By now you may be seeing a pattern which suggests, quite unconsciously, that songs are written to a certain requirement. According to the instruments used, the versatility of the musicians, the kind of crowd. Fidelity to a subgenre that was possibly suggested by an overheated hack in the first place, is not something to which one should adhere with any rigidity. Not if you want to be prolific.

My beginnings are in word scraps and then poetry so I absolutely identify with this. The idea of some scant accompaniment to a particulary poignant piece is something I see as desirable, all the while conscious that the audience may see it differently.

I suppose this is why, as a lyricist, I alternate between modes; sometimes more song-driven, at other times, employing the pliability of verse. There’s a certain luxury with not having to be the one to figure out how the piano or guitar can be best employed.

And my heroes are all songpoets though I do admire Iggy’s physicality and Jim Morrison’s deep Dyonisian delivery

Anything can be made into poetry. Which is not the same as saying that anything is poetry. Some things – many things – are too prosaic to make the cut.

Tore Out the Last Page

Trapped in tit for tat and a tat for your tit  
You've ruled in the margin but don't get this bit
As the scene unravels and flags unfurl
and we're back at the beginning of boy meets girl
Dog-eared digressions keep us amused
when the templates for confession have all been used
If you think me foreword I'll append I seize
at the shelf by themself and down on one knee

Indexed a digital dialect
jack in to direct
where once circling the circumspect
no paper caper to correct

A clot in the plot and a a thinning theme
Deus ex machina well we can dream
Characters careening corrupting their leaning

The author affirms the studied bookworms
Ideas and how they carry germs
Fixing the foxing faxing a copy 
Forming our own conclusions