Coleverse

'There's more to life than books, you know', Young Morrissey once said, 'But not much more.' That killer blow. Behold! - a page turned, read. There's love and sex and racquet sports And chocolate and sleep, And music, drumming, filthy thoughts - That look before you leap. There's painting, nature, words that rhyme, The friend you haven't seen; A perfect goal in extra time - Awaking from a dream. I haven't even mentioned cake Or sipping single malt, Or knowing that you nailed that take. The flowers that you bought. I've often seen more shade than light - A melancholic soul. But life can be a bloody riot, Your cup can overflow! There's more to life than books for sure, But books cast magic spells; They help show Death we're so much more Than processes and cells.

  You burst in brutal, full of fire, Consuming property and life. The world was watching, thinking "Christ! At least it's all downhill from here!" And then a thing occurred and, well, Thank God the men in suits stood firm And acted fast and quashed the germ And everybody felt just swell. That takes us up to New Year's Eve Of such an uneventful year. Embrace the ones you hold most dear, Remember warmly those you grieve.

While I was busy growing up you were busy getting old, altered from handsome dark-haired party Prof to this sombre grey-bearded power fixing me from the back cover. My turn now to watch things move that should be staying put, look at the young being young, refreshed by long nights in the elements. There's one good thing in all of this: my words resemble theirs but have more weight, the strength to haul and hoist them renewed. Ah yes, the wisdom versus youth debate, and I'd broker both though process perseveres amid the jokes. So there you are smiling, relaxed with glass in hand - all those unborn words - and here, everything bursting out through the eyes.

The coastal road keeps everything enclosed. Wild ocean salts the lips and tongue, Its wind confronts you fully formed, The winter sun refuses to impose. Observe the mass of everything you know: That straw of roads, the churches and The friends you've lost, advice you spurned, The breath you wasted questioning the No. This road is special, cordoning your life - One side will never let you turn, The other bleeds into the green. The windscreen wiper slices like a knife. You turn your head and contemplate the grey Simplicity, inconstancy; You wish there were another way And take the second left to God knows where.

When the city breathes you hold your breath. The fog will penetrate your lungs And eat away until there's nothing left. From a garden wall a song is sung. It hovers over lonely souls And wrestles with the pylons' leaden hum. At the traffic lights the notion grows That nothing can hold back the death And everything we knew was predisposed. As she takes her pulse her senses numb. The mask and gloves melt into one And fuse into a new protective flesh.  With the sirens on they feel at rest. There's just a hundred metres left But this is not the way their story goes. Why the city stopped we still don't know. They say it tired of everything And simply couldn't face another day.

Running for the bus on weathered joints, conscious they could pop at any point - cushioned by the warm and spongy grass, thinking of your tired demanding heart. Living is a thing they cast at you - saturated postcard greens and blues. Suddenly a scene of war and strife, fleeing from the cross hairs all your life. Swaying like the palms you check your change, praying you're beyond the snipers' range. As you reach the kerb the driver's eyes never deviate. The bus rolls by.