Following the bloodstains home,
we tread the land with bristled soles,
to cleanse the souls of the wide-eyed youth,
spectacular fireworks to alter the truth,
tar the land, and pepper the streets,
concrete the corner where strangers meet,
the placebo joy of the modern life,
left vacant in the money-man's wake,
a cardboard lot left to decay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

The newsrooms are clinical,
policies in place to reduce moral outrage,
to reduce it to a hysterical mess,
a cartoon-disaster of life's distress,
so the public in fear, exist but not live,
to fight the recession; you must give, give, give,
give, your life to your freedom
to live without choice,
you can sign a slip,
to mimic a voice
and to ensure the vow of regular pay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

A history of salvation,
we lend heroes to established truth,
we parade on corners in our concrete joy,
rejoice in the miracle of the new royal boy,
who shall live in fat, and live in health,
sacred tender to the country's wealth,
of empire and power of totalities,
of stone-walled cities,
and Northern breeze,
the Jack tattooed on imperial flags,
oh, this is my Britain of today.

A stream of entertainment,
how it pounds the floor in seamless sound,
how it drizzles the walls in a trophy glitz,
a hypnotic and false, synthetic blitz,
of caffeine veins, and digital sea,
of attention-span in atrophy.
Wait not on thoughts, instead mind-chatter,
you say “don't talk on dark topic,
and keep depth away!”
oh, this is my Britain of today.

Following the apathy home,
I tread the land in heavy-worn soles,
to cleanse my soul of restricted air,
to dream of travel, to fortunes fair,
but in this bliss of a greener grass;
it is for Britain I hold communal mass.
For each Blair, I know, is a Rupert Brooke,
each levelled city, there's Wilfred's book,
or some Dickensian dream of caricatured past,
where only tyranny is built to last,
for each liberty taken, is Huxley's piece,
is Lessing's thoughts and Shelley's release,
and the meander of Avon through grey rain,
adds desperate poetry for the lives still slain,
so we can live in peace, and in sugared tea,
with red wine lips on the periphery;
in those day's hard living,
in those days' worth spent,
with only a book
and blood descent,
the community dances in the advent of May,
oh, this is my Britain of yesterday.

it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.

the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,

they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.

they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.

it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.

they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.

i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.

flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.

gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.

its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.

wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;

buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.

i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.

at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.

it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.

daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.

sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.

it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.

you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.

it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.

i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.

i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.

it’s windy I think
at least the windows are rattling

the men in hard hats
yellow motes in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison

they scale the façade
of the contralateral building

they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails

it’s early I think
though the lights are always on

they’re fluorescent, staining
unflattering colouration – rinse
your skin to poverty
to jaundice

I’m here because of pills
I’m here because school is out
I’m here because I’m tired
and I’m tired because of you

flowers sit at the side
already dry upon purchase

gifted awkwardly:
“can we give flowers to a man?”
“a foolish drunk”
“a boy in sheets”
“here’s a helium balloon
to lift your spirits”
“don’t look when it sags to the floor”
“you know that he will”

it’s lonely I think
though it’s filled with people

wristcutter, lupus, chemo,
we’re what’s left post-production
“buy me for half price
or at least half an hour of company”

nurses scan with motherly eyes
radiator warmth - at twelve to three
she washes me, asks me to lift my *****
to get at the two-day grime
of indolence

it’s sad here I think
at least the television is boring

daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bed-sheets gain weight
until nothing is mine

sleep comes in fits
and starts in blindness

it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where reality failed

you haven’t come
I knew that you wouldn’t

it’s hard to blame you
what with my post-use pining
long after you’d given up
the way I act familiar
after treating you like a stranger

I long to leave here
so much that the windows are rattling

I’m here because I am
I’m here because of my job
I’m here because I’m tired
and I’m tired because of you

My desk is scattered with
notes, drafts, prototypes,
of my love letters to the world.

Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of hieroglyphic ink,
pleading for my future self
to flesh the bone,

of the skeleton in my thoughts.

Beside them, the trusted red wine
to chase down the pressures
of the world, hold them in line.

Each sip, a godsend,
each bottle a promise
that love will never end.

The simple pleasure of a desk;
a confounding beauty,
the collage to your life
and all that preoccupies you.

Your personality is laid before you;
each picture, beer bottle, notebook,
a fragment of yourself.

My desk is scattered in
the loves, hates and frustrations
of my place within this world.

Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of unintelligible ink,
pleading for some higher power
to flesh the bone,

of the skeleton that is myself.

Please, sit with me.
Talk to me of travels far
and scandals now settled.
Load me up on gin,
as you give me
my first piano lesson.

You press elementary chords
with the expertise that appears
to flood, flood in all your motions;
in all commotions of doubt
and in the brilliant glow of hair,
that has so stolen my heart.

