Feelings are just feelings,
They don’t stay where you want them to,
Try to hold them back and they start a fire behind your eyes
That burns with a fury of passion,
Before extinguishing inside.

Releasing them when they want to be freed seems to be
The best way else they seethe,
Writhe in agony,
Betwixt between the soul
And reality.

If only the world were allowed to be that honest
But it’s no good being an idealist about these things,
I’ve felt the hurt and hope it brings
And it never goes anywhere,
You can never be too honest with someone,
“Sometimes the truth hurts”
People say,
I’d take the pain of truth
Over what lies do
Any day.

Intentions hidden under false smiles and hugs and handshakes
They’re not doves they’re feather coated snakes
Slithering out of a sleeves cover
Lies sliding a little further
Is it easier to go along with the lies that we tell each other,
Than be honest with love like we’re sisters and brothers…

…I hate that I have written this,
From me,
A man with misfortune,

an idealist.

It rhymed, it seemed sensible
Although maybe reprehensible
Because it didn’t quite make sense,
Questions with no answers
Intensifying with the questioning
But never mentioning any answers
Just mysteries but no attempts
To justify
What was being said,
The page being fed
with more words
read felt and heard before
But never quite sure what it was trying to say
It carried on anyway,
It rhymed because it seemed sensible
But it was questionable whether it
Had any meaning,
A room with no floor but walls and a ceiling

What?
Are you sure you’re not looking at it
Upside down?
Surely it’s more appealing
The other way round,
Less falling into nothingness
The ceiling as a floor would be best
Or spinning really fast so you can’t quite fall
Because it catches you,
Hopefully no nails from pictures
In the walls
Because it scratches you
Spinning round
In a room
With no windows watching you.
Butterscotch table for two…
What?

It doesn’t make sense,
But for recompense it rhymes
I said that already I know
But I need certain lines
In there because,
Well…
You know why.

Ladders wrapping like snakes around the branches of
Trees
That could be climbed unappeased
Were it not for nonsense
The cycle repeating over time
Not pleasing but feasible
reasoning untangible
But more manageable
Like conditioned hair
More easy to bare
The sense that the
Dense trees of time
As they climb entangled with ladders like snakes
Or vines
in their hair
Mangled
They don’t make much sense
They just rhyme.
That’s just life.
And that’s fine.

What?

Sometimes I don’t see you moving
You’re as big as the universe
But there is never enough of you to go around.
Do you have any family?
Are you watching me?

You move so smoothly
No space between
to mark the differentiation
in your journey as you constantly travel
into my eyeballs
and through my brain,
I am a ping pong ball
travelling in your ocean
It all looks the same
With each second,
Only to know by how far away I am
From the places I’ve been
the common denominators,
they will always be there
until I stop floating.

sinking into places unseen.

Do I get to keep the time that was given to me?
If not then what is your motive?

Whispering fingers
on skin
as the nerves
reach up
to be electrified
by soft slight fingers,

feeling lingers
in those places,

tiny impulses,
nails like
ghosts of ice dancers
on the surface
sliding up legs
then ribcage
over shoulders
to excite the back
then bums of each other,
reciprocating affection,

two touching
lovers;

Sensation
Traced through skin…

a flowing river.

Brickwork walls and soft lighting
Creating ambience of silence
subtle vibrations of
slight murmurs,
glows of I phones from broken conversations…

I love this tune                    
testing my patience          
caressing me,
Beat gets stronger,
Can not hold it any longer
Toes tapping
Bass bopping
head and hair
snare making
my hands start clapping…
and everyone looks round…
Maybe that was abnormal of me,
a shot of adrenaline serging through my stupidity,
Why do I have to worry
That I just want to be me?
I think
but I no longer care as I want to be free…
and my feet start tapping again,
and I think I’m going to wave my hands with my head this time
and I don't care if it looks insane

moon and ocean,
rhythm in line,
inside the motion
beat
in my mind,
trapped inside,
eye’s peeping from the ice,
out to dance
It’s going to be fine
Staring people from the shore,
excited eyes
needing more
sailing out,
on these vibes
Saying ******* with my hips,
it’s my life
Swimming in my ocean
Not caring how I’m seen
Taken with the motion
Flowing fast and smooth
and free
bashing icebergs in the sea
With my shapes
Like ships
And dips
Mundane ripping
Breaking free
Cutting grooves
When the mood takes me,
**** the fear
rather be free!

And then the song gets cut early,
and I don’t like the next one.
I don’t mind it,
But I’m going to sit down now.
Wish I’d started dancing sooner to it.

I am a Hadron Collider,
Colliding my life particles together
deducing the common denominators,
finding the parts that define me.

With tender eyes
You tenderize me,
meat hooks sinking in
with the looks
that guide the
knife that slices
with each touch of skin
the cold metallic table,
unable yet manic
falling apart,
panic attacking
with each touch of the blade,
the butchers art,
taken from a stable,
for the sake of forsaken fables
feeble chunks,
fragments made into saleable pieces
the heart aside a different species
in a bucket,
It'll make great sausages.

A stain lands,
from my egg mayonaise sandwich,
that's fallen from my chin
that the girls across the train from me
were laughing at that I didn't even notice,
until it was time to change the page,
I am glad I bought this book.

It's not infatuation
I'm just fascinated
when your face graces
my imagination
so i like it.
And I keep doing it.

You left the lid off the toothpaste.
I didn’t want to say anything.
Instead I let the resentment build up with each day passing,
Every morning and night watching the stalagmitation of the ring growing,
And now only a small thread can make its way out.
Maybe I should have said something and not let the resentment build up like that crust
on the ******* toothpaste you couldn’t put the ******* lid back on.
Now when we speak only a small thread of conversation comes out.
Can you move out please?

It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.

Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.

So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.

All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
  And I’ll get to fly that way.

“Why do you let yourself get in such a state?”

All we do is get ourselves in a state,
A state of this,
a state of that,
until we can no longer stand it anymore and change to an opposite state
to seek comfort from its failure,
Until infinity.

find a world to fit yourself in,
feel comfortable,
set the parameters around yourself,
and feel good about it for a little while
and feel tired about not being a changing thing that there is no escape,
maybe living in self denial...
Can't think of anything else that rhymes with "I'll",
*******!

Bonfire Night,
Sat on top of Lickeys hills on the 5th of november,
a windy chill
Street lights glowing in the distance of the darkened city like dying embers.
And then it starts,
Red green and white golden sparkles suddenly erupt from the dark with bangs and whistles,
and ooohs and arrrs from the people in all of the parks staring at the sparkling missiles,
Phosphorus flowers pop up all over the city,
It sounds like a warzone
Yet a woman remarks,
"Ooooh that is pretty"
all the people staring up at that sky,
some standing some sitting
but everyone staring into the same places at the same time,
at the metal stained light
Ooo and arrs linger for the silent ones
sprinkling stars
a shining density against the dark,
everyone sharing them, not like at christmas,
where adults feign joy at their presents and the kids turn to viciousness,
Everyone enjoys the same fireworks,
their luminescent kisses on the sky
The tremor of their bang hitting your face and reverberating in your ear drums and in your eyes,
and then it starts to go quiet again,
and a few people start to clap, and then a few more but it doesn't really get going,
and everyone decides that their going home,
it is cold after all
******* windy aswell,
Let's go to a park next year.

My imagination is always there,
drawing pictures for other bits of my brain to see what it means
And what's gleaned helps me to think of things,
Like now, when I can't think of what to say
He'll think of something right
and I'll probably ignore it
  Because I usually don't take advice,
Especially from you, you trickster

He's always making me laugh at the wrong times,
  In the street replaying a youtube video
of  a man accidentally washing his hands in a festival ******
"Don't think of it now you'll make me look homicidal"
And then my imagination would put it on
And my laugh became tidal,
  trying not to laugh is the hardest thing to hide of all...
  But he did come up with a way to make me look smooth instead
now if he  makes me laugh he wraps an imaginary bluetooth to pretend to be on
round my head

I like it when you tell me stories when I go to
sleep,
sometimes they are too exciting and I can't sleep
but I like that too,
and when you make dreams
especially if they follow on from the previous stories,
I love sequels
it's funny how they never end
except with death,
and even then maybe
it's just that part's not been released yet

when I was younger
  you used to scare me in the dark
With bit's of scary films
and in the sea with a shark
that you got from Jaws
(You were a bit of a ******* that way)
but often we would get on and we would play
war games and car racing
imagined killings and engines sounds
whilst chasing
in the playground,
We don't do that now
We've changed
there's stranger things
to be seen in the clouds
these days
I hope you don't mind
If we finish this rhyme
but I'm worried for the things you might say.

Snowflakes from sleepy land land on my eye lids
creeping in and on and out and over I'm melatonin silenced,
feeling serenity,
I'm supposed to be writing
but "actually I'm not regretting it"
Dreams are inviting me like I've been spiked with ketamine
Should I let them in?
I love sleep too much
So I didn't make it to bed again

It's not a want,
It's a need a necessity,
It's something I need to achieve what is best in me
So if you're waking me bring bacon
I won't just be ******* your life is forsaken,
Especially if I was dreaming about flying like a plane again....

