The down time creeps up like old Bolton smog

 soaking into my flesh

and trickling black treacle

that thickens from within the mesh

 of chaos, thoughts, decisions

crossroads and dead ends.

 And before long the gloom of the down time

becomes regular time and time stands still.

When I’m up I smile and glow

Like the summer solstice

but when the do...

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As the last drips of rum

slip from glass to lips

I feel the heartache

of pirates and poets.

The anchor is raised on a ship

setting sail for foreign shores,

whilst my glass is raised

and tipped once more.

An empty glass,

an empty bottle;

this is the heartache

of pirates and poets -

to feel the ebb and flow,

to be the empty vessel

on a...

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