A red river runs with me- through the night
  and the heart of the city. “Burst the banks!”,
I yell but his movements stay slight.
Bobbing along, to the moon we give thanks,
for it’s filled their minds with the expectance of fright.
The wrong time bends its way toward the right.
Everything else bends too, to fill in the blanks.
  We’re starting to spill over. The flood comes tonight.  
The blood that I run with will stain your hands,
The river will coarse through young and old veins.
But nature doesn’t come calling out any demands,
She moves us-sweeping and cleaning up mans stains.  
Times hands are broken. Your guess is as good as mine.
Each horizon I’ve arrived at, they always move the line.  

I fell into the river from a childhood nightmare-
And sometimes I fall back home in the day.
But each place is the same- Scarily rare.
You can blame it on pixies or blame Gray-
Or any kind of thing that makes a young mind aware.
But I’ve laid my thoughts out and stripped them bare.
Pens cruel ******* of what I called real
taught me not to get caught when ever I steal.  
   I borrow thoughts that tie me in tight knots
as I try stitch them into a portrait of a woman.  
But they always twist into fantasies plots
just to burn out in the fires they were fuming.  
So hear I drift alone in a thick and red river,
Creeping with the wind and the moon as we shiver.  

At one point, a wholly spun world now ago,
were days when this river bread new life.
It worked mens hands to the bone to grow
family and cloth each beautiful wife.
Helped purpose find its way to the heart
of each voice that was silence by a no.
The river shares snippets of his life with me.
Speaks a a story that my eyes can see.  
    He told me his plans to wash away the old,
now that those in high places think they’re above-
He floods the ground as this story is told,  
Sweeping up lost voices and spirits in love.
The river has given us life, like so many before,
one day he will whisk us off to a warmer shore.  

There are thousands deep under his water,
and some who float just above his open lips.  
With the love like a fathers for his only daughter,
he lets us drink his life but only in sips.
For greed can so often father slaughter.
It created hate in nature when it caught ‘er.  
Tore her apart, one sin after another.
Then sent us cutting out hearts- brother from brother.  
          We surge through the cities old and cold veins,
collecting each drifter lost in a dark way.
With the eyes of the pretty, the logicals brains
and the patience of listeners, we sway
with his rhythms and with no need to pray.
We’ll sway till the morning of a red skied day.  

     “ When now was never we dreamt of forever,
   of days shivering madly down this old cities river”

Through the black night, we sang these words of hope.
Thought one day we’d wash up in our old city
and walk on its streets and it’d be able to cope.  
To see it from the bottom and marvel at its scope.
Not to just walk and think “Oh its Sucha' pity”.
Those days when concrete handed me rope
and pointed me out toward tree’s on the horizon
are over. The grounds now are on the risin’.  
           Like hell being filled to its level,
we drowned demons and free’d souls.
But only for a second could we revel,
for our buildings were built without holes.  
And those finely suited sit their grinning,
Our old structures seem to have saved them.

“ We drowned in the waters we were swimming,
But were the only ones who ever had braved them”

Lip-syncing hymns in the front row of a funeral.

Appearances are key.

Pinch nose for tears as the sighs swell and fill the room.

Appearances are key.

Lift your glass to the lost and try and mask your jealousy.

Appearances are key.

Say something that sounds from the heart but's really from a card.

Appearances are key

We hadn’t spoken.
A silence, birthed from misery,
choked us until
we were Voiceless
and  spent our time
drifting apart as twigs
on a bullying sea.
Thoughts like echoes
bouncing between church walls
rattled around my mind:

“ If I called, would it be the same?”

“ If I ran to her, would she open her arms?”

It isn’t the same.
How could it be?
We’ve both changed so much.

Patience has taken it’s time to consume me.
Awake, waking, drifting off in time taking
Hairs from my arm as the hands are braking.
The broken moment entombs me.

wrapped in a fraction of a second.
Achieve consciousness, a flooding
collection of memories and senses.
Just to break back to start at the ending.

Crashing against.

                              Re-living life over
and over. And over again. Fence me
to myself, to forget and remember.
For only a fraction of a second

In my mind its September.  

                               'Times on it’s
ridden race again’ say's Rabbie .
But I think it’s either stuck or turned
Madly.

