From my newest book I am working on: Of Death

There's that point when you get to a point, and you realise, was it ever worth getting to, this point?
Life goes on by, and you sit and you wait for it to pass, like some idiot drunk, sitting in the subway, watching as trains draw up, stop, open their doors and let people stream out in such a pace you are hit on the head about a thousand repeatable times, then more cascade in, the doors close, and the trains ride away ... leaving you there. And this happens time and time again, you sit there, staring, waiting, groaning, yearning for something to change.
But it doesn't.
Charles Rivers met the prostitute that night, just like any Wednesday night. And it was the same, it did not differ because of the bemusing presence of the winged eye. It did not alter because the insistant flapping of an incommunicative ball of flesh and minor muscle strained to peep in through the window by way of its metallic, circumnavigatory, ever-beating limbs wich caused it to hover indecisively like some awkward hummingbird. It was all a joke, but it wasn't.
Charles kept his hands off the woman, as the establishment ordered. He kept his tongue behind his teeeth as the prostotoute liked. He handed over his money before anything, as was expected, but what he did not do was keep his eyes to himself, or to her, or to the room. Instead, as she bruised and abused and gave him his due for disobeying his wedding vows his eyes did not. He had them focused on that tiny little thing that was not normal, that was not like everything in the world, like those trains rolling by, the clouds in the sky, the fish in the stream, it was not normal.
For those tiny little wings beat inscenantly, and they caught his imagination, fired up his memories and as Charles watched the eye hover and remembered his long lifehood on earth he couldn't help but consider one word. About another set of gods, about another world, another life, another civilisation and another set of myths. About another all-father, that was not Khaos, who had impaired his own vision for the sake of wisdom.
And as that eye sought out the only other source of immortality Charles realised he was not alone. He realised that though Hades, Zeus, Athena ... although they had all died he was not alone. There was another.
He gazed up at the wingle eye and knew.
Odin was real.

To the tune of "nobody likes me"

Nobody likes me
My sister really hates me
I'm going to the bog to eat shit
Big lumps of brown shit
Small lumps of pig shit
Watch me eat this poo.

Host City, Host Country

Nations come hither and join
This song of unending peace
A place where we might belong
With a lullaby that will not cease.
Nations come one and all
Greet us with a holy kiss
Play your drums, strike a call
It is a celebration you cannot miss. 
Weave your words with a poets loom
Lined with silk and diamonds too
Honey-tongued and all too soon
You'll find yourself at the sea edge blue.
Nations come and you will see
Our lions roar, our unicorns bray
Our pride that is struggling to be -
The daffodil and clover are not far away.