We, heavy and sullen men;
on bent legs that  
learned to hold up the weight of our fathers
but could never hold up our mothers
in the way they deserved to be.

We, throwbacks to our youths;
that grew up and down
in cities with single streetlamps;
burned out bedroom windows
that tell you at least there was warmth here once.

you are worth less
than worthless
that is what our birth certificates read,
that is what we have been told
for our whole lives
worth less than worthless.

We, Sisyphean modes;
our backs burdened
by our father’s footsteps
‘please don’t let me turn into him’

I say this to you
over coffee
you tell me we all look the same
I say I have to leave,
you understand why.

Before I go
you tell me
to let my old self die
and become a new God.

I have traced myself back
to Carthage,
to Canaan,
to Athens.
I have traced myself back
to Olympus,
stood at the foot of a mountain
challenged the Gods to a fist fight

Much like my father,
they would never answer me.

In the small hours,
where the night hangs the day
and birds are a collection
of off notes,
where the workman dresses
his bathroom in white foam
and says
‘today is the last day I will do this’
on repeat like clockwork,
every. single. day

In the spent moments
between tying shoelaces
and wrapping fingers
around steering wheels
or clutching wallets
that march down to bus stops
to take stabs at photocopiers
or sit in coffee shops
or buy and measure rope
in full bodied lengths.

That is where we know loneliness
and futility
and a singular quiet death
that cannot come soon enough.

I see myself in his image;
a martyr with nothing to live for
but less to make my death
a worthwhile venture.
It is here
in the two am phone calls
to the Samaritans,
and the silent sobbing
about being alone
in the violet scars,
that trace my legs
like track marks
that I realise I am nothing like him…
Perhaps that is my downfall.

We, heavy and sullen men,
building foundations out of our ribs,
breaking down for not breaking down
soon enough-
wiring and rewiring and rewiring and…
there is not enough time in the day.

‘You are not enough’
they say.
And it sticks with you;
papier-mâché angles
that arch and tear
and fold and break
and break and break
and you must act strong,
everyone is counting on you,
you must act strong.

there is a finality in strength;
a fraught knot
used for hanging light fixtures
or bodies,
we can never unwind
we can never unwind
we can never unwind.

And Atlas will hold the world
as punishment,
until the world will pull him down.
We see this as a crime,
he is just pleased to still be here.
This old dog’s legs will give way
and we will wait
till the stars fall.

I am of lost co-ordinates  
and I can’t see myself as anything more than a map.
They say if you dig down far enough,
there is treasure,
I think I have been stripped away.

The next great exodus
will see me home
and for the first time,
in a long time,
I might be happy
but happiness is
a collection of memories
of you telling me you loved me,
even when it was difficult to do so.

I would live and die for you
even though you would never ask me to,
I am about ready to go.