I like a snatched sleep on the bus or the train,
But I love the car no risk of sleeping too far
and waking up in staines

One time I fell asleep on the train...
I was stuck on it for ages...
One outside tesco where your supposed to put 20p and a baby in it
Seems to be happening alot to me lately
But I have always falling asleep in public places
One time my mom thought she'd lost me,
I was asleep on a the sofa in Laura Ashley
"Dear, where's your mommy? The shop assistant asked me
I didn't know and I didn't care all I wanted was to go to sleep
Strange memories rethunk,
Relayered and rewired
twisting and turning until they become suffering,
time for bed again, I'm tired.

I like lying in the bath,
don't think I'll wash myself yet,
I like lying in it
think I'll think for a little while
and shut my eyes for a bit
mmm,
that's nice
where's my bath pillow?
doesn't matter,
just don't fall asleep again
one of these times
your probably going to
die
just look at the bubbles
the pretty bubbles James
look how nice
not as nice as the feeling of sleeping though
open your eye's James! open your eyes!
I can't help it this feelings too nice.

the bubbles in my bath shatter
and sink beneath me now shards of glass
of green,
and as I try to run the blades of grass cut my feet wide open
pouring my blood
until they are all rusty coloured
and they squeak like old mattress springs
  their delicate towers pushed by the wind
why are you chasing me? I cried,
It doesn't matter
the bath turning into a water slide
sending me down the plug hole
deeper inside

plunged into an abyssful ocean
body sinking down
wrapped up in it's blanket of blissful motion
warmth fades as I reach the place
where the light can not cut through
and blackness in my eyelids where once there was blue
I feel smooth ice slide against my knees
and soon my whole body  slides against it,
deeper and further down
I didn't need breath until I thought of it,
now I'm drowning!
Frantic scrabble slippy sliding
against the ice it's whiteness
stolen from the sky
need to break through
somehow
or I'm going to die
My attempts to climb take me nowhere
I beat my hands against the ice
let me in,
let me in to where there is the warmth of light
and breath to be breathed,
A slight crack,
A satisfying sound
As my fist tries to pound against the ice,
softened blows as they try to cut through the water
another crack
desperation pumps the blood to fuel my fists
as my chances of breath become
shorter and shorter
A break through
plunged down a waterfall
to rest in a still pool
greens and browns and bright colours of a distorted
jungle as I try to make my gaze to see through the silken water
It's softness calms me,
sinking once again
until my struggle turns into a jelly
I can step out of and see my reflection of myself in it
and bright green tree's with the fruits of tangerine coloured
photograph smiles,
making laughing noises
as I bounce my way across the pool,
and before they reach ripeness
My bounces turning into realisation of flight
before their camera flashes go off
and I am blinded,
  and now they look like twinkles
in a lonely oasis
I can see the whole desert from here,
and this is amazing,
I like flying
I can escape everything,
as I go higher
I reach cold clouds
and before I can pass them
I'm shrouded in doubt
and feel myself being pulled
back down to the ground
and I try and jump again,
but it's not as good this time...
I can't bounce in the sand
The heat must mean death soon
large glass beads sweat from the sand dunes
and I become stuck to one and begin to roll
down it's surface
and what was shallow before
turns into a hill,
and then nothing but falling
down
and I wake up
and wonder what I was just dreaming about,
minds ideas inscribed on the wings of butterflies,
already fluttered away into the clouds.
and I realise I fell asleep again
and the waters cold
and I forgot a towel.

Yellow specimens in a jar,
like plump yolks bulging
in a jelly like substance
They are so weird,
Give the jar a little wobble,
and they jiggle against each other,
they are so weird
I want to touch them.

They are egg yolks,
I've got egg on my hands,
the mystery has gone,
I liked them better before,
now they're slippy sliding between my fingers
and oozing to the floor
who put's eggs in a jar like this?
That is just weird.

I wonder if they will notice,
the two I took out;
one slipped from my fingers and
one I tasted just be sure.
better ***** the lid back on the jar and
Oh no! It slippy slid out of my goopy hands
  and landed on the floor,
didn't smash, that's impressive,
there's still ******* eggs all over the place though.

There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
  and inside lying fragments of it's history,
 I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;

The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.

A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,


Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,

A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?

truth is a positive,
lies are a negative,
and secrets are both;

secrets cover lies,
but eventually whisper their truth.

The branches of my experience,
do not match the branches of your experience.
We are different trees.
The same seeds and the same species
and similar trunks
we all lived in similar places for eight months
But look at our branches all dissimilar,
Easier to see when it's winter where each one is,
  leaves have all gone .

