We are broken, were broke,
barely whole when we started.
We, became one, thought as one,
we were whole for the first time.
We gave and received love,
we gave and received our bodies,
we made a religious act from our one-ness.

I should have been aware that into all happiness,
a snake entwines around a heart.
Envy, caused it.
Into our sanctum it slid, and never left.
All by myself in what was once our haven,
I made plans. Cut the head off the snake and it dies.
But my heart still bleeds, you cannot un break a heart.

I cloistered away feelings, allowed you your freedom,
martyred my sanity in the name of our withered love.
Anchored my memories to our sanctum,
took refuge in the knowledge that I strongly held
the belief that we were still one.
And, we are my darling, still in our inner sanctum together.
I in the many rooms, you in the basement.

Fitting I thought, since 'base' desires took you.
Took you away from our sanctum.
But now your back.
The snake is now headless, actually she's more quartered,
and placed on four parts of the compass.
You see darling we are stronger as one, we are whole,
even if you are in the hole in the basement*.

I have an itch.
It needs soothing.
I can't scratch it, I won't stop.
I'll scratch until the crimson petals appear.
Watch the vermillion bloom against the white.
Then pick and scratch some more.
Feel relief as I watch the red run in rivulets down into a deep pool.
Hitching myself to an already aching itch was a mistake.
A mistake and itch scratched away with a meat fork*.

What do you do when all you want is to be elsewhere?
Not, another town, another job, another life,
but elsewhere.
What do you do when a child's scream of enjoyment
makes you start to cry, cry for that child's future disappointment,
your current disappointment?
What do you do when you feel envy at a bird in the sky?
Wanting to float on the thermal, up, up and then away.
But, you and that child who's enjoyment sent you spiralling,
have to remember, Icarus.
He soared away into the sun, that baleful, always watching,
globe of fire.
Purified by death.

Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the  echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.

Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.

The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.

How nice it would be
to walk into the sea
warm waters lapping my knees.
To go further into the surf
the warm sea of this earth
deeper still, until submerged
down deep until purged,
with the drowned of this world
floating and bloating in purgatory.

Moonlight lit the room casting shadows that stayed.
I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise into midnight's hour.
Nine hours to go.
Nine hours to wait.

Nine hours to remember,
remember the night,
that Easter Sunday.
That pub in Hampstead.

Why did you tell me that you loved me?
When clearly it was untrue.
Why did I love you so intensely?
When a single punch from you, took the life growing inside me away.

The clock has struck 3am
No mice have run down.
Just me, a table, cigarettes and the moon.
I'm not mad, that is true, just too passionate for you.

5am and a weak dawn is breaking
Just 4 cigarettes left, one an hour, if I'm lucky.
I called your name that fateful day, twice.
You ignored me, carried on looking for your keys.

Keys to a car that would not be needed.
You can't drive to where I sent you.
A .38 calibre Smith & Wesson Victory model revolver's
bullets were your last ride.

On 20 June 1955, Number One Court at the Old Bailey, London,
before Mr Justice Havers, I said;
"It's obvious when I shot him I intended to **** him."
I'd shot you dead.

Now it's my time to go meet our maker
Nearly nine, and a drop of 8ft 4 awaits.
As I told the Bishop of Stepney
"It is quite clear to me that I was not the person who shot him. When I saw myself with the revolver I knew I was another person."

8:59, with 30 seconds to go I take my glasses off
Won't be needing those anymore.
I know what a drop looks like.
15 seconds is all it took, my feet dangling toward the floor.

Sunrise, and with it the heat of the day,
I lay beside you watching your eyelashes flutter
your eyes roaming under their lids.
What are you searching for in this sleep so deep?
I'm here if you're looking for me.
Open your eyes and gaze at me, see me, want me.
Sweat rests on your exposed skin, tiny pools of salty water,
like seawater I want to dive into you.
Disappear under your thrusting waves.
The east has woken me, yet still you dream.
Hurry, wake up soon, I want to melt into you and this sunrise.

Take a spoonful of hate
a dusting of jealousy
a cup of bile
and stir.

Set on a high heat
add a family member or two,
cook until tender.
Serve with respect.

Life isn't about sugar and spice
and all things nice, it's about balance.
Balancing the good with the bad.
Love with hate.

Kindness and anger, all
basic human emotions.
Poverty and riches.
Jealousy and forgiveness.

All of us alive, need to remember,
remember, what came before,
and ask one simple question;
"What am I living for?"