I like to stare at the blinds until faces start appearing in the fabric. Smiles, noses, eyes-
they all jump out and morph into one. When they start mouthing things to me, that’s when I tend to look away. Sometimes, I look for faces in the shadows of objects lying around the house.
There’s a particularly amusing silhouette of what could well be queen Victoria that
pokes out behind the curtain ruffles. I go
looking for her sometimes on purpose, because I know she’ll be there and it’s
something to be certain of.

If I could inject a feeling into my body every day, it would be that of certainty.
I fear I am an addict to the art of prediction and delusion,
so much so that I have developed an intolerance to uncertainty.
My therapist would like that I’m using that,
that’s one of her favourite lines.
I live my whole life in a recurring conspiracy. I firmly believe things are going to happen and am genuinely shocked when
they inevitably don’t.

But there is something so tantalising about allowing myself to drink up an illusion of certainty.
I like the control and
I love the power it convinces me of.

“Remember me when you are at the beach, and above all when you paint crackling things and little ashes. Oh, my little ashes! Put my name in the picture so that my name will serve for something in the world.” ~ Federico García Lorca

                                    *

It is ironic, Salvador, because
I am afraid of many things in the world and
When I am with you,
I feel safe,
Yet your company is the one thing
I fear most.
I know that I love and need you
More than you will ever love and
Need me, that
One day you will be free
With another woman and I will be
Left paying for my sins against God. And
My rights against the state.

I thought that our love would have
No limits; you
Said that I am a Christian storm but
I know that you can brave this tempest and
Save me from myself.

I am a poet, Salvador, but
Whenever I sit down to write a poem about you,
Or even just how I feel about you,
I am unable to because
I am lost for words.
I speak only of what you and
Your paintings tell me;
I can no longer express myself.  

I remember the beach.
We would lie there for hours-
On its sand we would kiss not just with our lips but
With our eyes. The
Water will miss our visits;
Its body seldom taken by another,
As opposed to being engulfed by
Two artistic lovers.
Having received my seaside medicine
(Via touch of tongue
And word of hand)
I have come to the realisation that
You have, in fact,
Poisoned me.
I shall never be cured now.

The smoke from silent guns has risen,
I hold one in my hand.
Yet I am severed from the call
In a fight against myself.
A conflict to choose between
God and you.
I hear you say you are one and the same.
That, I cannot stand.

My focus is distorted.
Distracted. Abstracted.
We are too many miles apart;
You have replaced my words with your art,
You have broken
My heart.

Where is your warmth now, Salvador?
I am alone by the sea trembling with the cold
That you swore I would never feel again.
Winter will devour me as a
Result of your failing to
Relight the fire that is supposed to
Ignite me.
You promised me life with a portrait machine
But in all honesty
What I want to be
Promised with,
Oh, Salvador Dalí,
Is your faith, in me.

My first cigarette was at twelve years old,
under the climbing frame,
after my turn on the monkey bars.

My mate told me not to do it-
he tried to take it off me but
was too late.
I’ve been trying to quit ever since.
Soon after, that little climber
discovered cider, yearned
for something wider and
ended up with alcohol poisoning by
the end of the year.

My first stand-up gig was Lee Mack.
I was 13.
I sat right at the back on the balcony and revelled in the
happy faces below me.
Ending with a slow motion impression of Eric Morecambe,
I could’ve sworn it was the fastest hour of my life.
I can’t believe I was
So naïve.

When I sat my first exam at sixteen,
an hour seemed a minute.
Crash forward to A-levels and I
was being examined in a
therapist’s office-
how the tables had turned.
Ticking boxes to be assessed and there’s no way I can
pass this test because a
high score can only mean
very bad things.

How can life be so virile, yet so lacking and sterile?

I was told I’d find myself at uni
But I’ve ended up losing myself at twenty.

Pastel blue sky longing to
Hang over wheat;
There is only grass.
Green.
Green with envy at white clouds as
They pass.

                  (A different journey)

Poplars strive to touch
Shrunken, grey clouds that
Recoil at the very sight.
Ah, the plight of an
Innocent gesture.

               (Nowhere else to go)

Wind snears:
My train moves it so.
Grass is merely in the past
As I am slung
To and fro.

                          *

The seat next to me is empty. A passenger of invisibility kindly agrees for my bag to rest on their featherlight lap. Reservations elsewhere have been made.
Durham can wait.

                            *

In my lecture, there were four empty seats next to me. All other rows were full.

                            *

Last Monday, I got ****** at Stone Roses Bar. Stumbled along to ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.’
Hands were all over me:
Creeping and
Touching.

                     Why is it that when
I want company, it flees?

When I embrace
                            Loneliness,

             It molests me.

Gale looked outward.
Stared dead at the tyrant approaching.
The wind did not chill her;
She chilled the wind.
Haunted it.

Whenever it blew you could be sure
She’d be there, standing against it:

Standing like a poplar-
No, taller-
Drinking wine in the embers,
A tree that fought the enemy.

Cries carried on a breeze,
Watching the world
As it falls to its knees
Because Gale won’t be
Felled.

She’s a force to be reckoned with.

Sounds of a generator and somebody
Shouting nearby. Reflections of
Blurred lights and a
Window playing television through blind slits;
This is it, this is it and
I shall embrace it.

Sewage surges below me and above me
Orion persists.
Should I take this as my glimmer of hope? Something
Of a trope belonging to my tragedy?
I shall embrace it.

Sitting in a cafe now, spilling
Tea on books and recalling my
Favourite of pages bound.
A mother sings a lullaby to unpacified baby, bittersweet
Melody of soft cries and
Soothing voice rattle against
Cutlery.
Life’s ultimatum sits opposite.
I shall embrace it.

Twisting the cap off that first beer;
Always the best but made so much better by
Sounds of Purple Rain,
And those you hold most dear
Talking about
Music and food and
Times in their youth.
The crickets cheer as we
Reminisce in the 'here
And now'-
Relaxed smiles
Clear the skies as
Night falls, whilst
Stars appear;
Lightly dappled on the ground.