Have you seen him?
He paints the colours into the day.
At dawn, somewhere, everywhere,
Time and place are consistent.
If you don't, do not cast much worry over it,
I wouldn't call it luck.
Only the baddest talent,
To go foraging for instants and ideas.
If possible, I would,
Clear away all the debris left behind,
By transmission, false presumption,
And see a vision more pure.
If I could, I would,
But alcohol and cigarettes,
Are more compelling,
Than dull reason.
So psychic transmissions crop up sometimes,
With their ogling pretentions,
Asking me why I even tried,
Why didn't I resign myself to,
A lifetime of debris and decay,
For a lark.
Come, the moss is soft on this branch.
We'll rest on the edge,
Dip our feet in the flow.
Let's leave those clumsy humans far behind,
Where they can rot in the streets,
And die alone at the bottom of their walls.
Tell me once more your story of the memory
Of the rain, and we can smile
And laugh and get the water on our tongues.