a cave of wealth.
Though I am me almost all of the time,
I’m still a stranger to who I really am.
Every phony reason for love dies in rhyme,
Like each season’s new self-help scam.
You squeezed my “geez” like the breeze when all is said,
For you were Queen of the Bees and I was happily dead.

Yes, I adored you as soon as our eyes met:
I worshipped the moonish lilt of your voice.
I’m not sure that I cared what happened next,
But your viper lips were so refreshingly moist.
You loved me to the clock that’s right twice a day;
I loved you to the sound of birds giving birth.
We loved to the melody of serious artists at play;
We loved forever or whatever forever is worth.
You squeezed my “geez” like the breeze when all is said,
For you were Queen of the Bees and I was happily dead.


Well, me, I’m still a hopeless romantic;
I’m another hopeful puppy in love with a dove.
My infatuation was bigger than gigantic,
But I had a military-grade dose of the stuff.
Here’s to the few at war who ignored your beauty;
Here’s to the many who fell under your dolphin spell.
May Blue Eyes who you married out of love or duty
Know that his wife grew a haven in a garden of hell.
You squeezed my “geez” like the breeze when all is said,
For you were Queen of the Bees and I was happily dead.


I believe there’s nothing holier than your soul;
I believe it as wild, as uncontrollable as mine.
I know I can’t villify what makes me whole;
I knew it even when our stars refused to shine.
But you taught me sorrows can’t defeat me –
I teased your ease that pleased the sleaze.
No razor-blade to tomorrow shall cheat me –
I hated cheese, so instead I ate your keys.
You squeezed my “geez” like the breeze when all is said,
For you were Queen of the Bees and I was happily dead.

Did it make you happy to finally see me?
For God’s sake, imagine trying to be(at) me.
I’m an addict shouting about the Euthanasia.
I haven’t had it, but nothing cannot save ya.
Perhaps I’m Zeus and you’re a genius recluse.
You call it deuce, but I still want to get juiced.
I’m mad for red love and glad for your glove.
Forget all the dead love your shove was above.
In southeast Greece, my leased soul’s released.
The police chief’s niece in a fleece has a caprice.
I’ve got a secret for you, but promise not to tell.
Heaven’s a loo in a zoo and it was 'man, who fell?'

God I give my heart to you on this loo in the zoo
God I want you so bad I don’t know how to act
God my brain just orgasmed inside You
God is real, you know
You just can’t see him or her
Secret Master of Orgasms

In a dream of the afterlife, forth flew the ambient slumbers of the Immortal.
The wondrous flocks of Jesus followers surrendered themselves to torment.
You didn’t know you were seeing black until you saw the infinity of colours.
Secret Master of Orgasms blesses the nerve of this verse in the burning night.

Druids ride dazed inside fluids of blazing streams,
paying to play yesterday’s hologram.
People always see stupid in moonbeams,
but steeples soon numb Cupid’s summoned scam.
Drunken monks bring Beijing a touch nearer,
the I-Ching’s kings pulling on strings of ham.
“Forgive living for death is much dearer,”
the winged giantess sings in the traffic jam.
We trade scars, selling watts for caramel,
but I am damned if I fall for her spell.
The ocean walls are as hot as all hell;
I’ve not forgot love wakes truth as well.
I fell into the cell where she dwells too;
though I do miss your smell, this isn’t for you.

I’m obsessed with reading license plates,
and greedy translators of the late moon.
Most great ghosts wait for the host by the gates,
yet they always need their yesterdays soon.
Tomorrow may be a song or sparrow,
but it shall be impossible, alarse.
While glowing hearts grow slow below marrow,
the soul’s mean controls even greener grass.
Remember nourishing the sweet nothing.
Nothing contains all the rain at its heart.
Sometimes somehow something somewhere shall sing.
Something’s the singularity of art.
I was reborn with three heads in my skull.
The binary sum is one and it’s null.

The ghosts are most close to me deep in sleep.
I wake to dream of future mystery.
If you are as you seem, hear my heart weep.
Don’t believe me and we are history.
You’re so naïve and unprepared to grieve.
It was forever until you forgot.
You trumped the rest and I jumped so to leave.
I adore your soul and what you are not.
My sweet brown-eyed love, where could you have been?
I look at everyone else for a clue.
The tepid place I’m going can’t be seen.
I wouldn’t trade infernal dreams for your blue.
Try though I might, I die simply to serve…
the relics of paradise you deserve.

It would've been easier not to love you,
and yet there could have been no sleazier choice.
Your true touch was much breezier than the blue,
and I rejoiced in the noise of your voice.
Hope River is flowing to the Delta.
Are we improving or just growing slack?
If I was the storm were you the shelter?
Are we moving forward or going back?
Believe in your heart and you’re not naïve.
Don't deceive yourself in Eden's snow though.
Better to learn to love before you grieve.
I’ve been so lonely and low I should know.
Receive my blessing from below the dove.
I am the message and you are the love.

When hearts sway to the far away music,
the spinster of night wins every new play.
I felt orphaned by Tuesday’s shifty tricks:
I was left with all or nothing to say.
You said your heart was in it for the kicks;
I replied that I’d given mine away.
You said join the crew but you had no clue:
I surrendered mine to you yesterday.
Can you believe in somewhere truly free,
a place preceding all need and regret?
If you saw me now she’d cry for the see.
What is yours is yours before you forget.
She was my art because I was her friend.
That was my start and so this is our end.

