He brought her along,
only wanting to get laid.

She introduced herself
as awkward, 'though
first impressions rarely
amount to truth.

I watched him flirt with her;
and watched her try to pull away.
But, it's Friday. Gotta get ****** up.
What else is there to do in life?

She drank more,
he drank more:

"Nah, guys, I'm totally cool to drive."
He slurred as he spun donuts
to impress the tipsy woman.
His hands inched to her thighs.
His eyes seized her *******;
who needs to see the road?

We made it to the birthday,
a standard college party.

She and I sat across one another
at the table. She smiled and started
small talk:
"Oh, I love Vonnegut,
have you read Sirens of Titan?"

We kept drinking as he went out
to pick up more *****.

"Of course I play video games,
they got me through high school."

He took longer than he intended
but neither of us complained.

"Isn't chemistry only
the language of biology?"

Time passed quickly, or slowly,
either way it's dead and buried.
She started to stumble,
huddled closer to me,
tried to move from him
when he returned.
She lost coherency,
she looked at me, muddied;
did she have something to say?

Had she asked,
she would have received,
but silence heralds silence
and unvoiced wants
remain unfulfilled.

He knew she was loosing interest,
that, of course, I'd gotten in the way.
He pulled me aside:
"It's time for you to leave.
I just want to get laid
and you're ******* it all up."

He drove us both home,
hand grasping her thigh,
but she didn't notice;
she was barely alive.

I suppose this is how it goes:
some nights you make friends
that you never see again.

Drinking alone makes me feel
sorry for myself, so I avoid it when I can.

I walked over to her apartment,
with a six-pack in my hand --

no ****** beer, no! The finest
local, solar-powered confection.

But I never made it inside;
never made it through her door.

I met her just in time
to pass her as she left.

But that's the story of my life, I suppose.

I see how my life
is dripping through
my hands;

how these years are my "prime"
and they'll never
come again.

Somehow,
it's Saturday
and I'm drunk once more.

Sitting
in my living room
spinning towards the floor.

Feeling lost and feeling lonely
Can't I be your one and only?
Wandering along to my own heartbeat
Life's more fun with another pair of feet
A *** to squeeze, a hand to hold
A pocket to put my fingers in, when they get cold.
Someone to splash when I jump in puddles.
A lover to stop me getting in a muddle
A friend, a foe, a confidant.

i can feel it getting colder

i watch lovers turn to strangers

and it puts things in perspective

i didn’t believe in ghosts until i could still feel you after you were gone

i put the kettle on but it never goes off

and the calendar is thinning like the time

since i last touched you

looked at you

i usually hate change

but it’s you that’s changing these days

and i love you

it’s all so conflicting

my hair is growing longer

you said i looked like rapunzel  

but that was when our clothes stuck to our bodies

and now the leaves are falling

and i’m left clutching these books

trying to find what i need in them

***** the novels i read at midnight

it’s you i want

i’m putting on sweaters

i dont mind the weather

but i used to stay warm with you

and things hurt worse than they used to

replaying the things you breathed into me so many months ago

if you wondered why i never used your name

in those poems that i wrote

it’s because i used love as an excuse to be shy

i’m struggling to find hidden meanings in forced glances

but life is not a mystery and we aren’t all just stories

i wash the blood off my hands

to get rid of the guilt

but the bruises from the fall remain

and my knees look like they would break in half

if you looked at me again

These chains across a battered soul
The fear that never becomes whole
The page I seem to always skip
The path I seem to always slip
The cry that always seems to bare
The pain that always resides there
The broken that no one understands
The survivors that dropped each others hands
The song that never meets its end
The perfect life that's always pretend
The love that doesn't exist
The ones you always seem to miss
The memories that seem so faded
The wounded hearts so filthy and jaded
The need to just be numb
The constant reminder that you're dumb
The words that cut deeper than knives
I bless your heart if you survive

Janice sat beside you
on the bombsite
off Meadow Row
looking towards

the New Kent Road
watching the people
and traffic pass
you with your catapult

and she with the doll
her gran had bought her
from the market in the Cut
Gran said those are dangerous