My feet still shifting, my stomach still
swelling and contracting in itself.
I cannot look down. I cannot look down.
I can almost hear the steep fall below me.
The echoes of birds haunt in the their
fading song. But I stare out high.
High out and above this city- across its tops.

The peaks somewhat cheapened by the red sky.
It falls over them like a blanket, tucking it
in and keeping it warm for the night.  
The bricks, steel and concrete are weak
in their worldly nature. The sky swirls
and spins colours to the wanders of my eye.

I want to scream but words betray me,
My foul tongue and dimly lit wit stick-
stammering and fail to wrap around a thought.
I’m caught between a point and an apology.
I beg for symbols to tumble, for angels to
lift me from this roof and show me truth.

But they drop me back inside myself,
I still sit staring bare at this city.
Smoke sticks in my throat even though
its a few miles down from here.
Fear falls on me with the night
and the city’s soon enveloped completely.

But bright lights from high rises,
twenty-four-sevens, taxis etc. Blind
in their boldness. Their grotesque in nature.
People seem to be simply just match sticks.
I can only see them as far off as the Tesco’s.
By then my sight blurs and I dizzily have to steady

To keep from falling off the edge.

Hurt people hurt people.
So says the doctor.
Hurt people, Hurt people.
So says the patient.

The last bark scares off the little kitties.
The full picture broke into little bitties’.
The horizon fell and crashed upon the cities.
The best friend of man is tired oh his cliche.
But feed him man does. Need him man does.
Him needs mans love. Man’s love needs him.
For he is without  sin while we try play to to win.
We are flawed, He is pawed and simple in step.
Oh the past! Is it tense?
Does the last laugh hold suspense.
Does the fat lady return home once she has sang above us?  
Push came and shoved us. God came down from above us.
But the dog lay still, breath soon did escape, never to return.  
I wonder if amongst this silly feeling I have a lesson to learn.

She was screaming her quietest kept secrets.
Letting the wind whisk them off to abandoned retreats
with no second thought, she was knotted to the ground.
So she kept on yelling
Just for the company of the echoes in the sound.  

After days of solitude, your own voice becomes a stranger.
Sometimes she believed that there was someone there mimicking her.
Mocking, and revelling in her misery.  But a cynic’s fair voice quietly
told her they were history.  
Now in the air, with no torment they exist blissfully.  

She emptied her chest as she cried back at them:  
"Why can’t I rest,  or at least be condemned? “
It replied with a tone to unravel her to the bone.
You are nothing.
An afterthought, but from which a whole idea will have grown.

The conscience does creep when wake feels like sleep,
But dreams could have never appeared as such steep
     steep a hill as this woeful wander,
Past the dark caves of pity to where the sad fellow saunters.

With sleepless thought they wake there forever
In the coldest of knot tied apart and together.  

The hollow will follow someone else on this journey.
But we stepped so careless with our caution less selves.
Made a game out of the danger. Got going a wee tourney’  

Past the poets and swore we would return to their shelves.
So far out we fell of some kind of edge they swore disproven.  
Now Down past the devil our story meets us at it delves.

Welcome to the world that stays still as it does its movin’ .
We scribble on each others faces the reasons for our still.
Chill burns, time turns back and forth for the sake of doing.

Have you ever filled yourself much to full upon a fill?
Have you ever dreamed a different morning sun?
Well I found pity- she was sat at the bottom of’a hill.

I begged to bring her home but she had only just begun,
She wanted to hear my head in his bedroom stirring,
But with pity it collapsed him as he heard's sad song sung.

The hill looks less steep, less frightening from the bottom.
Conscious lost himself from me as I came tumbling down.
I could have sworn Id fallen like an apple from tree to turn rotten.  

Everyone who walks here, walks here with crown.

This time, this time

it doesn’t feel like he’s mine.

This time, this time

he walks without a spine.

Straight through your mind

to tangle thoughts into winds.  



This time this time

it doesn’t feel like he’s mine.

This time, this time

he walks without a spine.

Straight through your mind

to tangle thoughts into winds



and as you heartbeat falls behind

you find he’s ticking on without a care.

He’s everywhere, anything and many

things even I  wouldn’t dare to dream of.



Each is lost to his taking

Even when clocks hands

are braking or the earth is shaking.

