One too many mornings there's nothing in my mail
One too many empty hours and one too many failures
One too many restless nights the minutes slip away
Like headlights on the funeral cars in the middle of the day
I can still remember how it was when I was young
Something held the world together something made the people strong
What I can't remember is when I came to see
That’s not the way it ever was or could ever be
Good St. Anthony the little ladies pray
I know I put it right here now it's gone away
Good St. Anthony I know you'll hear me when I say
Please help me find it today
Last night I had a strange dream I was climbing into space
And when I turned around to look the earth was all that faced me
It hung there in the blackest void like a thing without a name
And on it there were people bursting into flame
Good St. Anthony I don't believe in you
But I think I do believe in the things they say you do
Good St. Anthony I'm one who's lost his way
Please help me find it (3x) I pray
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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