Rhyme, Meter, and Lunchtime Beer
Laying tracks that lead to nowhere
The water’s cold this time of year
These old tan boots look dusty
I feel the summer drawing near
The air is thick and hazy
This city needs its goddamn sleep
They’re dancing in the boardrooms
The hungry dance out in the streets
The winter once felt never-ending
Masked in grey, we dream of spring
And though the wheels are always turning
Empty words don’t mean a thing
The sun soon melts to darkness
The daytime falls to dusk
The suited-men stop dancing
Well, rather them than us
Notes from Telegraph Hill #1
I dance through days and nights
like the angel-heads to the beat.
My mind swirls in patterns and colours,
each thought more vivid than the last,
seeing all of life’s illimitable, immortal beauty
through giant kaleidoscope eyes
wide and awake,
desperate for every taste, touch, thought and trip.
The realms of possibility in which I exist feel infinite,
and opportunities to love and explore are endless.
Love and explore.
Love and explore.
Love and explore.
This beautiful rapture
this warmth within my chest
this undeniable madness of the soul.
Sam Wheatman grew up in the English countryside but now lives up a steep hill in south-east London. He wishes he was a little bit taller, he wishes he was a baller...