1.

I'm on my fourth
pack of cigarettes,
my twentieth cup
of tea,
my mouth tastes like
the gusset
of an unwashed person's
negligee.

*******, phone.
*******, door.
I don't even know
what you're for
anymore.

2.

A copy of a copy of a copy...
who said that?
who ******* said it?
No! Train your brain, Arthur!
Don't you dare Google it!

3

I can already feel
the lights of the
hospital
warm on my
head.
Make me a brew, ladies,
save me a bed.

4.
Why didn't anybody tell me
that it would be so hard
so instantly?
The last time
if I recall
it took two weeks
before the curtain call.

5.
I think I need to dream
to be reminded of
pretty words.

I’d never seen anything

like your flat.


It was ******* freezing

and your welcome mat

was all worn away.

All it said, was

‘COME’.

What an omen, eh?


You’d pinned Magic Trees

to the fireplace

and stupor hung from

all points of your face

then you made me lie across your knees.

Your legs knocked beats against

one another,

as I locked my feet,

one over the other

like beatific hands.


In the silence my eyelashes

rustled like fans,

and my forehead made furrows.

I clicked off my sorrows.

I recalled a scene by William Burroughs.

I am back in the old house, sat in the garden on a white chair. I am barely awake and a cigarette fizzes between my fingertips, turning into a long column of ash.
I stayed away from this house for over two years. I stayed away for lots of reasons. When people ask me why, I say ‘too many memories’ and they know not to press me for details. What an excuse! ‘Too many memories’. How tragic. How mysterious. A house as full as a brain, abandoned for knowing too much.
Memories are the stuff we are made of. It is impossible to have too many of them.
I sit on this white chair, and the house nudges my seahorse brain. All the candles of my mind are lit.
My cigarette burns out.

Let me indulge you, and tell you the only story than I can ever tell.

Last night, I dreamt of our pub. It was as gold and black as a caviar tin, a short walk away from school, aching with sun and ready with my pint of London Pride. The grubby green booth kissed your cricket whites and you were seventeen forever, seventeen and as blonde as a mothered statue of a prince, bone-idle, as blonde and as young as dreams can make you.

“Jesus died, for somebody’s sins…”

My hands were sweating around the pint glass and I could feel the promise of a **** in the air,  a good **** in some pink carpeted upstairs room in that ****** little pub from ten years ago where they played old music over tin speakers, where my youth dribbled **** into the flowerpots, where you and I had our first shut-eyed kiss in front of all of our friends and they never said a word about it, not one word.

“…But not mine.”

I fell in love with you in this pub where all I wanted to do was love you, touch you, tell you that you were the most amazingly screwable piece of **** this side of the Milky Way, when just your wayward finger could give me the hardon of my life – and in this dream, darling, you were as real as you ever were, as gold and compact as a star, pink crowned and already wet and I took you between my lips to soak you



G

L

O

R

IIIII

A



I dreamt of the whole length of you inside my throat, with my body so young and beautiful, and you coated me in your own saliva covertly, always hiding the things that I most desperately wanted to see -
batting my head and my hands away...

(Come on - let me see,
le us both be suspended in your spit,
insects caught in the molten gold, gold -)

“Jesus, died, for somebody’s sins…

But not mine.”

……….

Faceful of eyes -

Handling a beer bottle
Like a loaded gun.
(You never tripped over your shoelaces,
You never danced at parties,
And you never kissed strangers.)
How I loved that about you.
How I envied it.
How I fashioned an idol out of it.
For someone so feather-light, you were  
Immovable.
How I wish I'd known
That night
That I would never see you
Never dancing
Again.

Sometimes you’re there
Wry eyes,
I can smell you –
This flat seeps,
And the doors weep,
And the corners hold you up.

Marionette -
Magic directs you.

My atheist,
You are my reason for God.

Fire,
Turns witches into meat
And spends nights with marshmallows.

Earth,
Riddled with growth.

Air and Water win.
Stick prizes on these shiftless things,
The see-through drowners that score absolute zero.

Black curls,
Broken commas
Unarranged.

Snowlit cheeks,
Cold flowers
Dimly veined.

Dog eyes,
Rich dark
Recycled glass.

Bottom lip,
Baby fat.
Upper? Sparce.

