As I write this I am at a stage in my life when dreams are longer and more languid than when I was young and soaking in Kerouac and Ginsberg. And though I never met him, I miss him every day, stringing daisy chains and barefoot and hair rising from my head uncontrolled and writing poetry because it seemed to go with the pictures in my head. What I wanted was simple. I wanted to make people happy. Make them laugh because that opens up their minds and while their minds are open slip in the ideas. Do not share this idea with any potential world dominators. It can be a perilous route and one only to be taken by the dedicated frivoulusi (made up word) I moved to London and became friends with the people at Apples and Snakes and was asked to join the collective. I did, and spent a few years trucking around London having a wail of a time doing what I loved best. The woman who ran it called Tammy Youseloff introduced me to my wife at God's Little Joke.

I got a shed
I got a shed! I got a shed!
it's imaginary. It's in my head.
The walls are made of shadows.
The roof, the wingtip of a small white bird.
the floor is undiscovered.
In my shed absurd
In dusty jars on sloping shelves
I keep the fragments of a dream,
And various explanations,
As to what I think it means.
The whirring blades of sarcasm
I keep in a bag hung on a nail
I keep the bag shut tight
In my shed absurd
there is no day or night
Just the beating of tiny wings
as little words take flight
to float into the shadows
To escape my dreaming head,
as my body chants the mantra
I got a shed! I got a shed!