Please, bear with me.
Crest of a tolerant smile
as my clumsy fingers fail,
loaded with gin and fear
of all inadequacies,
of all loss of melody.

These deficient hands apologise,
as they ***** in your blessed wake.
Unholy pilgrim (whiskey on the sly),
I temper doubt in suspended life
as you squeeze lime into my shot,
oh, my saint and shaman of poisons.

Please, do remember me.
Recall ease of laughter
and all of the moment's poetry.
We're loaded up on gin,
as I drink for safety,
as I drink for old scars
and as I drink you out,
before the start,
before a career of future hurt

in the fear of love found through Chopin:
an eternal, unsatisfied infatuation.

All this,
as you give me
my first piano lesson.

I remember the first time I *******,
I thought I was having a seizure-
or that I had somehow malfunctioned the Matrix
and had broken through
a fold of reality;
some white-noise ladder to greater plains,
throbbing, animal convulsions,
and a peak that only death
could overpower.

I remember crashing into shame
upon my return, versus the smug welcome
of oxytocin and my adult life;
not knowing to what extent
my ***** would dominate my mind;

you know, I cannot write a poem
without noticing my loneliness,
all the ******* I have left behind.
For that moment, in my New Found ******,
I was paralysed at the thought of a sober life,
and ever since that moment,
ever since that night,
I have been searching for those higher plains
in the lowest branches of myself.

Now I smoke my fill and redden my eyes
to bleed out old anxieties,
dry up old tears whilst softening scars
that I have collected over years
spent indoors, hiding from danger.
I remember the first time I *******,
how it came to me by accident,
a repeated motion of unknown emotions;
the undulations in her breath;
even now I still sit by myself,
and make love out of whatever is left.

Lucidity returns to me.
Another brief, lucky reprieve
of the torment, the shattering
of mass into this wretched,
hairless body of a child.

Malnourished eyes catch mine
in the stained hospital light.
Familiar face of vanity
now thinned to skull,
tarry naked for the young nurse, as
suspended strings play out this;
my marionette existence.

I have become the aftermath.
The end-point of cancer's feast,
seasick infomercials praising
my false bravery,
ignoring my persistent desire for life
and all the Gods I have turned to
in the past six days
and then tomorrow, I rest.

Cancer's feast. Flaying me to bone,
to awful bone and thoughts giving way
to the heave of my poisoned lungs,
the tide rolls and floods
of blackened deserts,
of shadows and malignant force.

Toasting 'lack of spring', I am devoured by it.
Each day is spent in the fly-swat region of summer,
multitudes eating at me in the Indian air,
in air of parasite, of larvae, of virus and pollution,
of all that smothers life and light.

I am tired of hospitals.
I am tired of lifting my *******
at the maternal call of the nurse,
of hacking purpled guts
in the dead of night,
in the light of day,
bile now a resident of taste.

Oh, wasted image,
oh, redundant beast;
take me to the back,
to the cut-throat choir
behind the curtain.

Oh, winter's passing,
sing to me in my demise,
a dove-salute of olive branch,
as far land's arrival
and plains unexplored
approaches,
approaches,
approaches as pain subsides,
as Laura comes with baskets of ****
and covert return of appetite.

I am barely living. Dying star of eros
and factory philosophies of truth,
there is only time left to crawl to the bath
and to fly through the avenues of memory.

In a life half-loved
and in a life half-gone,
comes a dream unbounded
and yet, finally lived.

I shall never know,
if you faked those blackouts.

The ones that made you crumple
on the stairs. Or else out in the cold
of Andy's rusted shed. Once I caught

you naked, you know,
during one of your blackouts.

I shall never know,
if you faked those blackouts.

I wouldn't have blamed you,
a shed-full of
wasted tanks and canisters;
lighter fluid, degreaser, air freshener,
foot spray – they spoilt the flooring,
and they spoilt our thoughts.

Never once deterring
from the self-manifest dream of escape,
of truth and eventual decay;
we took to bare arms
to satisfy
our escape from oxygen.

And, in open view,
you laid out naked with her.
You more studied her,
than ****** her,
you more observed ***,
than became it.

I wanted her
as much as I wanted to be you.

So, I traced my dreams to your nothings,
upon your heralded wisdom,
but never could I untangle
from some impossible condition.

No, I never could untangle
the means from the ends,
and never could I darken
at will,

my old blackout friend.

The weight of the world smothers me,
leaving troubles in my head,
yet you soften me with tranquility;
your own weight upon my bed.

And what a waste of poetry,
to forget what you bestow.
So I’ll write to you dear, so breathlessly,
to tell you of what I owe.

Without you I live absently,
just a shape within this world.
For, you’re the blossom of the cherry tree,
the colour of life unfurled.