I'm sorry
for my glamorous sizzling brain circuitry

I'm sorry
that I never warned you about the summer

sorry
I'm so sorry
for my own bones

sorry that I'm not quite the ticket

sorry if I'm not a good neighbour

sorry
I'm going up the wall

I'm sorry
if I wish this would go away
and give me the future that I'd always been promised

I'm sorry
I'm so sorry
but I can't cut out my own mind

and even if I could
I wouldn't

text me back to tell me that you're in

that you're in the living room,
downing gin,
sat next to an overflowing bin
whilst your flatmate plays the smallest violin

because if you're out I know you're meeting him -
(swollen from his evenings at the gym)

and I'll turn up, to tear him limb from limb,

so please text back, to tell me that you're in

I feel so old. I talk to people of my own age and can't quite get over how little they've done, how little they've read, how little insight they have into...anything. I'm not gonna sit here and say I'm worth anything more, but I can't have conversations with people who only care about skins and pills, because they've only just discovered what it's like to lose their minds. It's funny, the same age, and they're striving for madness. I'm clucking for health, for sanity. Maybe that's why I can't connect.

I wish I could rid myself of all this guilt. I wish I could just stop. I wish I had the peace of mind to cut everything out and let it ******* pour. Meds aren't making me better, they're only giving me the strength to stay above water, the strength to say no to soho and rhythm factory, say no to the ***** and drugs and ******* hell what I'd give for it all now, what I'd give to lose control again.  I'm not mad, nor sane. I'm sitting on the wall, catching my ankles on climbing roses and swearing like a ******* sailor. What I'd give to sink bits of everything into me. One of my favourite memories is when I shaved my head and emptied the razor out and let it bite right down into the back of my ******* head. The feeling was overwhelming - what if hits something valuable?
But wasn't that always the point?

the thorns that cross my mind at night
with gold eggs stuck in my throat
(cod liver oil, big and bloated and gold)

he heaves me into a cold front,
but I can hear planes circling us
on their fronts and cold,
the dark is a rumble
tottering ***** plates on edge

the planets are spectators come too close
like wasps, too close, can't finish this thought -
I love you but I need to be alone,
this is when ghosts come, too shy for you,
they need to sit and shyly shiver,
go now, go out,
and find out -
where is that plane going? Cold, someplace cold?

So what will I do
With my heart?

What will I do with it
Today
Or tomorrow,
How much does it owe,
(How much did it borrow?)

Is it daggered into my
Chest with ruby darts?
Is it butcher wrapped
In class-passed
Love notes,
Or shrink wrapped carnations?
Is it waiting around
For the perfect donation?

And what will I do with my head?

Is it getting bigger?
Will it slot into a shelf?
Is it killing me?
Will it fix itself?

What will I do with it
Next week,
Or next year?
Will it be William Blake
Or Edmund Lear?
(MRI:
blooms - blushes – stains,
This boy’s got roses
on the brain!)

And what will I do with my hands?

What will I do with them
For the rest of my days?
Will they stick to my lap?
Will they flutter away?

Will they get even worse
At unscrewing lids?
Will they shake sticks
at the neighbours kids?

What will I do with my body?
Will it see me through?

What will it do with me?
What will it do?

There’s a spider on your cheek
To the right of a wrinkle.
Has it become a feature of your
Face -
Do people stare and sketch it?

What long days you keep.

I will turn my eyes on you tonight,
Because there is no romance to the burning dog
Dragged like a myth to the tune of a truck -
And no roses or violets
Will sweeten that path.

You were dreaming half asleep
As we drove to France
Eyelashes in a clotted purple trance,
And you asked me as the birds came down in crowds

“Arthur, are they hills or are they clouds?”

The cat is being poisoned
My toenails are falling off
This house is haunted
And the fear is getting me down*

………..

Two children play with the hospital coffee machine, tearing open teabags and sprinkling the innards into pitchers of milk.
“This is how you tell fortunes.” The little girl says, watching the tea float.
“No it isn’t.” says the boy.
I want to go over and talk to them but my pyjamas have a bleach stain on the crotch that looks like I’ve had a *******. I am afternoon fog. My back is sweating.
I wheel myself over to the window with one of the hospital Bibles tucked between my knees. Inside the back cover someone has written:

THIS BOOK WAS MADE FOR SAVING
AND THAT’S JUST WHAT IT’LL DO
ONE OF THESE DAYS THIS BOOK
IS GONNA SAVE THE LIKES OF YOU

The kids behind me argue about fortunes. For a moment I let my head drop and my eyes close, but
**** **** terror ****
My cat is being poisoned,
And my toenails are falling off

‘You missed the fog’
He said,
‘Big Ben’s getting high’.