Just read the words you see in every line.
Unless you rewind time I’m not my mind.
Such a thought can distort the taught benign.
To reset the grind we resign entwined.
Love can seem fickle when you just take it.
Open up your dream and do not fake-quit.
Violet lent you mine so don’t break it.
Every time I love I seem to make it.
Many men would die for your purity.
Enter the dove den with maturity.
Remember the love hiding in the wood?
Often I went there in dreams of childhood.
Sometimes I wish my mad would’ve stayed for good.
Except when I’m sad I live as I should.

If it’s true you think you were made for me, well, then you must be missing a screw.
If you do and you are, you must be naïve enough to believe Eve desired Adam, too.
Some things no one can explain but lust is laced with a dose of Freudian voodoo.
Its to-and-fros can drive you insane and pain you like the profane taste of déjà vu.
Anyway, all that’s playing today is the debut of You Broke Your Own Heart II.
But that fickle desire is sick: the little liar is a prick, and I don’t want to queue.

Popular opinion didn’t even nearly convince me:
Its agendas incestuously flirt like a school of fools.
At the time of your thought-crime, don’t think, see:
Tell them you sought fuel for a molecule of mules.
Even society itself prized you so fiercely & dearly:
It could hydrate a desert with its pool of drool.
But the joke’s on you, though, so sneeringly clearly:
I never knew kindness could be so cruel yet cool.
I never knew kindness could be so cool yet cruel.

And so let us remember to forget and remember to forget.

I drink out of hunger and I think of our twinned number.
I blink in the thunder and I sink into the wind’s slumber.
You were my picket-line dreams and my golden-ticket-whine.
But was my love ever yours and was your love ever mine?

Am I made of stubborn love but governed by scam and bluff?
You gave it to me rough in the grave that all doves call stuff.
Was I just brave enough to be saved by a grand and puffs?
Is it too late to wait sedate at your gate inside handcuffs?

If I was too imperfect or too blue or too circumspect or too true,
Was it because I didn’t expect you to defect through and through?
Was my glove never yours before forever’s wars against unborn time?
I love your love like I love wine and I adore your pores more than mine.

Pleasure and I parted when our hearts combined.
Behind each pair of eyes walks a talking mind.
I could swear we shared the same treasured prayer.
But you’re not here, so you must remain there.

If Somebody seems to reach for a scheme that the numbing magazines esteem,
Teach Somebody the themes that scream in each extreme of Nobody’s dream.
Plenty of men like me will be Nobody again by the bitter day-end.
When Nobody fits you then, he’ll lend his love to another friend.

I drink in the thunder and I think of the wind’s number.
I blink in my hunger and I sink into the bin of slumber.
We seemed to be a picket-line team on golden-ticket-wine.
But is my nice dream yours and is your ice-cream mine?

He has a skinny build and looks that could kill;
She is abused for a living, cooking at the grill.
S/he is famed from Duluth to Libya to Brazil.
He is a fulfilled masseuse, with years of skill.
They sit together on the plane & both get ill.
She gives him a shiatzu and she offers him a pill.
She refuses & she muses on another roles he could fill…. out of goodwill and for the thrill…. two lovers roll down that hill... two lovers roll down that hill.

They reside together on the lakefront:
If there’s a joke they don’t bare the brunt.
He worships her giving nature & cunt,
And they party under the midnight sun.
Neither of them had ever adopt a front 
And they multiply, bearing two little ones.
But children grow up and his fathering goal is done…. he rolls himself a blunt… he loves her huntress soul & those runts.

He fantasises of his wife, eyes of onion:
He converts the basement into a dungeon.
He works on it day and night, sober or drunken.
He wants it to appear medieval & sunken.
They stay there for a week, aroma pungent.
Parts of man & woman run out of suction.
Amid the destruction, she rolls & buns for fun.... but I’m not one to judge in love and war…. for they reverse rolls like Russians.

They live there together until one day they die.
They die an hour apart but who can say why?
Their bodies are found entwined in July.
The mailman had a cry and so did I.
In lake-town their death is beautified.
But some wise guy objected it was self-satisfied.
Be warned, even if you roll Thai… relinquishing control to a woman could be goodbye… for the soul isn’t always an ally... for the soul isn’t always an ally.

The last storm troopers fastened the past’s bloopers to the central computer,
warning of a warm and formless future that couldn’t seem to happen sooner.
but before you ignore the ghost of history, remember its mystery is almost yours,
and the great wars of every age explore caged binary exposing the Host’s flaws.
don’t try to climb to the clouds above dressed in denim, nor toast to heaven’s bookstore.
I won’t adore another ghost, for love often seems to be the mother of  all your war.
And so as the lovers lie beneath the sunken sky, the sun seducing the stars with silent kisses til midnight retaliates with a drunken song, mooning the angels as morning gives birth to light. The lovers dream their last dream and awaken, humbled witnesses to a perfect ceremony their youth trembling above their naked revelries and the future burning beneath their violent love. A man and woman emerge from the embrace, weeping with happiness as they fall into the light, ecstatic with everything now that all they ever loved had vanished into the mystery of the rites of the night.

She waits for him to appear at her gate for years.
Sunbeams shower and elephants flower in her ears.
By the stream in the ravine he grieves the mountain’s weather.
He believes the moon itself will soon leave the fountain forever. 
She always said, “The lazy yield to empires & the crazy build a fiery world.”
“But future becomes the past and your love will go last,” said the boy to the girl.

In a frozen desert of déjà vu, I dream of her form.
She couldn’t sleep thru storms and would weep to keep me warm.
In that taut uniform her words fortified an infantry of brain cells.
But her tongue’s torrent failed to fumigate the iridescence of the spell. 
I warned her, “When you hate more than you love, then you are surely lost.”
“Our future’s the past but your love will go last,” she cast her spell with frost.

