Old man

Poem from about 7 months ago. Scribbled on a magazine tear-out after seeing a man busking on the street with an electric guitar and his sleeping companion, unedited.

Old man and his guitar
Old man and his sleepy black dog
Pouring songs on the concrete lawn
Old hands move and sing
Old man plays his songs
Old man's hands falter and slip
Old man plays on
Throwing his breath to crowds of two
To three, to me
Old man plays his songs
On his black box he makes it cry
From the rusty strings to misty eyes
Old man, he plays for free
Gulp back tears,
Old man, he plays for me,

Small poem-note from last year.

Whilst cleaning my room I lifted a tearaway patch of paper, a light-blue rip with scribbled ink from last year's Fringe Festival guide. Written about 7 months ago. I realise now I was mad with the way I thought, I liked it.
...
"Yes I was touched by the muses,

but not tortured, not held

They ground their hips against my throat,

my arms, my tounge and my collarbones
And in unision, came on my face

in a spasm or virility and unbridled
madness, joy, pain and passion

whence, breathelessly they collapsed
And will lay quivering in my palms

'til my las beating breaths. "

Unanalysed fresh speed poetry 10/3/12

As the Samsara tricks,
Augusts and lost winters

fall and slip,

Indebted indeed the masculine steed

who's march does much to suffer face
but to suffocate, be but saving grace-

in order to escalate and capitualte the unasphyxiation;
one must under, succumb to the 

plunge,

to the tatter and thrash, the

plunketting junction of 

flutter, the
wrestled-wash of the rollicking rash,

the wrath of washing-spears tip sunk through the butter

On the pancake of grace,
We wipe the crumbs surrounding the face,
Played by the sunlit place,
We sit in vinyl, amidst of our chase.

As the decembers and weather,
sweeps the crop on its way
As we as wheat, we stand and we sway,

So the melted hour-glass drips,
And so the Samsara ticks,