I miss you, I said.

I’ve tickled it into his naked back,
When he’s ******* me it spools around my tongue,
I devote myself with every playful smack –
And harder still when certain smacks have stung.

I laughed today,
I looked like Super Hans
When he tried to come off crack.

I suppose it's fine to be sloppy.

But if I ever wear a tracksuit –
Shoot me.

Grey morning,
The newspaper and
The cat.

His lilac eyelids can’t wake up,
Weighed down with
Saturday’s *****,
Pints and pints.

His dark legs,
My white legs,
Mixed up like coffee and cream -
He stirs and coughs and maybe dreams.

How I love Sundays,
Quiet and warm
With the newspaper,
The cat,
And him.

An old life
In a black box,
My only message when
The plane goes down.

Leave it untouched and embedded,
Don't find it,
Don’t peel the paint,
Don’t listen.

Don’t open coffins.

Toscar and I barely know one another. We burst into the house like two lions, scrapping, kissing.
       “******* hell. This place is huge.”
I have a desperation. His parka is wet.
       “You’re so cute.” He says as he hauls me upstairs. He unzips my jeans, throwing open doors, trying to find my room.  His hair is biscuity and thick. “You’re so ****. So cute.”

At around three o’clock we sit in the cold garden, smoking. He’s put his parka back on, with the hood up.
       “So, what’s going on with your eye and all?”
“I’m not sure. I have to have an MRI.” I glance over at him. “Maybe I’m dying.”
       “You’re not dying.”
“Maybe I am.”
He exhales a ball of smoke.
“My mum died of motor neurone disease.” He says. “Horrible ******* thing. And there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll get it too.” He pauses and fumbles around in his pocket, pulling out a pound coin. He starts flipping the coin a little bit, before putting it back in his pocket. I think he wants to make a point about his chances, but it’s too dark to really see the coin. “I just don’t think about it. Death. There’s no point. I’m alright today, d’y’know what I mean?” There is a silence.
       “My boyfriend died.” I say, eventually.
“Yeah, I know.” He says quietly. “Anthony told me.”
I try to stop myself. I really do. But I start to cry. Toscar doesn’t care. He pulls his white chair over to mine, and he lets me cry and cry and cry.
“I don’t want to be here anymore.” I say, and I’m not sure if I mean here, in the garden, in the house, or here, in the world. It doesn’t matter what I mean, anyway.
       “Hey, mate.” Toscar says, very gently. “You didn’t die.”

I am tipsy at lunchtime with an airful of rain,
Killing time before a party.

And I wonder how it’s going to be
When I turn up slightly tired
And see her face.

I’m drinking in the daytime
So that I am drunk tonight.

You stood up,
Your blazer ironed to immaculacy,
And in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard
Told the Society
That
You

Were

A

Nihilist.

I piped up like a prophet and said
"The only true nihilist
Is a dead one."
I just wanted to speak to you.
God,
I didn’t mean it.

The cries were lynched from wall to wall
Dangling like pastel vowels
And painted planets,
So the air smelled of colgate and snot.
Aw Dan, what a night that was!
You cried for your dog -
I wept for the bow in my laces
Which I knew I couldn’t tie without Mother -
But then the morning came with a friendly knock,
And in a few more nights, we were brothers.

I’ve totted it up, you know
And I’ve watched you wake up over a thousand times,
I’ve filmed you crash your car,
I’ve stolen your chips,
I’ve punched your kidneys
And pressed my eyelids to your lips.

What a long way we’ve come
From those two boys left alone.
I wonder what they’d have thought if they'd been shown a video
Of you and me in 2014,
Rushing a hug over beer?
I almost wished we’d known back then
So that we wouldn’t have been so frightened.

I wish we’d known how much we’d laugh,
How we’d utilise Latin,
How we’d sell those diamonds
Blagging, without a clue- !

I wish every boy had you
To see them through.