So think not on the atrophy
of my day-to-day romance,
and more so upon the fluidity
of which you and I do dance.

We dance to divine simile,
and I write of what was left.
You may say that I write with such beauty;
but without you I’m bereft.

Bereft of any symmetry,
devoid of your wholesome kiss,
for, it’s with kindness that you nourish me,
and leave me in fateful bliss.

http://www.mixcloud.com/ed_coles/

I have decided to read aloud,
to project my thoughts out to the crowd.
I'm probably ****,
and I'll most likely stutter,
but it is better than leaving
my words in the gutter.

Rest within my sight,
remove all your conscious doubt
and simply be loved.

I thought I had found my love
but she was just a name;
a series of letters
that held up all my words.

Well my baby's blue
Almost all the time
She's a broken soul
Can't go out alone at night
And her tattoos
And her sweeter side
And all her bad advice
Under the neon lights

I've been broken down
I've been split in two
If I go straight with you
I'll be searching
For your face tonight

But if fates allow
If fates allow
Then we'll collide
Under the neon lights

If fates allow
There'll champagne
And endless wine
There'll be broken glass
In the morning
But we won't mind

Because we'll be sleeping late
We'll be wide-eyed
You'll be coming down
I know you'll be coming down
After the neon lights

After
The neon lights

Well I sold my soul
For a melody
I've sunk my teeth into
Every half-strung tragedy
And all these childish tantrums
Darling, they don't work on me

But you're most beautiful
Under the neon lights
Under the neon lights
Under the neon lights

Yesterday's rainfall erodes the callouses
on my feet. It sends my soles
to tenderness, cleansing out
my footfalls from over the recent months.

I'm new again. The water removing
my strength much as the approaching winter
does to soften my will, my tendencies to
walk along these day-lit streets.

Christened to the elements, I'm expected
to pour strangers drinks with a
manufactured smile to cloak
the pains of my feet as they walk this world.

And you come to my mind,
as you often do. I hope you're not floundering,
I hope solemnly that you have found your place,
or else that your head falls peaceful

each night you lay down to dreams.

Because it's heavy weather in this world.
The air too dense for breath,
and daylight far too brief,
to sit and wait impatiently for life to begin.

And dear, all I can offer is my well-wishes,
I am afraid that it is all I have got,
for I can barely take care of myself,
filled with the fear and the shadow of loss.

Please, don't revoke me,
or assume my life to be a self-obsession,
or my friendship but a fleet of foot, or worse
a fragment of a chapter in your life.

I am still here, chipping away.
Still here in this coffee shop, still conjuring
a ghost of imagination, inspiration; words
that fail to scale what I hope

to impart.

And dear I'm scared that my life shall be curtailed.
Gone before I've had my fill of time,
oh, death before old age;
I'm not sure which one of them scares me more.

So I comfort myself with the thought of us all,
scurrying like wound-up clockwork toys,
aimlessly filling the world with delight,
hoping only that the hand that bore us

took the care to clear our way,
that she took the care to give us time.

It is 16:18. It is April.
Winter has thawed and all feels new
now that I can sit outside without discomfort,
without pale, immovable hands
and a wind to unsettle my thoughts.

My first beer of the day,
no idea of when the last will be.
An ashtray of previous cigarettes;
two of them are my own.
Always the follower of better men,
of charlatans and well-travelled fools.

I refuse to be a consumer,
yet I live to consume;
the pavement beneath anxious strides,
the warmth between her ethereal legs,
the drug still in my system,
the cold sweats in a half-empty bed.

My first crisis of the day,
exchanging money for a quiet place to sit.
To find my poison, toast my newfound health;
a wealth used to line my stomach,
or else to devour a box of cheap wine.
My last day off work,
last chance to sour in a sulk,
to gawp at the shapes in the ceiling,
to stay up through the Sandman's song.

When will I learn to turn with the world?
To not cling on in desperation
through each changing, unfolding scene.

Please fall, oh gracious snow!
Soften the ground under hardened feet,
slow the day to the pattern of my heart
and restore in full bridal gown,
the promises of yesterday.

I awoke this morn in a fit of grey sleep,
of grey walls and air and nocturnal keep.
In these days of all-taste and no flavour,
please fall to Earth, oh prophecised saviour!

Please settle to the concrete
and decorate our lives,
leave winter upon the mantelpiece
and all these troubles underground.

Please settle all my longing
from engineering sighs,
winter falls from heaven's masterpiece,
yet lands without a sound.

How can I envy new lovers,
when I so wish to be alone?
Why does this passing sadness
flirt over what I have just left?

They sit within their vanity,
they know their love and what it means.
Yet still, they kiss upon human kindness,
and of all the distilled hope it brings.

