I am at the foot of that dam mountain again
Stretching...

I fit into the skin of Mr quite man, who has a lot...
Who might you be? when nobodies around...

punching holes in the air,
may sound off the wall...

Things keep going round and round...

Some are smarter than others
Some are tougher than others...

all things central to the phallus image
The centre of 'our' universe...

things that can be built in the air
This be my delight, fleeting as an alcoholic high...

I am stepping outside of the planet for a while
No drugs to hide behind...

Farting on a Sunday is somehow unsociable
Life is like one long funeral message...

sabbatical nagging at my brain
nine to five burns up space, cauterizing,numbs...

I am, out here on my own.
Flat lining...

The book of life is perennial as the stars.
Patterns, haunting our every move...