Her voice has not gone silent.

With this distance I can’t hear.

She’s yammering somewhere to someone.

About something, let’s be clear.

A story about a victim.

A heroes journey with a cause.

And an abusively bad bastard.

Who can surf above the laws.

She can speak with such conviction.

And for for sure those will be tears.

Don’t feel bad, she’s fooled the experts.

A practiced art for tired ears.

Some people think I miss her.

I never learned to be that tall.

Truth be such admiration.

For such bold impudent gall.

I grew tired of the Politics…

But at least it wasn’t war.

Between the talking and the nodding.

There was the snoozing and a snore.

I grew tired of the sports talk.

And the money for the stars.

It all seemed so damn important.

For the stool sitters at the bars.

I grew tired of the drinking.

Because of where my mind would go.

And all the chitter-chatter.

And the fires down below.

I grew tired of the dramas.

To have anyone around.

I’m a Hermit on this island.

In this Urban sprawl of sound.

Better to teach children about boundaries early on… rather than later, looking through plexiglass, asking for canteen money.

Dennis Mantin

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My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All

The mood was light and airy.

All smiles seemed engrained.

They begged, “Stay in the moment.”

And yet, someone still complained.

No banquet halls were empty.

All musicians danced and played.

The bankers were all giving loans.

And the priests and wisemen prayed.

All pets were housed and fluffy.

All disease they found the cure.

The activists raised concerns.

To what? No one was sure.

I know it never happened.

I know it might sound rude.

But I have heard with mine own eyes.

People who complain about free food.

There was meaning in her silence.

A force in that smile.

I was at the launch of damaged past.

And she heaped me on that pile.

There’s a time for cool reflection.

Contemplation to be clear.

And there’s a time for quick escape.

And acknowledgment of fear.

I left her in the meadows.

I was shaking at the shore.

The tears are from the laughter.

And her silence has a roar.

I guess I was bored and decided to do ‘fuck around’.

What the older generation would say; “Best to leave sleeping dogs lay.” I ignored.

I don’t know if she knows that when she gets angry, she gets ‘soulless eyes’.

It’s the tell.

Fascinating to watch and look at.

If you can hold that line and not fade with fear; it’s endless fascination and entertainment.

I get bored easily and I can’t look that far within.

The soulless eyes are the sociopath tell.

Here in the land of  won and loss.

We are getting old and feeling run.

Where you figure out how far to fall.

From the edge of be someone.

Anonymous here in shadows.

Playing gangster games at night.

There are whispers about retirement.

No fears or end in sight.

I’m enjoying all this living.

Not all loss is pain and bent.

I’ve been reading under candle light.

Dostoevsky’s paid the rent…