From far above the groundswell that you see before you
it must be easy to perceive the score
but the view is quite a different story
when you see it heading straight for you.

It is the clash of opposites and who delights
in stories that portray one's own demise?
One's understanding of all life in ruins
portrayed in emptiness, like fighting against the weather.

If I were young and not so old of struggle
I might still relish a bardic kick or two
and live to tell the story tale thereafter
but now my drunken head lies in few lines.

It is the shattering of time and space
hereafter lies no rhyme or grace worth saving
worth saying, it is no time for truth
they listen hard in search of thought they chase.

And now I with no news but bent to hear you
recover bits of love from shattered ruins
I know I've lost the fight before beginning
and yet I'm wont to try the impossible.....

I cannot grow by small acceptables
and even though they tear your insides out
and food is labouring guts for want of money
you want the struggle though you hate it so.

And now my time of lost love meandering has come
and I don't half want to return to safely bed
but I have come long ways from empty madness
I return periodically but that's near safely dead.

I now return to that dread earlier madness
from Madrid to London is two worlds apart
but my great hungering guts lie outstretched 'tween those capitals
and my great longing mind knows not but to accept.

I turn around, look half crazed glances yonder
to the merriment of food and wine below
from whence shall I such good things encounter?
The groundswell is for you hard poverty's blow.

notes from no w here