A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”

There is no one in the stained glass window,
Nothing real enough to drag us out the dirt,
In your presence I wear a suit of nails,
Your existence, a Wasp inside my shirt.

I long for the waves to be strong enough
To rip your filth from our shore
There are no good words for the likes of you
Introduced us to hate, taught us to abhor.

An insult to those we’ve loved and lost,
When, eventually, you go, what kind of tears will be shed?
Because truth be told if you’re a ***** whilst alive
You're still a ***** when you’re dead.

We are alone, together
In the cold climes,
Transpenine Traversing, Riverbank Residing, City and Satellite Dwelling,
But out of apparent sight of capital
Some of us lost jobs, the railway and soon the hospital
Where we both End
                                    And
                                           Begin
                              End
                                     And
                                            Begin
Put a penny in the meter, don’t let the draft in!
Soon the heat will make our flats
All expand then retract
Then we’ll see the demise of the world at large,
Until the North becomes just a group of cats
Huddling for warmth under cars.

I have curled into a ball
in the corners of Europe,
Known the fractions of the nights,
Felt the breeze of the days
Pass softly through the gaps in my ribs.

The sky here does not know me.

I see you
sniffing the patches of sunlight you sit in
before sleeping with the spirits,
dreaming of the rain you'll never feel.
Outside of the windows
where you observed the decade
the gulls moved inland.

Perched uniquely
above the boiler room of the world,
Slave to nothing but your surroundings,
You watch the nameless go by,
Watch the nameless go by,
And when they cease to live,
You'll cease to die.