Physics

The 1965 Nobel Prize winning Physicist, Richard Feyman once said
'Poets say science takes away from the beauty of stars - mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is "mere". I too see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more?... What is the pattern, or the meaning, or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvellous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do poets of the present not speak of it?'
Well Richard

Humanity

Hu-man-ity,
is nothing but,
rem-nents,
of Nu-Klear
fall-out.

Neil Young

The bottle touched my lips. The liquid, finally being released from its brown glass tomb. The coolness of the liquid soothing my parched mouth. I fell back on the bed, dust billowing up in the air. The particles dancing in the sun light, toing and froing across the room. Dancing their waltz, entrancing me, surrounding me in their dance. I looked out of the window, down and along the street. I looked back around the room. Wallpaper pulling itself off the wall, the out-dated floral pattern fading and yellowing. The window sill cracked and covered in a layer of dust. The radio singing to itself in the corner, the TV sitting blank and vacant in the opposite corner. Still I had a bottle of wine left and the remains of the beer.
I picked myself up. Using string pulled the cords tight around my waist. Picking up my tattered satchel, I made my way out. Squinting against the light I made my way down the street. The glare off the pavement was making me feel sick. I tried to shade my eyes with my hand. Looking at the cracks, the weeds reaching up and heading for the heavens. The weeds trying to make the best of a hard world. I sat on the bench at the bus-stop.
Then coming off the bus came the finest pair of legs I ever saw. So smooth and perfectly proportioned, the sun shining on this little bit of heaven. She looked down and directly towards me, disappointment crossed her face. Goodbye to my cinnamon girl.

The start...

I'm going to start posting all the little things that I'm crrently working on here.

A little song that I've had floating around for a while, made using found recordings.
Here is a little poem that I have been floating around on some sites such as Poetry Circle. A very pertinent question that I still don't know the answer to.

Decor

The hall
paint is fading,
chipped and scratched.
Perhaps
it should be fixed?
Would I feel better, if
the paint is not fading,
chipped and scratched?