it hurts when i touch you
i’ll comeback for more
because the inclination to pain
is all i know

A toast to life
Sad and confusing but beautiful at last

She was stuck
in endless cycles
it seemed to her
more harm than good
to be a girl
in this world

What sort of wretch am I?
Who curses God from where I lie
When I want to sing
I want to cry
But my arid throat’s too dry
To utter anything but
“What sort of wretch am I?”

PHOTOGRAPHS AND GHOSTS

The wardrobe
blocked my way.

It stood on the pavement.
As did the chest of drawers.

Daring me
to pass.

As if the
De Chiricos

had upped sticks and left
the past trailing behind.

An old mirror leant against
a new yellow skip

with as yet
nothing in it

reflecting the street
back onto itself.

Mottled with time
cracking a smile

catching a cloud
that strayed into its gaze.

A bird appeared and
rescued the cloud.

Making good
their escape.

A one handed clock
shamed by its present state

reached to scoop up
the fallen moments

all the tick tocks it
had ever uttered.

The house was gutted.

The humans who had lived there

lost long ago

turned into mere photos

that scattered in the wind.

Now only

photographs and ghosts

photographs and ghost.