top of page

The walls are closing in

The walls are closing in 

and the woodblock prints are melting 

They say that Jimmy’s opened its doors again 

But is what’s on the menu still the same?

Have we lost the recipes forever?

Or are we just hoping for the best?

Well, hope is not a bad thing to have 

Hope gives us much needed rest

The barefoot contessa starts to speak 

She mentions everything that still could be 

And how to start up the brittle fires again 

Even while the world floats out to sea

Things might not be how you remember them 

But nothing should ever stay the same 

Change is constant and it’s not a race

It might however be a game

There might be echoes of a mariachi band 

You’ll get there in plenty of good time 

There might be the sounds of castanets 

And taco shells are playing outta rhyme

Annabelle is talking to me 

like I’m some kinda Chinaman

She sounds like she’s got a plum

rolling around in her mouth

She pretentious and an alcoholic 

She’s a pseudo intellectual too

This isn’t old Blighty, baby

Just remember that you’re going on 52

Sometimes I think about hungry Ana

And if she’s finally getting enough 

Did all I could until it got too easy 

Sorry but I just couldn’t give you my love

I might have been many things 

But some things I could never be

Only alcohol ever changed my moods

And made me someone that wasn’t me

Never wanted to hurt anyone 

I guess that was part of the problem 

Trying to please everyone except myself 

Never knowing how low I had fallen

Thought I would never lose you 

But I did and I took it hard

Tried to lose myself going with the flow 

But nothing could ever break the fall

I tried to stay together and tried to stay real 

But we were playing co-starring roles 

Don’t know where things went so off the tracks 

Don’t know how we ended up in a hole

I was guilty but I was loyal 

I thought that was good enough 

But then everything became mixed up 

And relevance became just fluff

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Poem: You can float your boat

You can float your boat You can talk grand plans You can drop names like atom bombs But who are you kidding? And where’s the joke? It’s in every single lie you’ve spoke The joker wears a thorny crown

Poem: We get lost when we’re a child 

We get lost when we’re a child We then get dropped when we’re old In the middle there’s all kinds of stuff Sometimes there’s silver and often one’s left out in the cold


bottom of page