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Image: Front cover of Words
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Discourse with a snail
"Do you see my size twelve boot, little snail?
See it overamong your fragile shell,
and fear you now my flippant justice well.
Rest in peace as I wipe your final trail."
"Ha! My dearest, sweet, human, childlike thing.
Unlike evercontinual doubts of men,
I'll weather your pain and will come again,
resplendent once more in another spring.
Your sophisticated life perusals
and constant need to deny what you choose
leave poor you the one to carry the bruise
of limited faith and oft refusals.
So, do your worst, poor cluttered man of clay,
perhaps we'll sing of this some new born day."
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The Baggy Trousered Philanderer
Oh no one can deny that God is more holy than I,
He gives me a plan for living life a way,
And I screw it up and play astray.
The money I waste on booze and fags,
And delicious women and, yes, maybe some hags,
Could go towards feeding the poor,
Building hospitals, drainage and more.
But to choose man breasts and a tummy rubber tyre,
And trampy clothes for my attire,
And rather than look dapper and thin,
I present myself, the human dustbin!
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Words
Where would we live
but for words
are they not our comforters
swaddled in sentences
coccooned in paragraphs
and screaming at the
absurdity of chapters
And how would we
try and understand God
without a framework
to enmesh Him
and distort Him
to suit our needs and
make Him live in our abode
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Image: inside the book
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Image: front cover
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