Tinsel lies

As I lie scribbling

on the beach

scrabbling for some

deep secrets

left to leak,

strange that I'm

not even tempted

to let my

conscience speak.

Confession, a blessing?

Good for the soul?

Surely that kind

of thing is

just a fiction

best served cold.

If you prefer hot,

I could take you

back to when

Led Zeppelin

was as heavy

as things got

and the nearest

thing to sin

was spinning discs

backwards to

let some evil in.

That's when

life was a hurry

and the passion

and the fury

were kept

decently buried.

Nowadays I

could practice

voodoo, deny God,

flagellate myself

and people might

even applaud.

These are shameless

times of few regrets

when uncovering

nameless secrets

is a thankless task.

Of course, it wouldn't

be poetry if it were

ordinary not odd

and stripped of

the mystery and

the alchemy

the coolest life

may seem a fraud.

Brave players we,

whether king

queen, knight or pawn

enrolling ourselves

in life's fantasy,

draped in tinsel lies,

to delude ourselves

that our hidden lives

are not the yawn

we know them to be.

So maybe the

dirtiest secret

now left to tell

is that I'm just

a simple poet

here for the ride

and have nothing

interesting

left to hide.

And if that's

not true of you

I would  like to bet

you haven't learnt

the trick of

keeping secrets yet.