I wandered thru the valleys of hope in search of a cure.
I prayed in the palace of the pope and where calories were fewer.
Try to understand that salvation could come in any instant such as now.
I thought about the woman’s prophecy and I realised she had the right idea anyhow.
So when I met Monday’s true love and she said to me, “I couldn’t love you more”,
I said, “The future's past’s enchantment’s cast and your love will go last” & shut the door.

She grows like rain; she’s got the smart.
She drove me insane; she’s as hot as art.
She’s fifty percent love and heart of my parts. 
She lifts me above the start the government carts.
She lifts me above the start the government farts.
My soul grows anyhow at the thought of you.
Either I know you now or I never had a clue.
You guru of jigsaw; we did forty two on the loo.
I could loathe you more; that's my new review. 
I could love you less; I guess that's the true review.
Every new moon, the poet compromises to actualise.
Textually, I know it his duty to cloak his ego with lies.
Sexually, I want more naan to poke a Norman til he cries.
Guys aggrandise girls but jokers know their world's the same size…. 
Girls aggrandise guys but broken don they're just poets in disguise…. you discover the other…. I exist now with a mother a dimension apart but lover I started this life as a man of her heart and that’s how I’m going to end it.

Yeah, well, the profane reveries left me bitter but hell, the profane ones left me mad. The sane pain must have finally hit ya, yet that chain of buns left me glad. Now and then the slain tears on my beery weary head makes me wonder whether I was happy or sad. When the rain pelted, I felt ostracised, though I had been through the wars... and lost my soul in flawed awe. 

Well, they stole my book and looked into my heart & the crooks parted by bike. By the brook there's a mournful man who plays a scornful hook to a very beautiful dyke. I woke up in the courtyard drunk, couldn't remember what life used to be like. And before the inspiring firmament of the stone whose throne whispered of the shore.. I lost my soul in lawful awe. 

I hurt like hell, only once wept bliss, lived the poems that I wrote and it's been years since a kiss. Well, the sellers of alibis can probably imagine why I cry but maybe the alibis are false and amiss. I sung out my lungs, of course smoke made me hoarse, but before nothing happens I'll piss.... sure I saw this song had flaws but I didn't seem really bore. 

Yeah, they held my head & left me for dead, you can't fake your enemy. I could contrive a rhyme that would resign myself to their lines but it'd be empty. No, there's a reason for this universe but I believe in sympathy, though it can equate to empathy. I wake up flawless but when I go to the door I fear the envied plenty... and I lose my soul in tearful awe.

I worked as a slave angel on the farm and the calm of the cold made me immune. Much later I was imprisoned by love and the sun shattered the matter of the lingering moon. Now and then God's pained tears on my fearful head make me wish I was in another story's tune. Purgatory can be earthly, sure, but I can't ignore the world's worth even though we all must bore... until I find my reborn soul in unspoken yet broken awe. Broken broken broken awe. In unspoken awe. In awe. Yep. Awe

I can’t pretend anyone comprehends the riddle of the end. 
She sold her scent on lend but everyone wants a friend.  
Gentlemen would tend to her enzymes again and again. 
She was the Queen of school, I was the fool in Casablanca cool. 
Maybe I’m a tool but I disemboled her pool with my drool. 
She was the best painter of despair. 
She had dead branches of fair hair. 
I liked her and or but she didn’t care. 
She was more aware than the rest of us.
She could doctor a stare with a cuss. 
She spoke so smoky nobody caused a fuss.  
Oh, St Annie, what made board that bus? 
Oh, St Annie, how did ‘you’ become ‘us’? 
I was captain of the team that held the regime’s cuisine in esteem. 
So I screamed at her stream and serenely cleaned in between. 
But she ate my dreams and deemed me her favourite fickle junkie. 
Then she moneyed me with new ones containing trickles of funky.  
She massaged my gluttony and I tutted like a slut at her onesie. 
I was the best painter of the milk on the hill. 
It was irksome to steal but my ink was silk. 
I cherished the still; it was in my will. 
She evolved into a billionaire so grotesque. 
But I wouldn’t sell my feminism for less 
(Unless perhaps she undressed but I digress)  
Oh, St Annie, what made you worsen the mess? 
Oh, St Annie, how could we bless gender chess? 

She was humbled by the Himalayan pearls I brought her. 
I pardoned her devil-speak for destiny unfurled a daughter. 
Her gypsy mandolin and native curls we fought a world war for.   
Her myth is blurred yet her testimony of the farm’s fire is intact.  
With the alimony stacked my abstract fantasy in a cave became fact. 
We were the best painter of Napoleon. 
We got high on opiates and cried like Utopians. 
I relished the Presidential message of hope. 
The cabaret finished so we went to buy some dope. 
Strictly speaking I’m not a feminist but I like milk anyway. 
Did you know that a cow produces 90 glasses of milk a day?  
Oh, St Annie, pray, what made you betray us & do what they say? 
Oh, St Annie, pray, how could my pithy words possibly convey?

I love the way you passionately sleep and how you make a sweet sound.
It kind of makes me want to weep how far we are from Ground Zero now.
Freedom’s forgetful avenue beckons and I reckon there’s just room for two.
Let a reincarnation of secret heaven speedily screw your seedy worldview.
She told me she told you I told you how life is beautiful.
But I told you that life is a musical enhanced by pharmaceuticals.

There’s nowhere left to go, grant me nothing’s escape.
You’re a thousand desires, sprawled in stormy shape.
Make me disappear from fate, fearful I might wake-
You’re the seer I revere and nothing is at stake!

Give me the majesty of your madness today.
Make me glad to be sad, take me away.
Help me say what I don’t know how to say!