You could hardly even walk
But you’d only been on bottled water.

I was drunk.

“Tell me then,” I said,
“Do I make you worse?”

You called me
A whole litany of horrors
And shambled away,
And didn’t call for two days.

(I was so vain back then,
I’m sorry for being so vain,
I’m sorry for assuming
You had stormed away
Because you couldn’t stand
Me blaming myself.

I now understand
That you were wounded
By the word
'Worse'.)

will we ever share clothes again

will we ever gallop up the stairs
with big elbows and a drink

will we complain about the gum studded streets
and swap tales of our mothers

will we wrestle to music this summer
and compare our white arses,

will we wake up still drunk?

will we get our hands on each other's faces,
will we steal cigarettes,
will we ****,
will we text,
will we worry about each other's coughs?

will we ever swap clothes again?

Our teeth clashed –
A clunking omen?
Tipsy fingers strolling.

“I think you might be a genius.”
“Shh.”
Onto backs, rolling.

Something asked,
Can’t disobey it.
Dreaming mouth delays it.

“I love you.”
“Shh.”
No, I’ll say it, I’ll say it.

The mother of Love
Is Quietness,
And
The last thing to leave
Pandora’s box
Was
Hope.

Amber storms are coming –
But not for you and I, my love.
We will sit here in peace
With the windows
And our mouths
And the boxes
All shut.

I’ve tickled it into his naked back,
When he’s ******* me it spools around my tongue,
I devote myself with every playful smack –
And harder still when certain smacks have stung.

I never thought I’d fall for such a man,
Who smuggles love like drugs inside a coat,
I love loudly just because I can,
The words collect like songbirds in my throat -

Or three boats arranged into a fleet,
To sit behind a hesitating sky,
Sulking with the shyess of retreat,
Billowing with every loaded sigh.

A big shadow,
Overgenerous,
Sits quietly
As the lamplight sleeps
On its side.

The clock beats inside my thumb,
Ash kisses the floor,
Teeth wear fur.

Somewhere there is a TV,
And people clap.
Dare I eat more chewing gum
Just to find it in my hair?

And the way he stroked the roses was enchanting,

As the pint glass full of water was decanting,

And I felt as though I’d known that stroke forever,

As though he’d touched me long ago to soothe an error,

Like he’d fondled me before to watch me bloom –

But when I spoke, he just retreated to his room.

This pain is an animal
That I have not tamed.

Its teeth will fall out
And sooner or later
I am bound to feel sorry for it.

I spent a whole hour chasing the ducks,
Trying to make friends with them.
You watched.
I don’t think you even cracked a smile.
As the sun went down you took my hand
And in the resigned manner of a man resigned,
said,
(For the first time,
Like you’d been shoved into it)
‘I love you.’

..

He comes into the bedroom and thumps me three times on the shoulder. It’s his way of telling me he’s going to sleep. I reach over in the darkness. His spine is in my hands, his mouth is reluctant, and I’m sleepy. His skin is very cool. The pillows bunch up like a cloud between us. We are Tarot card lover.  I tell him that I want to **** him.
Later on I watch him slink away to the bathroom. He is so beautiful in the light of the doorway with his hand reaching out to guide him - my God, I can hardly stand it.
There is a glow, the bed rocks, I smell soap.

It is the day after the funeral and my sister is with me. I’m drinking Covonia straight out of the bottle.
       “I wish you’d come home with me.” She says. “You don’t want to be hanging around here.”
I wonder to myself how I’m doing this. I haven’t gone upstairs yet. I’m too tired to be mad, too tired to be suicidal, too confused. I breathe out, swallowing hard, my head jumbled, and I say:

       “In another universe I suppose this hasn’t happened.”

A post-it note on the kitchen memo board reads: WHAT IS TIME?

Perhaps envy is the mark of love -
Especially when you can devote yourself to the art of it,
To covet every grin and wish that you were half as sincere,
Half as pure,
Half as certain.

An inch -

the most
unsung
jacket
of skin

of tongue

of fur

of floorboard.

Run me over

Give me
An
Inch

And one more
And one more
And one more
And one more

When I was young
I didn’t have the language.
The locus
Of my pain
Was beyond reach,
A book of forgotten
words.
I’m older now,
And sometimes I still think
All the words are foreign.