New To Town

There's clinking glass and wine on tap,
I'm new to town and I'm drinking alone.
This bar is full of beautiful women-
over half of them attached to some man
and the rest; laughably unattainable.

I've been playing with the jukebox in the corner,
picking at the cold fries surrrounding
a carcass of chicken; all the food in here
is the exact same shade of beige;
only ketchup and a smooth black stout bringing
real colour to the proceedings.

I've been spending half my time outside
in the half-lit beer garden,
standing beneath the thong-shaped tarpaulin
that hangs as an excuse for a shelter.

My eyes are a little red, but that's nothing new-
nothing a few sleepless work nights
won't do to you;
I smoke wearily in the rain
but I know I will sleep well, and full, tonight.
You see, the air feels clear here,
the people are good here;
I can wak to the coastline
to remind myself it isn't all concrete
and violence in the street;
I know that I am drunk tonight
but I feel that here, eventually,
I won't have to take to a chemical retreat
to find peace, to find sleep, to espace war on the screen;
to remind myself that I don't have to stand small
beneath the bigger names and bigger signs;
to remind myself that I cannot save the world
if I am so ******* in knots
that I can never unwind.

The tables are numbered, long, and communal here.
Men smile with all of their teeth
and clothes always hang better over confident frames;
I feel drunk on their confidence, an ocean spray
that salts my skin and thickens my hair-
a solution made in the depths of fluid and air.

Despite being on my fourth stout,
my leg is still jigging uncontrollably
beaneath the table
and so I roll another cigarette;
fix my eyes shortly to the screen
to watch the sports news roll by.

As I smoke once more
and listen to the rain hit the tarp
and a train roll in the distance,
I remember how far I've come,
how far I threw the dice
and gambled on this, a  better life.
A life by the sea in full bars
of beauitful people;
on the outside and looking in
on a scene full of pretension,
but shelves of whiskey and gin.

Earlier in the night, I walked down from my new place
and talked to the strangers in their workplace positions;
I stopped and asked for directions
as if I was someone who stopped people
and asked them for directions...

Now it's night,
I'm caught in the headlights;
in the traffic light shooters;
rainbow cocktails, more sweetener than *****;
but it all feels new,
too new
and I'm left with a tongue too big for my mouth,
I'm left with a head-full of doubt
and a gut-full of stout.

Still, the air is clear here,
the people are good here
and I can walk to the coastline
to remind myself that it isn't all about
going out for fresh air
and smoking cigarettes;
that it isn't about finding a state of happiness,
like Atlas; holding up the sky
in the fear it will fall upon us.
I can remind myself
that there is no race to be run,
there is no prize to be won;
I stopped being competitive
once I realised how pointless it was
to separate yourself from others.

There's clinking glass and wine on tap.
I'm new to town and, at least for tonight,
I'm drinking alone.
But there's a difference between
solitude and isolation
and in the company of these brand new streets,
I think I finally feel at home.

I do not want to talk about love today.
I do not want to mention
affectionate contact or semi-regular ***.
The newspapers are bringing forth
welcome divisions between mankind;
fault-lines of irreconcilable differences
to justify my half-hearted attempt at solitude.

I do not want to talk about sobriety today.
I do not want to bore you
with those nervous hours between cigarettes
and how I fill each moment spent inside myself.
******* offers a ladder of perfume and hair
for me to ascend to some anaerobic bliss,
towards an isolated unity between myself

and the woman stretched out on my astral bed.
I do not want to talk about much today.
I have over-thought all that is worth a mention.

Cross-legged and bare foot,
Spice on the tongue,
Iced beer through a straw;
Makeshift ****
On the white-wash balcony
Over dusted streets.

Revolving procession of strangers,
Exhausted stories born new;
Doctored through years of rehearsal.

I am every man.
White skin mistaken for affluence,
Exchanged for free gifts
And easy ***.
I never need to remember
Their names. They are always gone

By the afterglow morning,
Nights of mad love with no consequence;
Climbing heaven with feet on the ground.

Bruise of her mouth,
Stifled ******;
Surface wound on my shoulder
The only evidence
She was here.
Impermeable, remorse stale

As last night’s cigarette.
My open door births a crack of light,
Too slight for anyone to pass through.

I lost my true love
once she found my true self,
I keep thinking life is improving,
before I'm under the rubble again.

And I'll miss you,
I already do.

I realised that I loved you
and it felt like hands around my throat.
When you had already left the room,
all freedom of my heart did too.

You see, I had nothing left but you.
But you and my assorted maxims.
Now, I've been leaked to the press,
all of my scales have been shown
to the blue-light;
now, all that is left, is nothing at all.

The staircase creaks, the horns will blow,
the old shepherd joins the unemployment line,
claiming he has nothing left to show.

