All I want
Is love and light
  I want arms to hide in
   and lips to kiss mine

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.

A library of poetry
cannot articulate
what is found in
two minutes of Chopin.

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.

I have tried to replace it
with peppermint tea,
I have tried to repress it
with Phenibut and ****.
Painting wood the colour of metal,
I moved to erase the splinters
by feigning progression,
whilst all the while
that thorn in my side
became a mental health obsession.

I have tried to better it
with morning walks and coffee,
I have tried to harness it
with Chaturanga and poetry.
Siphoning words through a trusted vessel,
I came to meditate belonging
through crystals and nicotine,
whilst all the while
that space in my bed
could no longer be filled with wine.

I have tried to fulfil it
with an endless stream of ****,
I have tried to out-live it,
but always fall asleep by dawn.
Kissing through the sweat of a fever,
I bite my pillow-case and
think of your inner thighs,
whilst all the while
that warmth of touch
is lost to the cold, empty skies.

I believe my soul is rotten
Yet you say it is not

I see my face, it's so ugly
Yet you say I'm pretty

I think my body is destroyed
Yet you say I've earned my stripes

I know my heart is beyond repair
Yet you say you'll help mend it

Can you really see so deep into my eyes?
Into my soul?
My heart?
Sometimes I think you're blind
Because everything about me is *torn all apart

I can smell him on my sheets
      I can taste him in my dreams
             I can still feel every inch where he's touched me
I hear his laughter echoing in the walls
             I can still see him in all these pictures I saved for
           memories

But this bed is bare
My dream's a nightmare
       I can't hear
             His laughter
       He's not near
             Enough to touch
My eyes are blinded by tears
He's killed my senses,  
      I'm no longer aware

Everything around me,  slowly fading away
His face, his scent, his laughter,  his touch
Maybe I'll just pop a few pills and sleep away the day
At least he's in my nightmares, the pain of reality is too much

I put on another dress
I apply another coat of blush
I curl my hair perfectly
     I look like a dream

I take another pill
I pour another glass
I pull out a razor
     I hurt like a nightmare

I tell another joke
I give another kiss
I smile till I forget
     I fake like an actor