To sit where there is a tap, a click and a sigh. Watch faces turn from concentration to frustration. And you sit, tap, click and give sympathetic smiles. To those who need reassurance. Words left unsaid, are like tiny un-germinated seeds. They cannot grow, instead they rot and disappear. Why not wild flowers or fake flowers. Pictures of fake flowers even a poem written about pictures of fake flowers. I know you never promised a rose garden.

August 2, 2007 in art. After twenty years of contemplation. The conclusion of a Buddhist monk;. The ashes and dust from which they arose. No time in my life. Despite the trauma of corporate rape. To have time to think. Even in the queues in Centrelink. Enmeshed in a system grinding on.

This is not a source of dietary fibre. April 8, 2009 by stephenthomasandrews. December 22, 2008 by stephenthomasandrews. Frantic bodies are rushing through the room. Shaking fingers tremble with uncertainty. Matching the beats of their hearts. Bring me a prophet or a crystal ball. And burn them on the pyre. As their cinders dissolve into the air. I can see the open gate. The defenseless innocent are now held in account. Prodded upward by their ransom.

Everything is funny if you look for the humor. A Waste Of Perfectly Good Hubris.

Bridging the gap between the worlds of myth and mundanity. In an ecstasy of madness. Before I realized what I had done. A shadow, cast by moonlight, alerted me. I wandered, unfettered, lost. Remembering a past self gone. I carried the pain of loss and sorrow deep within. I tried to drown my afflictions. So I drank them instead. I dove into the endless sea. And as I stood ashore I found. Wings long unused were stretched and flexed.