The poet weeps, the squeeze-box moans,
there's a reflected face pleading to be mine;
he sits and he sighs in heavy groans.

The cathedral stands, the tears fall,
percolating misery of stale breadline;
I return to you, cradle and all.

The reason's weak, the will is slow,
still I offer my hands and declare 'I'm fine',
before falling to ash and to woe.

The reaper reaps, the boy atones,
the new shepherds are turning water to wine,
they're selling their souls for pay-day loans.

The empire stands, the heroes fall,
they turn to sound-bites and faded sign,
to infant orphan – cradle and all.

This poet weeps, these tears will glow,
I will walk this police state and toe the line,
until I have nothing left to show.

Another shattering of illusions,
as I sit here in cocktail mist
and cannabis descent,
staring with guilt at the nicotine gum;
all the time applying lotion
to care only for exteriors.

Gold *** in apple juice,
I unsettle the ice in partial decency.
Half-baked notebooks scatter
amongst the stray tobacco leaves,
neglected books, tablets and glue;
it's little wonder my life has
fallen
apart.

Old jazz queen,
she's rolling trills and cigarettes
and reminding me of my spine,
the way it twists to the bass-line,
sending chakras to bedlam
and returning to me
my recently lost youth.

Keep it off the record,
as I tumble on through another night
of poison and medicine equivalence,
a summum bonum of forget-me-do's
and elimination of both
the future and past.

I clear the leaves from my autumnal porch.
After the dead slate of winter,
I will emerge, sober.

I heard the choir sing in the cathedral,
I watched the black busker smoke in the rain.
The words she writes are calm and cerebral,
her keyboard maps out our commonplace pain.
You can listen to the flutes in the leaves,
the percussive crack of ice in your drink.
I listen as your heart sounds a mantra,
persisting to live even as it grieves.
We can balance upon the ocean's brink,
a mineral spray, our unspoken Tantra.

There’s an offering of change
Vitamin pills and get rich schemes
Selling a better life
A shot of paradise

In a series of halogen bulbs
All the tunnels lead to Mexico
The hidden hand on demand
Working off in the shadows
Maybe they’re hiding in plain sight
Just a crazy thought that crossed my mind

Now I’m holding out for truth
Amongst the sedatives
Now everything I see
Is played out on a broken touch screen
And now the ship is sunk
Let’s get down to the bar
I need to see the sun come up
before I start to come down

Johnny was a head-case man
All the things they did to him
And when the rich men left
And when he finally slept

He’d sleep for an hour or two
In a punch-drunk afternoon
All of the chemicals
Working off in the shadows
It’s no wonder he took his life
Just a crazy thought that crossed my mind

Now I’m holding out for truth
Amongst the sedatives
Now everything I see
Is played out on a broken touch screen
And now the ship is sunk
Let’s get down to the bar
I need to see the sun
Come up before I start to come down

everything feels fun and new.
i mean, i'm in no way a functioning adult
but some sort of weight has been lifted.
i feel good. i am singing - of sorts - again.
i am writing better words
and smiling more.
there are still spaces to be filled
and a few more caverns to explore
but there is no endless void or black hole.
only oil-lit passageways underground
where i will go when i'm low
in the knowledge that i will find my way out.

Oh father, where did you go?
You're sending postcards
from the West Coast,
whilst I'm stranded in the snow.

Oh father, I hear your voice.
You're telling me to
keep breathing in,
telling me I have a choice.

Oh father, who are you?
All the evidence
of your footsteps
have faded into the blue.

Oh father, you walk with me.
You keep your ears
close to my thoughts,
in this distant city.

Oh father, where did you go?
You're being fanned
by the warmth,
whilst these northern winds will blow.

Old empire, I love you. In faded brick and verse,
polished limestone taken by the African wind,
I recall in only fragmented evidence,
your victories of past and how you since failed.

Archaic tongue, I hear you. Song of time now gone,
you leave notes in hieroglyphic calligraphy.
Infrequent and with no great cause for poetry,
you sit and you waste, waste in your comfortable love.

Retrospect tolerance, I need you. I need you
as depression requires air, reluctant drive
onward, onward to petty crime, awkward malaise
and a history of grey matter violence.

Old empire, I love you. In faded heat and verse,
I recall your stance in the sun, your agenda
of change and hope and of a youth not yet wasted.
Old empire, I love you for all that you once were.

Accidental absolution – how I love you.
How I live within page to satisfy your fee,
to distance this self from her television woe,
and the way she so gave up on life, before end.

For G.C*

I'm on the dole, in therapy, taking meds
and posting statuses. I drink far too much
caffeine and read too little. The cops are bad
and the drug dealers, good. I wear shades
to hide fatigue and spoil pavements with
cigarette ends and receipts. I stay awake
all night meditating, looking for that
deep-sleep pill and peace of mind.

