The Traveler

I’ve never seen lions play on the beaches of Africa

Drenched in the oxblood dusk-light of the virgin savannah

But I’ve been to places no other person has

Overdosed on memories with an intoxicating everlast

Still have dreams beyond the wildest of human dreams.

I heard time in a piano

Tune into my neural network

Computing the answer to the meaning of life, the universe and everything

42 billion light years away from the edge of the Milky Way

Chocolate in my mouth, sweetness in my heart.

I sat on superstar Orion’s shoulder

Drank in hyperchromic supernovas from the Big Dipper

Felt the tragic stings of Scorpius’ tales

Ran Boötes ragged, as I constantly mispronounced her name

Swam through the unknown universe with playful Delphinus.

I broke into the 5th dimension and got arrested

By a malaise with no name

No time, no space

No me, no point

Just being.

I climbed the stairway to heaven

Sinking in dopamine  

Weightless as a young heart in love

Heavy with regret that happy moments can be lived only once

These paradoxes of life are never resolved.

I’ve seen it all and never left

This old, cold chair in old, cold London.

These Monsters of Mine

These Monsters Of Mine

I have these monsters

With shadowy shark eyes

With large lion fangs

With black bat wings

They circle me like raptors circle prey

They bark but never bite

They swoop but never strike

Leaving me contemplating extreme escapes like

Sleeping and never waking

Or shedding my skin and leaving myself behind.

Like scavengers, they lie

Waiting

For my will to tire

Waiting

For my drugs to expire

Waiting

For my angels to retire

They land (I see their silhouettes loom in the corner of my eye)

They creep (I feel their footsteps tingle up my spine)

They growl (I hear their sonic boom bounce around my skull)

“Wanna play catch?” Their leader says.

“What?” I say.

“Catch,” it says, “Wanna play it?”

“You wanna play catch?”

“Boy… you’re a slow one, aren’t you?” It replies.

“But… aren’t you a monster?” I reply.

“We never called ourselves that—you did. We only look like monsters.”

“OK… so you’re not monsters?”

“Nope.”

“What are you then?”

“We’re like you—we don’t know what we are. But we’re trying to find out.”

“I see.”

“We definitely like playing catch though—we don’t know why. It’s like a weird compulsion.”

“I get it—we like the smell of our own poop. We don’t know why. No one talks about it.”

“Exactly. You get it.”

“So... the swooping, the creeping, the growling… that was because you wanted to play catch?”

“Yup.”

“OK, I’ll play with you. But next time, just ask if I wanna play catch. OK?”

“Sure thing, hombre!”

I stopped calling them monsters

They stopped circling me like raptors

We played catch, like happy black dogs.

Sometimes, their faces catch me by surprise

And I remember that they look like monsters

And I get scared all over again

But it never lasts long

Because now I know these monsters of mine

Are just like me—

Not good, not bad

Just a cosmic accident, seeking an explanation for itself.

Time travel is easy... (What we need is a machine that helps us stay put)

Time travel is easy... (What we need is a machine that helps us stay put)

I travel through time
All the time
1999-2004-2011-
All the best times.
It’s so easy, sometimes
I do it by accident

Mint Royale's getting airtime, sending
Mint air
Waves through the radio
And the smell of halcyon years cuts through
The air
Like mint through 3650 sleeps’ worth of
Bad breath.
It’s almost like I’m back when...
It's my favourite song
Back when...
I'm with my favourite peeps
Back when...
I am my favourite self.
For a moment
My favourite moment
Lasts forever –
I’m still in love
With everything and everyone.
Always have been. Always will be.
Always has-beens
It’s always back then...
Even the rainy days come back singing
Nostalgia-drenched.
Saudade.
I even saw dad
But he's too far back in time to see me…
I guess it’s kind
Of a one-dimensional trip (and I’m kind
Of an addict)

The present drops 50 Cent
In the jukebox
And I'm back
In the now
Looking for tips on how to make
Favourite moments
Of the hours I have today.

Slow Down… No One Arrives Late (or “People on the Underground”)

Slow Down… No One Arrives Late (or “People on the Underground”)

I'll never get it.

Why are people on the London Underground

In such a rush to cram into

A hot, smelly train?

Trying to

Zone out in the baking bowels of Zone 1

Camping out next to a homeless

Man’s visibly hairy pits.

Is 3 minutes too long to spend

Waiting for the next train

Not being agitated and not being

In a hurry to arrive at death?  

That's where we're going after

All (your chances of getting there earlier

Increase while you ride on

The Underground)

Maybe I do get it.

Maybe they're excited about dying. Maybe they can’t

Wait to hop on and dream about the sweet

Release…

No more meetings you have to arrive at on time

No more dead-

Lines for writing that report

No more dinner dates you can’t afford

To be late to

No more Tinder dates you’re dying

To impress with punctuality and a casual lack of interest

No more TV catch-ups to numb

The pain (because there’s no pain to numb)

No more getting to Asda before it shuts

(Unless you end up in hell ­–

Because God didn’t give Asda planning permission 

But Satan did)

No need to keep up with all that 

eatingmeetingsextingbreathing mess being dead inside

Is hard – being dead is easy

I guess that’s why people on the Underground want it so

Bad that petite women turn into Viking pillagers and gentlemen

Turn into silverback gorillas

But everyone gets their turn

At death – it's not like we're gonna run

out (of time,

maybe. But not out of death)

Maybe if people on the Underground were to chill out a bit, they’d find life

Becomes so sweet that there’s no hurry for that sweet

Release…

It's OK To Be Sensitive

Hey there,

People will tell you it’s not OK

To be sensitive

But, it is.

“Stop being so sensitive...”

They’ll tell you

To be like them.

To be so cool that you’re frozen

Numb

To the rocks and insults

Hurled at you.

Cold, hard and dead to the

Metal in your back. Full of

Cold, hard and dead

Mettle in your heart. Full of

Cold, hard and dead

Medals on your neck.

Roll around lifeless

As a stone.

Stroll around like the

Cock of the walk.

Feelings are for wimps and

Wimps are wimpy

(Don’t you know?)

But they forget to tell you

There’s no anaesthetic for only pain

When feeling goes away

It goes altogether—

You won’t feel the stab

But you won't feel the kisses either.

You’ll still bleed

But won't remember

How to cry about it.

It’s OK to be a mountain

Of a human

(Huge, magnificent and impossible to move)

If you’re actually made of stone.

But I’m not.

Are you?