Sick, Sick

So few even look

At the beauty of life passing by.

So few stop to think

Why the tiny screen beats an infinite sky.

Neural pathways throb and grow

With the clockwork demon's desires.

Indeed, they are not your own.

Technology against you conspires.

I fear these words may be wasted,

For attention is fading - and quick.

What's next in this race towards nothing?

Hurry, hurry! The thumb scrolls click, click...

Collective Confidant

The dark stage teems with tales untold.

Oozing between floorboards.

Whispering in the cold.

All eyes gleam as curtains glide.

The open door beckons.

The mind leaps inside.

Ears perk up, 

As eyes peer in.

The hero strides with purpose.

Lukewarm is quiet sin.

Behold the complex lies

Weaved somewhere in youth.

The hero must suffer greatly

To learn the simple truth.

Hang on every word.

Revelation lurks inside.

In response to raising stakes,

In the audience he'll confide.

Crowing Cock

No doubt.

Dead cert. 

Chickens scratch in the dirt.

Flirty friction.

Nipple perk.

Peck-peck.

Erogenous work.

Ruffle my feathers.

Bring me to the brink.

Yeah, the eggs are what you think.

'Crowing Cock' is the third track 

from Farmyard Fornicators' debut album, 

'Don't ask. Don't swell.'