I'm a modern man and an old soul,
stretched out on a beach towel in suburbia.
I punctuate my day with digital smiles
and late night calls to my pillow-talk
sweetheart. All milestones are published,
doctored and time-stamped to ensure
that every moment is lived in memory.
The sky is concrete and the ceiling, made

of glass. I watch tree surgeons clean
the economy's veins, retired carpenters
tending to their miniature Eden, as
the rapists neck their third can by the
fire escape. There are hosepipe bans
and water-gun fights, crowded hospitals
and empty funds. The government are
insane and only the lunatic fringe can

make sense of things. I'm sleeping naked
and checking my prostate in the shower.
There are bowel movements in the
cubicles and Zionism rolls on by through
every other wide-screen joint in town.
I'm chasing jobs and avoiding eye-contact,
throwing coins into the wishing well and
hoping for change. I'm a modern man
and a miserable Old ****.

I re-discovered an old habit today.
Hot water was drilling down my spine
as my extremities tarried in winter's cold.
Steam rose in translucent plumes about me
as I stood and stared at the drain;
angry torrents of colourless molecules
clamouring for the better seats
on their endless, thoughtless commute
through blind tunnels and inescapable voids.
I turned the shower pink.
I was not sure why but I enjoyed the art:
the statement of life amongst
well-ordered shampoo bottles
and the pristine white of the room;
a chance to claim substance again
after slipping into old routines
and falling off the face of the Earth.
The old habit came in an airport reunion;
a thrill of recounting long-healed scars
and that familiar embrace with an old friend
you thought you would never meet again.
I remember your smell, I know your taste.
I stopped shaving a long time ago.

Never could I fall in love
and not fall for another,
I would kiss a ******* the mouth,
but end up with her mother.

Never could I reach a smile
without finding a splinter,
I would stretch out into the sun,
but still curse the coming winter.

Never could I have a drink
and leave it all at that,
I'd drink until the new day breaks,
until everything fell flat.

Never could I hear a song
without thinking of the weather,
I'd hear the rain in deep sleep dream,
until falling like a feather.

Never could I write to you
and report without complaining,
I would cry for the price of air
and all the illness I was feigning.

Never could I enter the room
and fill up all the doorway,
I would fall at the feet of life
and always hide myself away.

Stood in a military uniform,
a costume I so despise,
you stare frankly
at the tobacco leaves
that I scrape the table to save.

The Villain is hanging from the tree
in the grounds that house your grave.
A benign smile
has ghosted me
and still I have learned nothing
about being brave.

The Villain spits on the cityscape,
a behaviour I so despise,
but he does it
to savour the drop,
to fall asleep to yoga breath
and harmonic lullabies.

You stand poised for combat,
a costume for the ages,
still you come to me
through poetry
as I keep filling up these pages.

They're counting scarecrows in moonlight
across the arid fields.
Men smoke cigarettes found in jackets
they've not worn in twenty-two years.

They're talking about Old Wisdom Street
and of getting into clubs.
Women are researching old lovers
they've not spoken to in years.

They're praying for the friends now gone
across time's limited field.
Children dress up as the Israelites
they've modelled in early years.

They're raising glasses to toast the present
and the fable of the past.
I have begun to listen to the lessons
they've not taught me for several years.

On A Diet

The country is on a diet,
drinking coke with no sugar,
eating burgers with no bun,
running on the treadmill;
it's powdered protein for lunch.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
a light head and guilty fries at night.

The country is on a diet,
doing yoga over yoghurt pots,
training their minds with sudoku and solitaire,
rubbing salt and condition into their hair.
It's 6 a.m. gym sessions,
it's squats on the living room floor,
the country is on a diet, my friends,
and so we have no time for truth, or war.

The country is on a diet,
avocado in the breadcrumb,
aspirin in the salt-shaker,
food numb on the tongue
and those slim-shakes always failed to deliver.
Thigh gaps and mind-the-gaps,
all these signposts for a cleaner living,
no dust on the shelf,
no bags 'neath your eyes to hide
the lack of sleep
and your ailing mental health.

The country is on a diet,
drinking tea with no milk,
eating carrot sticks with best-value dip,
running on the treadmill,
we never get too far.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
it's "anything goes" in the dark.

They took down the eaves
after all shelter was destroyed.
Left a pay packet
and the desolation of ailments
that sang long after
the contract was done.

Fed the blade across my bicep,
irretrievable fault lines
from everyone I had called a friend.
Every message in a bottle
was a disturbance to still water,
the peace I gathered alone
but could not sustain
with two hands, one mind.

Stole the salt from my hunger,
the youth from my face:

I would not let them take the music.

Filled every cup to feign optimism,
clouded eyes that had seen too much.
Every plateau I took to,
they steeped the gradient,
each flower, they reminded me,
came from death.

