We are lying on our bed smoking a cigar,

The smoke curls up in a blue haze.

We eat cold Mango and melon from room service.

Jim Morrison is playing through the speakers

We are in a state of confusion about the hours

If we go down to the beach until three

When we come back we will be at two

We decide not to worry about it and eat and drink

the fan overhead turns and turns and turns

Eyes feel tired and room service comes to take away dirty dishes

In a haze we comply and then the room is empty.

Bills paid, We lie back and take in the air and remember

when we used to know what we came here for.

What good there was has been swallowed by time

Thinking about things

Pulling on my heart strings

unforeseen consequences

finding a new tune

to play on my fiddle is not happening

but  then again what is is passing

by without leaving a trace except for the hiccups

I make on the canvas that was blank.

It’s not that I don’t think of cathedrals

just not then when I need an idea.

It’s  a bit like history repeating

and searching for meaning

now something has entered tradition

when really all there is there for all to judge

a pink rabbit, a pencil and a pint, some watercolour paints

and an excuse to write. Analysis escapes me.

I don’t know what to call this game, this act, this show, this life.