L.S.M.F.T Poem by Richard Phipps

Mastered the art of no rhyme or reason.
Once ready to party, no matter the season.
Now 'Whole Lotta Love' much too loud anymore.
Gotta turn down the silence, to understand what for.

What's this weeks thrill?
What's this weeks chill?
What's the one thing keeping this twisted mind,
from drifting sharply into permanent dwell?

Darkness delights to find me so engaged,
in a short trip to the long side of life.

It's the future and past all rolled into one.
Like a Lucky Strike, packed so firm and tight.
No room for error, no backdoor for flight.
No way to slink quietly, quickly into the night.

Throw it all away, then take it back.
Take it all back, then throw it away.
Makes the logical end seem so passé.

Its the first and last all whipped into one.
Like a McDonald's shake pumped so full of air.
No way to recover, no way to be fair.
No way to prevent, the untimely loss,
of some altogether unnecessary flair.

We are born, we forget.
We are taught, we invent,
then too soon depart,
with continuous regret.

So many things I haven't told you lately.
So let me speak softly, slowly, distinctly,
then contently listen, oh, so very intently,
as you swear unconvincingly,
you've never been lonely.

No matter the tune,
No matter the rune,
The best part of the song,
is the beginning, middle and end.

Now eleven o'clock on the coast and elsewhere.
Do you know were you are, or do you even care?

It's that time of night again,
when the shadows jump out to claim you,
when the events of the day try to maim you,
from outta the closets they frame you.

Prevent the inevitable, invent the preventable.
Don't stare into space as it passes you by.
Take a short trip to the long side of life.

(Means nary a thing, but so easily rolls off the tongue,
down the drain - out of sight and out of mind.)

April 15,2005