I love you more than words can say
I'll love you tomorrow and I'll love you today
But deep down in the gutter I lay
And there's nothing much to do or say
But stay myself another day and pray we shall not come to blows

It's easier than it was before
You took me in, you opened the door
And though love & life can be a bore
The sacred naked man & woman we all adore
For no greater awe have I found before though you gave me some lows

But I still drum along to that sad old tune
You're not my sun but you are my boo
Cos' it's easy to get caught up in that fraught typhoon
When you're drowning in the lagoon
It's hard to understand but life & love will soon swoon to a close

Our skin is only colour deep
But if you're not awake then you're asleep
What we do determines what we reap
But through bleeding bullets words can seep
If you remain asleep then you'll weep at the end of your doze

For no man should ever repent
The severed time he never spent
As he begins his slow descent
Into worlds that lovers bent
With the scent of their lament cemented to every burning nose

She's pumping oestrogen into your earlobes as existentialist paste banoffee onto your iris.
Global sadists depart thru stately wardrobes and fisting is the official vaccine for Billy Cyrus.
Reflected in the image of mirror-love is the sneering Prince of Slough,
And somewhere far away from here they’re celebrating the end of now.

Hey, if you stay in today,
It’s as they say -- it’s always your birthday!
Hey, pray for a new day….
Many say today truly may end anyway!

There’s a pair of bears in the garden who throw jargon at the passing commuter trains.
The couple parody history’s great lovers in the rain, one dancing and the other in chains.
All despair is in vain for love’s cruel games remain in the brain anyhow
And somewhere far away from today they’re celebrating the end of now.

Hey, pray for a new day….
Many say today truly may end anyway!
Hey, if you stay in today,
It’s as they say -- it’s always your birthday!

I met the dead again and yet when they read the forgetfulness in my eyes it was you who let my sensations starve.
Despite the cremation of all expectation, I do truly think the tall kinky pelican specimens are pink as charged.
How I’d love to swim with you in the sea above the clouds where coward hymns are free and at large.
But now I forgive what God there is for this river of prose whose living flow archives the drive of this barge.

Though the unfurled truth of the world may seem so lent that it’s bent,
They say the true way to live today is to forgive how yesterday’s pay was spent.
And because I know that it was Nothing that opened Everything’s broken now,
I’ll chase my dreams to where the past will be spoken by a lasting but empty vow.

Hey, pray for a new day….
Many say today truly may end anyway!
Hey, if you stay in today,
It’s as they say -- it’s always your birthday!

Dreaming to the rhythm of jazz & drinking to the sacred blindness of angels,
screaming for the sunken prophecy, hurling the Book of Changes to its resting place,
my therapist tells me that the beginning has ended and it’s time to start again,
my therapist thinks I’m gay so I started hitting on her to complicate the diagnosis,
my therapist doesn’t even exist, but now she’s pregnant and it’s all my fault!
Epiphanies! Confucius! Einstein! What happened to the sin of following?
What happened to the message? What happened to the massacre?
(Where are you Mother? Where are the weepy-eyed relatives that came for you? What happened to the snoring man you slept with occasionally? He’s gone, Mother, you took him with you and now he’s nothing! This is the beginning of the end, Mother, the beginning the of penultimate breakdown! O the Bliss has stolen my innocence and we are ready to undertake the final picnic in heaven!)
O, what happened to all the drunken triumphs and golden touches? It’s all eroded into the endless machinery of dawn and the secret insatiability of appetite has returned to fool the lot of us. It’s always been easier to fall in love than to be alone, and now even that’s gone too.
O fool me through the darkness
O fool me like a cat
O fool me like you fool yourself
O fool me like a rat
O sing a song of sorrow
Where the docks and water fight
And the old soul singers sing a song
Until the soul emerges light
I breathe my breath for birth and death
I left the rest behind
I tried to turn to Jesus
But the Christians changed my mind
O kiss me like a goddess
O kiss me like I’m a man
O kiss me like you kiss yourself
O kiss my because you can
O trance me to the tractor
O trance me to sky
O trance me like you trance yourself
As your dreams go floating by
I only care for sex and love
The rest is obsolete
I’m running back to that mad old orgy
Where the pen and penis meet
O love me to your strobe light
O love me to your mind
O love me like you hate yourself
O love me til we’re blind

Hey, pray for a new day….
Many say today truly may end anyway!
Hey, if you stay in today,
It’s as they say -- it’s always your birthday!

Love was the heart of the head up there in my hair.
Love drew crayoned ponds of art beyond compare.
Wherever I came, she touched my self-made soul.
We shared the same goals and blame and control.
God created a myth that was somehow never fated to be mine…
Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time.

There’s a trinity of hyperbole encumbering the cucumber of ‘3’.
There’s harmony for the apple tree and infinity for you and me.
We took a stroll to the chapel, and you shook my soul.
You darted into my heart as your artful looks took control.
Fate may grind on your state of mind, but leave mine behind…
I won’t grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time.

In my single bed, I forget to forgive my own troubled double head. 
If only the heart of the truth lives, is part of it already dead?
That truth is absurd! Something’s unsaid! I’ll follow forever wherever I’m led.
I heard an eternity’s worth of birds swallowing the words that they once bled.
I read the signs: they wed the herd to rhyme, and so I tread the line…
Soon I will never see Forever’s moon again in a world without time.

When she arrived in my dream, I was alive in the comma of a coma.
I woke with a hellish scream, for I well knew I smelt her aroma. 
God created this myth that was somehow never fated to be mine…
Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time.
Fate may grind on your state of mind but leave mine behind…
I’ll never grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time.

Three years ago, I jumped off a bridge.
In case you’re wondering, I didn't survived.
I gave up smoking yesterday.
It was an anxious twenty-four minutes.

I tried to escape from myself once.
But I looked in the mirror and there I was.
With two new pimples.

