Three Poems


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.

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Dove Grey
Dove Grey

I'm an author.

One step forward, two steps back.
One step forward, two steps back.

We can say by metaphysics that our lives are planned and predictable, though seeing the events and situations in our lives in the reality of what they are ontologically there is no interpretation of them that implies greater meaning. From a nihilistic point of view we do not have any lives and there is no meaning. So this is about my views on life.

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