They took down the saints of kindness.
Cut each nerve ending
as I slept on broken glass.
Left a pay packet
and a phantom of good will
once I finally loosened the strings,
sailed away at a snail's pace,

my boat savaged by the tempest,
my sails torn and weary,
my flag falls low, at half mast.

Love swallowed you up

Old tyrant in shapeless clothes
Lining the pillows with used tisses
Blew smoke rings for the illusion
Of an open door

Arrhythmic moods
That collide in the hallway
Love were the moments
Locked inside the bathroom
Alone

Took to poetry when I learned
only pain gives perspective.
Happiness an impossible horizon,
fake as a headline,
a mirage, a migraine;
an ever-setting sun.

Mistakes are off-set paths
neither trod nor spoken of before.

Ghosts of old wounds and insults
slew the grain of progression,
each forecast of the future
births one thousand skeletons;
one thousand potential lovers.

An overdose in Dublin,
French lips; a slanted bow.
Blue feathers at the festival;
a taken woman who changes
the colour of her hair
when everything else stays the same.

Took to poetry when I realised
The Moment does not lie
on the tip of the tongue,
nor the beat of the drum,

that sense only comes
long after The Moment has gone.

Oh, I am dead to this false, worthless venture
of word and page, of half-baked pain and lie.
Oh, I am so tired of rhyme and not living,
bending thoughts in chaos-mind to structure.

Oh, I am done with this cyclical closure
of will, for the sake of all quiet art.
Oh, my heart is done with the strain of growing,
of growing old in all life's exposure.

Slip a little something in my coffee.
Make me weak at the knees
and treat this disease,
because I am tired
of this hard-fought living,
this city of mortar,
my dungeon-held daughter.
I am tired of submitting to ***
like a calf to the slaughter,
or turning words over
like cigarette ends
by the homeless shelter,
by the beer garden,
where wine is thicker than water,
coursing through your veins,
as I lay your hair out
like a river delta.

For all I have written,
I have nothing left to say.
No promise of pay,
or an off-chance for loose change.
I have dug my hand
through every pocket,
through sofa cushions,
under coasters,
and a fork in the socket.
There are a million ways
to get yourself high,
to find those lights pirouetting
in the sky;
some pill-drawn lullaby
of amnesia haze
and ***-shot girls;
she concedes to the camera,
and even pulls a twirl.

Break your fingers at the piano.
Play me a tune
to enliven my moods,
some fast-paced chorus,
some prodigal son,
some forgotten chord
laid down by Horus.
The race isn't run,
though I faltered at the sound
of the starting gun,
I think I have found a rhythm,
I am hitting my stride,
I will cheer the **** up,
and not lay down to die.
Please, lend me a kindness,
as I pay off my debts,
either passionless crime,

or transactional ***.

Sensory awareness;
fold of translucent light through thin blue sheets.
Faint scent of tobacco smoke -
morning reveals the desolation of yesterday.
Coping mechanisms galore!
Scene of poetry without a purpose,
scene of black holes in red carpet,
scene of high moons by the windowsill
and always feeling low, half-****** on Zopiclone,
how I once slept full, breathed from the diaphragm,
dreamed with ease - but that was so long ago.

Slept-in sheets, weeks of cold sweats
and takeaway pizza eaten in bed.
12 hour days on minimum wage,
I feel like a gardener on his last legs-
a garden to be tended to,
a garden that grows all around me.
The incense tray is full, synthetic Jasmine,
putrid Lemon-grass bought from the Pound Saver
solely to talk to the attractive Hungarian woman
behind the counter.
It's a working day and my mind is in disarray;
the sheets are too heavy, I'm a little hungover
and I've been going insane.

Half-an-hour to be showered, bowels emptied;
eyeballs removed - or whatever it is people do
to get themselves ready for the day.
It's a scene of kicking out in dead-water,
it's a scene of black holes and being human,
it's a scene of fear for the present day,
so much so you cannot build for a future.
Half-an-hour to be showered and out of the door,
half-an-hour to be someone I'm not-
well... I've had to fake it all before.

Desire only comes in the next train ticket,
the next fevered plan to get out of here.
They are selling roses in the canopies;
a thousand lovers for you to meet there.

This violence is born in desperation,
a vicious sting to quell the fear of death.
And yet you still wake to the radio news;
repeating in cycles, the pains of life.

Where did you disappear to in your longing,
your perilous climb down the fire escape?
Did you find that sense of humble belonging,
or else fall into a four-walled prison?

I miss you now, in absence of a letter,
your voice not heard to satisfy my days.
Stay with me as I take to pills and water,
straining to sleep without your words at night.

I'm out of range
I'm out of luck
Never lost my will
Just slipped out of touch.