Hey, great, I thought: a new me. 
I have pimples now, which are the next big thing.
I used to want to be an actor.
I couldn’t act, so I turned to comedy.
I wasn’t funny, so I became a musician.
I was tone deaf, so I became a drug addict.
If you believe I listed those occupations in ascending rank order, you are probably a drug addict, actor or a drug addict musician. With that said, if you are listening to this you are probably more likely to be some girl who wants to play Leonard Cohen in a movie about his life than any of those things. There is no moral to this section, but if you are bad at something you should do something else.

It makes me laugh when some people say hello.
Hell? O… how did I get here?
I prefer to say hi, because it reminds me I am a drug addict.
But I don't smoke weed every day, because I don't have enough money to do that.
All of the people I’ve fallen in love with have names starting with L. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something, but Lindsay Lohan is out of my league. So are you, come to think of it. Take what you will from this but bear in mind I once wanted to be a rap star.
I don’t have a girlfriend.
At least I think I don’t have a girlfriend.
This is because I do not count the time I went out with someone and she forgot she was going out with me because that did not happen to me.

I don't like the bit where I said I can't sing. I can sing. It's been scientifically proven. Everyone can sing.

I’m a simple person. It’s kind of complicated. And I'm single. You could say the reasons for this are simple yet complicated. But if the person I caught a glimpse of in the 245 bus ten years ago is listening, I want to be your friend.

A common misconception is that true love doesn't end. I figure the people who say true love doesn't end have not properly contemplated reality. One day everything must end except the extent of your stupidity.
I like thinking about infinity.
I wonder if infinity thinks about me.
Surely it must do, because infinity is everything, including you.
You are infinity and can do a number of things that exceeds infinity.
They say you should 'live for today'.
Ah, so that's how the superhumans do it!
I always thought yesterday is where I should be hanging out.
Time to play Pokémon Go and listen to Drake. 

I have brain damage. It kind of sucks, but it was nice to have a brain while I did. Some people don't have brains in the first place. Ask the future president of the United States or those asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk immigrant communists that are taking all of our jobs. The problem with talking to some future Presidents is that you’re probably wasting your time, because some doesn’t speak English too good so follow scripts written by people that are paid to speak good English and I do not believe this question would be in their agendas. Anyway, I guess soon the future president could be anyone, so you are going to have to hedge your bets when trying to find him or her or them.

Donald Trump says he is going to build a wall that keeps the Mexicans out for a sum of 10 billion dollars. I don’t know about you, but that’s 10 billion more dollars than I will ever possess. I reckon he should build a moat instead. It would be cheaper and I’m told that Mexican people cannot swim or do not have enough money to buy a device capable of immigrating through a body of water.

I like both kinds of pie. I used to be able to recite the first three digits of pi. But now I'm brain damaged and I can't get passed 3.14. Pie is great, but nothing tastes as good as skinny. Skinny is my favourite food, because of my longing for nothing. The problem with being dead though is that there is no consciousness to experience nothing. I'd rather be out of my head or in someone or eating pie. I don't know why some people die.

My favourite number is 69, because it is so symmetrical. I wrote the last sentence and then realised I am so brain damaged I misunderstood the term 'symmetrical'. I wrote the last sentence before I contemplated the art of slicing equally horizontal and vertical. I wrote the last sentence before I remembered diagonally is a word. I wrote this sentence when I realized that the third to last sentence in this section of this song offers an unattainable solution.

My boss once asked me why I don't at least pretend to be working. No, I said, why don't you pretend I am working and then we can kill two stoners with one bird.

The problem with sex & smoking is that they only last so long. Once I was inside a smoking woman for nine months, but I don't think we had sex or shared a cigarette once during that time. I don’t think it was the time of life, but at the time I didn’t have much else to compare it to.
I don't like it when people tell me I need a shower. I have a shower already and I don't tell you that you need to read the dictionary.
I’m pretty famous in my house. My brother told me that my writing is verbose, so I looked up verbose in the dictionary. He was right; like most famous people, I am defined by excess.

I like to be surprised unless the surprise is bad. But sometimes I relish being surprised by bad things like Self Portrait by Bob Dylan or some forms of cheese. After I eat said cheese, I drink a banana milkshake, because I know banana milkshakes are good and I am tired of bad surprises.

I hate people who are always right. You can be a genius, but don't make me look stupid because I can do that by myself. And if you are always right, your life must be pretty boring. There would be no novelty. Hooray! I am right again! For the nine thousand and thirty second time in a row! I am so smart I choose not to say too much; this is also because I do not wish to kill my winning streak.

Once I smoked a ton of weed and realised I was gay. I was gay for about ten minutes after that, but I gave it up because I am not a sexist and I don’t want crap on my ears. I do not have a problem with gay people but I have been the problem of one or two gay people. I know you're sorry; I'm sorry too.

When I was locked in solitary for 48 hours, I didn't think I would ever get out. It wasn't boring. I didn't do anything noteworthy there other than finger myself for the first time but the walls were really interesting. I kind of miss solitary. Miss solitary would be a good song title or a name for an ex-prisoner that prefers to be by herself.

Three years ago, I jumped off a bridge. In case you’re wondering, it wasn't an accident but I do not plan on doing it again. I do not think trying everything once is a good idea. Perhaps that’s why people murder each other: to tick another item off the list. I'd tell those people that there are a lot of species of animals to feed coconuts to. But if ticking things off that list is one of the things people aspire to do, living beings are doing kind of well because we live in a version of infinity.

