1.
In alleyways and docklands I wander
aimlessly with purpose as reels whir
forward, back, reverse, and repeat.
I walk endlessly for miles;
day to night and back again,
listening to a tape replete
with rhythms racking my mind.
2.
In coffee shops and
book shops and music
halls and taverns my
ears hear not the shrill
screeches and squeals of
my fellow man but
Analogue
sounds of an
instrumental played
By one in
some sort of
ethereal plane,
A place that
seems both
familiar and strange;
I shall search
for this place
the rest of my days.
3.
My hair, longer now, falls free
in front of my sunglasses
to ensure my vision is
doubly impaired.
My jacket whips in the storm,
as does my open striped shirt,
but my cravat holds back the
chill in the air.
I’ve felt far too much by now
to make some futile attempt
to hold back the wild winds or
compose myself.
4.
The melodies slow down.
Notes I don’t recognise.
The reels come to a stop;
the batteries have died.
The rhythms flee my mind.
At long last I’m released.
My walk’s now at its end;
must have something to eat.
Apr 9, 2024
Apr 9, 2024 at 7:51 AM UTC
Fake leaves can’t change when
The seasons do turn,
And buds don’t appear
When comes Spring’s rebirth.
Plastic plants need help
So that they’ll look fine;
You can’t give them life,
But you’ve made them shine.
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 10:57 AM UTC
A curse on your line,
May your blood all be spilt;
May you feel ten times o’er
All that I have felt.
A curse on your line,
May you only know pain;
May you lose more in life
Than you ever gain.
A curse on your line,
They say health is your wealth;
May you fall deathly poor
And die by yourself.
May you live a short life,
And die a long death!
If it weren’t for the law,
I’d **** you myself.
So I summon her now;
The Goddess of Death!
If it weren’t for the law,
I’d **** you myself.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 6:45 AM UTC
They sat me at the window.
Black coffee, oats and honey,
Reading The Ginger Man.
The last few days are muddy.
From the depths of the café
Past tables of civil folk,
Families and friends,
She rose and donned her cloak.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Her man paid the bill,
Opened the door,
And she stepped outside.
Long coat and long hair,
I longed to see her face before
She entered into the brisk midday.
I prayed she would turn left,
Pass in front of the window
That I might gaze upon her.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
She turned right.
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 5:39 PM UTC
1. I remember how,
stumbling back from some awful café that
wanted nothing to do with us, arm in
arm in drunken Bohemia, you cried.
Cried about your family, how you
left them behind beyond the sea;
your relentless insistence that you were
a bad sister, a worse child.
I refused to accept it.
You fell asleep in the bathtub that night.
2. I remember how,
during those soirées, when you leaned across
my lap, arm on my knee, making benign conversation with those at our table.
How natural it came to us, the ease
with which you fell about me,
even when, then, I was with another;
we never addressed that though.
We took a car home that night.
I couldn’t stay with you, nor with her.
3. I remember how,
alone as we were one winter morning,
you lay down all sullen, made yourself small, lamenting the cold dark day before us.
You meekly refused when I offered, but
when I draped you regardless
in my long sheepskin coat, you pulled the fur right round your body for warmth.
Then in silence you watched me.
Playing piano, basking in your gaze.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 3:48 PM UTC
When one dips their bread
into the sauces and juices
that remain on the plate after a meal,
Italians call this ‘Scarpetta’;
A practice employed when a dish
is so rich, so deep with flavour and emotion,
the diner feels compelled to consume
every drop, every morsel.
Sampling this, one of life’s
most essential and delicate joys,
warrants such devotion, such adoration.
A love supreme is ‘Scarpetta’;
It is the only way I can
describe my desire for you.
I want to drink deep at your well,
become lost in the ritual.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 3:44 PM UTC
In person this would be much better,
But instead I write this dreadful letter;
We likely won’t cross paths again.
I’m part glad, and part in pain.
My love for you is too intense,
I’ll no longer wait upon the fence;
I must go, and indeed I’m gone.
I hope for you I’ll cease to long.
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 10:01 AM UTC
im drunk.
high on god knows what
with the whole world spinning like a top
its even worse when my eyes are shut
but its worth the sickness
for the slight reprieve
needed a break from reality
where i can pretend you didn't leave
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 9:57 AM UTC
I saw her in town yesterday,
She crossed the hill o’er the brae.
She didn’t see me, or so she played;
‘Twas only her son did look my way.
A young man with eyes so blue,
With wavy hair and ginger too.
Often time folks wondered why,
He never had her husbands eyes.
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 5:38 PM UTC
What is this feeling?
This desire to create?
Why won't it go away?
No matter how hard I work
Or how hard I don't,
It assaults me every night.
In every lonely moment,
On every stroll it's with me.
In every dream it haunts me.
Why can't I create beauty?
I'm told it's in here somewhere,
Locked up, locked away.
How do I free it?
Even when I write this I know it's boring, self righteous;
How do I free myself?
How do I sate this feeling.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC