Puss
Seeps from the seams of our festering souls,
Mostly just dripping,
Ghostly and gripping,

Slipping,
Slipping.

And there will be times, there will be times,
When sunset falls
Like a wingless bird -
Never to sing again,
Never to wing again,

In the room the women come and go.
Talking of threesomes and Reality shows.
But if only they knew!
And if only they could see the light.
If only they could watch me try to write
The songs I long to write,
And right the wrongs I thought I might,
I mixed my colours with my whites
I fight the tie-dye fight in
Mighty tight trousers,
And really big shoes.
And nothing to lose
But my stiffy.

I grow old, I grow scared
I shall wear my pre-worn trousers flared.
And while the shadow may lie between ideas and facts
We can lyrically wax the more interesting gaps

We’re living in the Perineum Millennium
The in-between years
Not front bum or back bum
Not fiction or factum
Nor ideas or reality
Nor the shadow nor the hollow
Not a bosom for a pillow
Not Dante’s big whinge
About cruising round Hades

Like the fabled evening
Spread out against the sky
Let us go then, you and I…

And always you searched
For the soft bit unseen
Like text beneath the pages
Or the years in between
The anal and genital phases.
The perennial quest
Life’s only true task
The only real test
Us humans must pass

This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a full stop
But a colon. 

(~Tim Minchin)