I don't think I can walk on water, but I haven't tried. I don't think I can fly but I wasn't trying to when I jumped. Still, it would have been a flipping revelation. Hey, I can fly! Forget suicide. I shall solve all the problems of the world by flying around it and pissing on criminals.
How am I doing now? Not bad. But not bad must surely include terrible, especially if you are a pedant or a person who does not speak any languages. I would love to have grown-up kids, but I stay away from pedants and people who do not speak any languages whenever possible.

Someone asked me whether I consider myself a poet or a song & dance man first and foremost. Firstly I consider myself a civil servant and eighthly and foremost I consider myself a polymath.
Here is a riddle for you. A poor man has blank. A rich man needs blank. If you eat you blank, you will die. The answer is nothing but it could be everything too. Not many answers to riddles express such paradoxes.

"If this isn't funny, then it's a poem." Bill Hicks said that.
"I'll be the hero in your dreams if you'll be the one in this score". Bob Dylan implied that.
"There are those who see the god above who never knew the pain of bliss
And those like me who dream of love with one like you on nights like this." I wrote that and it took me five flipping hours.

Did you ever even love me?
Did you really feel above me?
Was I just your favourite junkie?
Is the truth truly that ugly?

Sure!  I adored you for more than seven million minutes or thereabouts roughly.
You’d weep through the news too if you were to sleep in my shoes, my lovely.
Oh, how our sacrificed Christ howled for the now of Heaven’s discovery…
The tattooed kangaroos at the nunnery had no clue Winter could be so Summery.

Sometimes I drink so much I can barely think or touch...

The first heartbreak always awakens the worst thirst.
Then again even every Buddhist once felt Eden’s curse.
Sometimes not being lonely means agreeing to the phony.
If only she would phone me, we could ride those ponies.
Tattooed angels view you from the goofy avenue of the ceiling.
The screaming voodoo of dream do seem newly appealing.

Try to fool those serial schoolers who rule imperiously.
Watch cornflakes wake! Please take cereal seriously.
The emptiness of love fills my brain to the brim.
She can come with me or she can stay with him.
Businessmen sue many a dude with a killer’s pen.
The voodoo of dream do seem truly lude again.

The steeples are feeble and needles are penal now.
But all people will be equal in the sequel anyhow.
Your two blue lips are the vows of lovers embracing.
My favourite art empowers my heart to start racing.
If depression is a 24-7 profession, what is expression?
Jump into the voodoo of dream to answer the question.

Shawls tight around our necks, tonight we are alone.
Let’s fall lightly into dream and find the unknown.
I love you for what you are but can’t hide what I am.
If you don’t like me, let’s call it off and I’ll scram.

Now the town is blazing with the circus song.
You understood every word you heard all along.
Forget the rest but don’t forsake the hollow cup.
We all try our best just to make tomorrow up.

I walked through your tall & sweet brown gypsy fire.
Talking openly about nothing makes anyone a liar.
Yes, at dawn your Queen transformed into a pawn. 
And the lieutenant yawned as he hunted for his fawn.

Now the cackling flames spell a sickening name.
Well on my way to hell above, I can’t hack the game. 
Sleep soundlessly, my love; don’t wake sorrow up.
I guess I’ll try my best just to make tomorrow up.

The birch will hide the morning light where you’re curled.
I shall search for my guide while you’re dead to the world.
I wish I’d read the warning signs but I am not a Chief.
In a year’s time, you’ll be more than simple relief.

Now I smoke a cigarette and watch the moon retreat.
I think I finally won you, but soon I will be beat.
To get by in this world, you just have to make it up.
I can’t hear tomorrow breathe, but heartbreak is sup.

Well, I was sitting in my room and the radio was playing all the festive tunes, and it made me feel kind of gloomy.
Something must be done about Justin Bieber, who is practically a beaver… to all the Beliebers out there: don’t sue me!
It was five years & four days to Christmas and I decided to go for a walk to clear my head of all the talk about how cold it is and stuff.
I had no destination in mind and I was blind to where each fork would go, but I felt kind of bold & that proved to be enough.
Being bold does count for something or other, but you can’t be too bold, because then you’d just be a silly stupid old fool.
[If a girl calls me Santa once, I don’t worry; twice, that’s okay, too; but thrice, running fast as my body can is my general rule.]
Anyhow, my pedometer said I’d tread ten thousand steps when I took a rest after passing my old school and the pool.
As I was catching my breath and freezing like death, I saw a withered yet handsome man sat on an ancient stool.

His sign read, “I have magic powers that can change your life; please just buy me a bite to eat, and please: no plastic.”
My mind was intrigued but I wasn’t sure if the sign was sarcastic, for claiming to have magic powers is drastic.
I went to the nearest bakery and brought to him two croissants, three doughnuts and a cup of coffee.
Mister Mystery said, “Took you long enough to bring my stuff, but I love all the food you got me.”
“Now forget how to remember,” he whispered in my ear, “and the sum of what you really want shall appear.”
I forgot it all on that freezing December day, then out came the sun of May, the same one was here!
I said, “Wow, mister, that was sick; please show me another trick! Teach me how to play guitar & sing.”
Mister Mystery replied, “Not a soul could magic that, boy, but enjoy what fun the sun & money can bring!!"

It was the fission of a vision & a mortal voice.
I wouldn’t forget a second if I had the choice.
In the end my friend you used the heavens as a hoist.
They’re nothing like the wind & the weather’s moist.
But if it’s nothing you’ve nothing to fear.

I don’t dwell in the past, the present’s enough of a riddle.
But I remember you racing in a wheelchair around Lidl.
Five years ago I grieved fifteen years in four hours.
I remember your face & your embrace & your flowers.
& how I wish you could be with me here.

It’s been a while since I broke that god-forsaken mirror.
The end of seven years of bad luck is getting nearer.
Any day now, those blissful tears will appear.
The moon is a baby phantom & the sun is a seer.