You only want me
When I am walking
Out the door

Pain is getting old, nuisance slug
of toothpaste on a morning suit,
crest of daylight over dry eyes
at the first itch of addiction, processions
of commonplace panic begin
before the kettle comes to boil.

Pain ****** me like an alpha,
chained me to the kitchen sink. The brink
of insanity - messianic car-crashes, dead poets,
and cult leaders occupied our lives. Pain
lived inside, petroleum on fish-scale,
bone upon bone, a lie amongst lies.

Pain came to doctor the fairytale,
black-faced censorship, attention to detail
when forcing guilt under hysterical skies,
a cumulus jury, the persecution of 'I'.
Pain came to go over old grievances,
the people I knew, the friends that I missed.

The old man paints seashells
for all of the women he has loved.
He takes his husky for walks
along the beach, returning with
a bag of **** and a collection
of spirals and fans, still pregnant
with the whispers of the ocean.

By the window, he licks his brush
and steadies his nervous hands.
He will share a steak with the dog,
and wonder when the best company
became inanimate or at most; unspeaking.
He had long turned his back on Dylan
and Cohen, in favour of empty sound

and the rain hitting the tarp
in the garden. He recalls Diane
and the green of life in her poetry.
Louise, the blue of her moods and the sea.
Each woman had coloured his life
in hopeful hues, oh, and what a mess
he was in their absence.
(even the dog wouldn't sleep beside him)

The old man drew his last breath
when the silence became deafening.
When he realised he could not reclaim
memories through art, or through
the patient analysis of nature.
There was no shape or colour
that had not been created before.

There has to be an island somewhere, where people just sit around and play music, write, laugh, and get drunk. Where nobody cares about jobs, instead picking fruit from the trees and feeling content in the moment. A place where you are judged solely on your enlightenment, on your kindness of heart and what you display to others. A place where creativity is currency, and material wealth is only a means to an end and shared amongst all.

I dream of this place most nights, and each time when I come around, I fog my brain with beer and ****, in the hope that mist forms over these eyes, hoping it is enough to change the current landscape.

Talk to me, oh summer's day,
please, lift me from my silence,
this painted room
is an eventual tomb,
if you don't lead the way.

Take me up in purpled light,
please, fortify my garden,
this barren land
and all this shifting sand,
it barricades my sight.

So, with all the time that I have left,
there beats totality in my chest,
as I cling to all that is sublime,
I've paid my dues and served my time.

And time, time always comes to my mind,
how shadows lengthen and clocks will wind,
but I'll tarry for you, oh summer's day,
as you take me from my heart's affray.

Talk to me, oh childhood's end,
please, gift me with your wisdom,
this tarot card
predicts a future hard,
in the absence of a friend.

Love me now, as I fall and bow
at the mercy of discovery,
I'll take with me
only memories,
in this paradise recovery.

Passing through York,
I am aware that there is war.
slaughter and counter-slaughter,
lives piling up on the side
whilst Africa starves;
and yet, all I can think about
is you.

Newspapers cheat attention
with passing headlines of half-truths
and murderers turned to heroes.
My bank account empties,
all friendships have perished;
and still, all that I suffer for
is you.

Bury me in cigarettes
and drown me in my drink.
Please, forget that I was ever here
to tread this land,
to lie on my back over
the ceramic bathroom tiles.

Oh darling,
I’ve lost my balance without you.

You were a shadow to me,
You would follow me without question
Around every corner and on the fold of a bedsheet.
You would leave the house
Explore a tree
But you always left a trail of pinecones
To find your way back home.

The graceful thud of your paws
On my sleeping body,
Black fur darned with white socks
And I loved you,
I always loved you.

Life had dealt us a silent friendship,
Language was our deficiency
But we made it our own
Speaking through pupils
And reading the curve of our bodies.

And you were small,
You were always so small.
The runt of the litter
But you had the personality
To **** all the demons
That had scattered in my head through the day
And lull me back to sleep.

This knot in my stomach,
And the tears I concede
Are all for you and I don’t want to stop.
I will atone for every summer as a child
Lost in a dizzy haze of fun,
As you sat in the window
And waited for me.
Just waited.

Now it is my turn.

I saw you break into a shadow of yourself,
Even smaller every day
As you faded away by degrees.
I saw you fall limp into a dreamless sleep
And now as you are buried beneath the snow
I hope the first thing you see is me sat at the window.

In lapse, we bought gifts
in threes for what is two now,
on the first Christmas
without you around.

And in lapse, I see you
in those shadowy doorways,
and it scorches now,
without you around.

Oh, your silent will
gave forth to what is true now,
over the ground
on which you have run.

Oh, my patient friend,
I'm still sitting at our window,
on this first Christmas
without you around.