Janice said
pointing at the catapult
not if you’re careful
and responsible

you said
but they fire stones
she said
guns fire bullets

you said
they can **** people
David killed Goliath
with a stone

she said
I heard it in church
I only fire at tin cans
or other such targets

you said
she looked at the sky
at pigeons flying overhead
what about birds?

she asked
no I don’t shoot at birds
although I did fire
at a rat once

but missed
and it ran off
I hate rats
she said

there was one
on our balcony once
and it frightened me to death
you laughed

you remember that coalman
who stomped on that one
along the balcony by your flat?
yuk

she said
horrible blood and guts
everywhere
and on his boot

you said
she hugged her doll
close against her
don’t remind me

you studied the doll
in her arms
the way it was close
to her chest

her hands caressing
the painted china head
the yellow flowered dress
and small white socks

and black plastic shoes
you’d make a good mum
you said
watching her rock

the doll in her arms
do you think so?
she asked
yes

you said
maybe one day
I will have a real baby
she said

and rock it to sleep
and feed it with a bottle
and burp it
and change its *****

like I saw a lady do
in the toilets
of Waterloo station
and Gran said

it wasn’t hygienic
not there of all places
Gran said
I’d have to have

a peg on my nose
if I had to change
a baby’s *****
you said

I think men
have weaker stomachs
than women do
she said

I think mothers
are given stronger stomachs
when they have babies
it’s God way of helping them

deal with babies
I’d rather have a catapult
than a baby
you said

or a doll
do you want to hold my doll
and I can hold your catapult?
she asked

no thanks
you replied
if my mates saw me
I’d never live it down

she kissed the doll’s head
and said
likewise
but there was a smile

on her lips
and a sparkle
in her eyes
and a beauty

in the way she sat
in her orange coloured dress
and bright red beret hat.

I want to fall in love with someone,
Someone who is self aware:
Spiritually and sexually
Someone who is willing to explore the world with me:
The heavens and divine ecstasy
Someone who understands the virtues of mankind:
*The heart and simplicity

It's nothing but a tickle
a little itch on your left thigh
actually your knee
scratch, but now your ear prickles
and your bangs flop in your face
it builds up until you can  no longer ignore
so you pull over...and go crazy
nails biting into your flesh
tracing white lines of chalkboard scraped skin
the short lasting burn gives way to relief
from the daily reminders
intermediate notions hinting
hey, you're alive.
So while your mind wants to meander
through marauding thoughts
of mutiny of your ship
your foot will develop an insisting itch
that you just have to scratch
till it hurts
and satisfies.
Till you realize you are alive.

I'm not asking for forever.
I'd settle for a moment
or two.

I don't want to hide
from inevitability.
I'm aware all things
tend to fade.

There's no need to
pretend we're immortal,
and I'm happy we'll never
get the chance to be so.

I've thought about what it'd be like --
to live forever, with myself.

I imagine it'd be like a new city
every weekend.
I imagine I'd see the same people,
just a new arrangement of faces.

I'd know all the pitfalls and say, quietly:
"Ya know, I've seen this before.
Maybe you shouldn't do that."
But I don't speak loud enough.

Oh well. New week, new town.

Then I think of all the farewells.
I'd probably become numb to good-bye
and forget to ever say hello.

I'd get stuck in my head
and know the story of every person
without ever speaking to them.

Watching them walk, I'd make
up their stories for laughs.

She wanted to be an art history major
but prudential planning interrupted her thoughts;
now she studies biology, or chemistry, or physics.
She isn't happy at all.

I can tell by the shoes that she wears.

He wanted to be born as a peasant,
unaware of money or cars or the lot.
He thinks people are happier like that.

I can tell by the shades that he wears.

She wants to be a trophy wife.
He wishes that he never had kids.
She thinks she's too good for manual labor.
He once lit a bag of cats on fire.

I'd laugh at the stories unfolding before me.
After a few generations, I'd know every
story combination that ever could be.

So, I'd turn my gaze to myself
and find another lonely man
making stories in his head
without ever asking if they're true.

I don't think I could handle forever.
Sometimes today doesn't end soon enough.