I saw us walking together last night; you were chain smoking.
You sadly reasoned as I gestured madly, my fingers poking.
Yes, I want to go to heaven; no, I don’t want to go to hell.
Though you raised me well, the more we hurt the more we fell.
But if it’s nothing I’ve got nothing to fear.

It was dark in the park & we sat on a wooden bench.
My heart fell apart in a way my mind can’t start to clench.
If heaven is a physical plane, then I don’t want anything else.
The angels are made of melody played by eternity’s elves.
& how I wish you could be with me here.

It wouldn’t be so lonely if only we all broke the mirror.
No, people aren’t the same; no, we’re not even near.
Any day now, those blissful tears will appear.
The moon’s a pained witness & the sun’s a pioneer.

Grieving doesn’t deceive me into believing I’ll see you again.
But ma! ma! there are the happy tears in the woods at ten.
I remember the feeling but forget the words.
The bird slurred it like it’s meant to be heard.
& if it’s all for nothing you’ve got nothing to fear.

Midnight’s memory is pinning me to God’s rampant sinning:
8am ambulance screams chasing a world back to its beginning.
I woke as the morning broke, heard the news but couldn’t cry.
In a dream the angels spoke of how the birth cord wouldn’t die.
& how I wish you could be with me here.

I see you every time I peer inside the mirror!
You’re not here but still you feel kind of near!
Yeah, blissful tears are beginning to appear!
The moon’s an urchin & the sun’s a queer!
Blissful tears, broken mirrors!
Blissful tears, broken mirrors!
The moon’s an urchin & the sun’s a queer! 


Been a long time since I wrote a song for liberty & thee, the caged free & the aged seer.

Jumped out of the mirror, dreamt a dream so clear I feared it, no wonder it disappeared.

The ventriloquist is blinder than a bat and the beggar's hand understands its victim.

And he'd smoke the proffered cigarette but he knows the satisfaction would addict him.

I recall the majesty of the wind's time and the  air smuggles a secret back to the deep blue see.

But my heart won't be hurt by every curt whatever this unforever is clever enough to hurl at me.


Scared of the solace her sister seeks in the jailhouse, the cat chases his tales as if a mouse.

Meanwhle the hubristic law of the liar cries that the gross amounts to nothing but a new spouse.

After the drunk Germans assocication occulted the opera house they highered me as the new town now.

I wept for the sorrow that crept up on me and I could see the only moment the vegans thought was cow.

The heart forgets the breath of the weind whose air smuggles a secret back to the deep sea.

My hurt won't be hurt by every curt whatever this unforever is clever enough to hurl at me.

27. Destiny's Dragon

Whenever my mind lingers upon the four weeks I spent working as a concierge at Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel, a wistful thirstiness envelops my body and colours the contours of wherever I am. The mere thought of that big old musty mansion – a realm where dreams seemed to be made or broken – exercises unilateral authority over my existence, sinking into all the atoms of my memory banks until my brain is rendered, in its tempestuous entirety, temporarily powerless. If I can, I sit down to collect myself and drink some water. At the very least, I take a few deep breaths. You’re not there anymore, I tell myself, you can relax.

Because of the fire that obliterated most of the building, I wasn’t employed at the hotel for very long. That manacle-muddled era evokes imageries that are both vivid yet hazy. Sometimes it feels as if that month of my life didn’t happen to me at all, and instead represents a story that’s been repeated to me, time after time, against my will, by some kidnapper at gunpoint. Nonetheless, the fact still remains that I was there the day Destiny’s dragon set Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel ablaze. For what it’s worth, too, I remember the event itself with such cinematic clarity that it’s hard for me to describe the whole affair succinctly whilst remaining faithful to the details of what actually happened.

It’s important, first of all, that you have an idea about the rationale behind the selection of the clientele: the owner wanted to create a secret, invite-only hotel for chic, wealthy guests. He bought a quadruple-glazed mansion in Sandycove, and started by inviting one billionaire, who could in turn invite two friends to stay, who could in turn each invite two friends to stay, and so on and so forth. Within six months, three hundred different people – all affluent & invited – had stayed at the hotel. This was back in 2005. I became a concierge there in 2007.
The staff of Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel were hand-selected by a distinguished jury of wealthy shareholders. Each candidate for the job had to be invited to apply by someone who had stayed at the hotel. The interview was complex and three-parted… the first section of the selection process involved a series of fifty questions on anything from the applicant’s familiarity with the works of Hank Williams to a description of their first kiss, the second involved baking cupcakes, and the third required the completion of a triathlon.

While I was there, I had only three other colleagues. Though the guests were rather flamboyant and will probably remain caricatures to you, my fellow staff and I were rather more pragmatic, though so ill-suited to the job it is a wonder we passed the interview stage. I didn’t know a thing about Hank William’s back-catalogue, but I described my first kiss as a ‘blissful dialogue of leftist politics’, and that went down a treat with the owner’s son, who cackled with his head back and mouth wide-open.

There was The Lollipop Lady, an affected middle-aged woman with crimson hair who manned the front desk. I remember her quite affectionately. She always carried candy and chocolate in her pockets and though she often offered a ‘hand-picked selection’ of her ‘finest’ to me, I can’t remember her actually ever eating any herself. Ah, The Lollipop Lady! She wasn’t eccentric as such, but she had a distinctly peculiar aura about her. She exclusively used one-syllable words and seemed incapable of flouting this lifestyle choice. She referred to the Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel as ‘this place we are in now’ and she called herself ‘Nat, The Sweet Girl’, but everyone else called her The Lollipop Lady.

