Children come, Children go

I walk to school
The path coldly glitters
Jack Frost has been out
Leaving his white shadow
In the cold
Which makes my ears burn,
(Dizzy)
And drunk on childhood
I stumble into a flower
Covered in fine frost
With ever so delicate a trace;
A fingerprint in ice on petal

The flower, not a rose,
Fore it should not be a rose,
I suppose was the same colour as her varnish,
When she pressed it,
A light green

But now, here, drunk on beer
It reminds me of you
It was your fingertip
And, with the songs I now know,
The colour of your colour,
... and
However many ___s later
It turns pale blue in the snow.

The old art critic

The old art critic
to me
There's no beauty
it's horseshit
There's no ugly
it's pixiedust

Swindles

we snort twenty pound notes up
through rolled up fifties
and laugh at those who get caught
and subsequently punished
for swindling the system
punished like jerks
whilst the chancellor makes me cum
with his hand

I get so bored sometimes.

death story

BOY. An' then death hit 'er like a sledgehamma.

GIRL. How'd she die?

Boy. Got hit wi' a sledgehamma.

love story

Good night, says Gienevere turning her back, good night good knight. My knight after night, after knight after night, after knight after knight after knight after night.

Sometimes one feels compelled
To go to the Ireland of the late 1800's
And drink one's self to death

But it's not very feasible
No, not really realistic
Not in this day and age.

poem

All's well
Well,
Well for me
By my standards.