Wind blowing and frosty weather skew the branches
as the cloud covers the sun offering no direction where to go
never returning to where they were,
sometimes breaking becoming sticks
food for insects and playthings for dogs
maybe becoming other branches,

this branch of thought written
on paper that used to be trees
an infinitude of differences
and also similarities
The same when happiest
similar when hopeful
and different when scared.

Nothing is still something,
darkness is still a reason to walk into furniture,
or walk up an imaginary step
when guessing how many are left to climb
the staircase,
there was nothing there
but it still felt nice stepping through the air,
or is that just me?
I seem to have gone off on a tangent somewhere,
But what do you expect?
I am a tree.

the feathers went up in the breeze,
between the tree's skeletal structure,
as though poured from a jug,
the tree laying on it's side
like it had conditioner in it's hair

and stayed there until the the feathers had fully passed by,
although a few got stuck in it's ear.

Treacle is dripping from the ceiling,
but it's not dripping it's hanging in sticky tentacles
like sweet stalagmites not letting go of either the floor
or the ceiling
making my hands stick together
and then my arms to my jumper feels really tacky
and covers my hair and drips down my face tickling it
sticking my eyebrows so when I open them wide
they don't feel like they ought to feel
I go to stretch them out with my hands
but that makes them more sticky and stalagmites
form between my eyelashes as I try to open them
and the treacle touches my eyeballs.

The feathers brushed against
the desert's floor,
scooping up small amounts of sand
with each pass
and depositing the grains through
their fingers whilst they stroked the wind,
as it carried them
across the desert floor.

wet young pine cones
and how did they melt in to that resin
that smelt so piney
and stuck to my hands
I could smell it for days on them
It stuck with dirt but still smelt of pine cone resin
My fingers slightly stuck to everything they touched
It was annoying
It wouldn't stop being sticky

I take a handful of sand and feathers
and eye's closed
drop them slowly on my head like a gentle sand timer,
and detect each touch of the sand
and cascade of feathers down my face
and then wake up in a pool of treacle
and the feathers all stick to me
as I try and wrestle my way out
they keep sticking to my body
until I can fly away.

A skeleton made from rusty locks
assembling himself
from out of a wet cardboard box
making his left shoulder too high
his knees metallic grind as
he walks to find his key
that copies itself with each
second taking on imperfections,
changing into infinity

And your vegetables they are good for you
a plate of ash
ascends from the pile
falling seagulls
into the cliffs
smash their faces
smudging their
teeth and lipstick
against the rocks
Sqwark.

closely by the fire
eyes dry
vacant stare
shallow
glazed
dried by the fire
shallow framework
crispy marbles
carbon is dry
dust
that grabs
and closer,
closer,
palm
hot
on my face
warmer than
my face feels,
even,
even
closer,
dry flames
like my eyeballs
crush like baubles
crunch
santa is coming
shhhh....
smells like rainwater on tarmac
chargrilled oily wetness
disgusting
numb fingers
from falling and
slapping my fingers
against it
(

tap tap tap the feeling has come back again)
time for dinner.

slip-
ing in misery
icey slopes
cracked open
sharp edges
cut toes
rip open
nails
slow and easy
coffin
wide open
Creeeeak
Sun dissolves away
in a
snowey horizon
cold blankets
freezing tightly
over eyelids
shut
tight
with
blackness
conjunctivitis
for the soul

splat
on the pavement
splat splat splat
the
rain makes the
splat the rain makes
the
splat splat splat
the rain is
splat
is annoying

They all had tambourines for faces
which jangled when they laughed
fingers made from untwined
basket cases
and dusty jeans filled with the wind that caught them

they all sat down for dinner
It was spaghetti again,
"Spaghetti! Spaghetti! Spaghetti!"
They all shouted in chorus
and then they all laughed
and a butler made half of
giraffe bought wines
to the table out stretching his limbs to fill each space,
a few bottles of champagne
a cork whizzes through the air and hits a face
a drum and melodic rattle snake sound
and then the guest had fallen down
and fell apart
and the rest of the guests
realized they had no chests
and fell apart too.
It was time for the butler to tidy everything away again.

Like dominoes and decks of cards
they fell upon the broken shards
their lives and dreams
lay on the floor like ripped up strips
of paper
trying to arrange them back into
order
jumbled up
by the way they have fallen.

Taking up the pieces with arthritic claws
hunched up bodies and foetal crawls
the pieces melt between their fingers
and absorb into the splintered floorboards
bloodied fingers nails from trying to scratch
them out
no longer existing but in their minds,
trying to scratch them out, to see them again with
their eyes,
and feel them again
in the same way.

No more new memories
they feel at the sockets that used to
be their eyes,
a shadow whispers from above
"They all fall down."
and the darkness bleeds into the light.