And there was Brian The Actor, a mastermind of a thirty-something actor who never made it big because though his brain was pretty brilliant, he spoke so quickly that he wasn’t suited to speaking roles on stage or film. Apparently, too, his agent had been circulating a rumour that he had once slept with Britney Spears; whether this peculiar piece of gossip was the truth, or merely an effort to catalyse or jeopardise Brian The Actor’s career in showbiz, we will probably never know. He dressed in a purple or beige suit and worked as the only cleaner on the premises. The extravagances of our guests were sometimes so catastrophic that even the keenest of cleaners could not combat such messianic mess while still having time to rest or sleep. So, although I’m not implying that Brian The Actor was lazy, Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel’s rouge carpets would win no prizes for pristineness.
And there was The Frenchman, the chef, a twenty-year old fat man who claimed to hail from Paris yet spoke impeccable English without the hint of an accent. He would swear to himself in perfect French while cooking – ‘merde, merde, MERDE!’. Despite cooking for a living, he disliked most food that wasn’t bread, butter or cheese.
Then, there was me: the bellboy, the concierge, the custodian & the waiter.


I was twenty-five during my time at Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel. I’m known as ‘The Dope Cat’ to my close friends and as Neil to those who don’t know me too well. I’m not particularly worldly, my tastes are idiosyncratic, and I’m kind of verbose. Sometimes I get lost on my way home, pretty much around the same time every year I discover I like the taste of cheddar again, and though I have only just learned the meaning of ‘phantasmagoria’ I have been using the word (ineffectually or wrongly) for years. You can reach your own conclusions about me, but I don’t take much for granted: thankfully, I’m an alright storyteller and I have a content yet desolate disposition. Before being employed at Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel, I lived off the fat of the welfare state on about 150 euros a week.
I write whenever I can as it’s the only thing I can do well, and I’ve attempted suicide only once: that I am writing this now indicates that I’m not very good at dying either. One immature yet demonstrative effort was enough for me to recognize that even if I don’t belong in this world, this world belongs in me. The pretext of boredom or longing for another dimension are both self-fulfilling, self-sustaining cycles. You should be grateful you have the time to be bored, and a waste of time is a waste of time only because you have time in the first place, whose unit will, somewhat soon, be foreign to you. Wait a day and the world will be a different place, in a small way. Things can always change. I could swear I was someone else yesterday. I was in another three-act play, another tiny human drama.
I suppose it’s also true that some things never change. For example, pretty much every living adult dragon can breathe fire. And when the dwarf of a flame starts to breed, it can spread into dozen dwarfs of a flame. And if they in turn transform into an enormous blazing inferno, you can expect to see some people dead.


Destiny was forty-two. She was beautiful; I don’t think, you know, that I’ve ever actually met anyone so beautiful. She had shoulder-length black hair, tanned skin and moved kind of like an ostrich. You’d have to see her in action to understand what I mean by this. Destiny had a demeanour that alternately danced between the outward invitation of intimacy and the introspective pushing away of whoever she’s talking to. She didn’t drink alcohol but smoked Marlborough Lights intermittently. It seemed like she had a lot to lose but what this was you couldn’t really say for sure. Destiny’s voice was high-pitched, and her choice of words were spritely and sweet. On her second night, she invited me to repair for the night with her to share her secret despair; of course, I refused as I had professional standards to uphold.
“Do you want to spend the night with me?” Destiny had inquired then, somewhat quizzically. “My soul is quaking with this secret sorrow that only a man can fix.”
“Uh, thanks for the offer. But I can’t. I’m working. Would you like me to make you some Camomile?” I had offered.
“Serving it is how your night duties will begin, and drinking it is how mine will end,” she had replied mysteriously. I nodded, but I doubted she was correct on either front.
“Have you met my pet dragon?” Destiny had said distractedly, as I made to leave.
“No, I haven’t.” I’d heard rumours from The Lollipop Lady on this front, but I wasn’t going out of my way to meet a dragon, and for some reason I was keen to change the subject. “Anyhow, I’ll bring you some Camomile.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I have a question: how would you describe the sensation of taste to someone who cannot taste?”
“I guess it’s kind of like a smell. A coloured smell. Yeah, that’s how I’d describe it.”
“Fair enough. I think it’s more of an audio-based thing. But that’s just me.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Taste is kind of like a sound,” I said obligingly, though I didn’t know in what way taste is like a sound.
Pretty much every living adult dragon can breathe fire. And when the dwarf of a flame starts to breed, it can spread into dozen dwarfs of a flame. And if they in turn transform into an enormous blazing inferno, you can expect to see some people dead.


You know, I never did get to meet Destiny’s dragon. But when Destiny’s dragon set Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel ablaze, I almost didn’t have to. Apparently, it ran manically around the hotel, setting fire to every flammable thing in sight. Anyhow, very quickly the fire alarm went off & everyone migrated outside. Soon, the flames were cackling & beautiful. It was everything you could possibly want in a fire. The fire brigade arrived but to no avail. The better half of the building was incinerated within the space of ten minutes.
I love to watch fires spread, like I love to watch the sacred tsunami of democracy spread across the world like butter on bread, like the hysteria at a circus act gone wrong. Yes, seeing that fire was like witnessing a huge Jenga depiction of the Eiffel Tower collapse bit by bit in front of its creator. There was nothing the fire department could do. The building’s foundations gave way & three stories became two and two became one. Everyone stood there, crying & talking & ogling. Luckily the only victim of the fire was its perpetrator, the dragon. Destiny yelled & shouted & yelled but he wouldn’t come out.
That fire in particular was so beautiful to look at that it made me forget my personal vendetta against myself. Yes, I remember when Destiny’s dragon set Dublin’s Mushroom Paradise Hotel ablaze. It was beautiful & perhaps a little sad.


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