Our fathers rather impatient.



And in that spirit I’m not waiting



To Catch And To **** Time.



Some will follow the projections

of a hollow blue light.

Others run without direction-

off into the black night.  



To catch and to **** time,

Detach his head,

rip out his spine

sending him wandering

as clueless as us.



Whats next? Whats up ahead?

Whats round the bend?

Have I got another minute

or is there just a second to lend.

We are the witless wanderers.
Pondering our own existence.
We are Thieves to time and his borrowers.
The future that makes the past get tense.
We are common without sense,
sentenced to life in the prisons of conscience.

Oh conscience, conscience, where would we be?
He Said:

“ I’ll tell you if stays just between you and me”


“We’re in the depths of dying giant.
The hand that once fed, says
we’ve became too reliant.
So we’re going looking for the silent,
who’s quiet is loudly defiant.
We’re looking for those heads
that find soft beauty in violence”

And so we travel on true
through pockets of our history.
Making moments into marvels,
bland realities into mystery.  
Picking up the tongues of the witty,
the lost voices and drifters.
We take the eyes of the pretty
and the patience of the listeners.  

We take the hearts of the false starts,
that long another redo.
Let them no that its their part,
Life is really but a read through.  
Theres no failure, just behaviours
we regret and will learn from.
Theres No angels or saviours,
just our selves to earn from.

But whats within us is holy,
holier than now. Now is just
never in the time frame of forever.
And  you can take your time.

So Take It.

Take the clocks hands to his face and make him brake it.  
Take this world to its creator, and watch him forsake it.

You can take your time

SO Take It.

Now this is the saddest sight to see:
a man lying face down and sobbing
into the earth, and the earth sobbing too,
as the sky bursts open and weeps along
with them.

And yet here I stand, looking on dry eyed.

Such crude and foul filth fills the minds of us,
all of us, no pure, sweet angels exist.
Beneath the surface- all that we ever discuss-
and amidst the house shrouded in mist
Is where thoughts leak out like a cuts soaking pus,
Where wrong bends to right and wrongly persists,
Where woman are stripped and men are whipped,
Where colours are scratched off and blood runs from fists,
Where truth is only true until someone twists
it like a noose for a neck for their unassuming victim.

This is what we live in- A house with a thousand ceilings.
This is why some give in- Above them another man is kneeling.

And when their old ceiling becomes their floor,
they pour pennies down through the cracks
and laugh at those scrambling down below.  
They watch them feel the walls for a door,
making smug remarks at the class each lacks:
“ Not a single painting or books in a row.
How on earth can they expect their riches to grow”.
But its not about how you know it, you know.
It’s not about having any fine things to show.
It’s natural persistence- the breeze and the rivers flow.

To climb the construction in which you have been confined,
is to fall for a foolish notion- a Fugazi another man designed.

I was born in it’s basement, among crowds
and foul, rotten breath. Flesh was scratched
from our backs as we were standing bowed,
they left some shoulders with their heads detached.
But I never fought to the top or leaped,
Never fought back in any fight I was matched.
I crawled, sickly on the splitting wood floor,
in search of what lay behind an old closed door.  
It took a lifetime time for me to find,  
but it lay there wide open with sky falling behind.

Our Mothers beauty lay within our Fathers patient arms,
and I ran to greet them while the house sounded it’s alarms.

His hands did not shake, her sea’s didn't boil.
But that old building now lays deep beneath their soil.

Boundless boredom surrounds me here at home,
and so I set out
through a sleeping town that's all mine to roam.  
From scarred lungs I shout:
Come out! Come Out, if you've got the bottle.
But in silence I doubt,
if there's reason to my little waddle.

Then the sky gobbles and swallows us up whole.
A whole town dead, because of my little stroll.
Enveloped in her canvas, the night soothes
as it ***** us deeper, darker inside.
Ecstasy and fright haunt us as we loose
ourselves wandering witless for a place to hide.  
And ecstasy and fright make us oh so quick to confide.

I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,
                                 and it's hurting my health.
I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,  
                                 and
                                        we've got nothing else.

Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon:
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory.
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
and when I finally get there,
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.  

But time as it take takes my passion too.
I watch my skin thin, and my hairs all grey.
Decay of the body and soul, but never mind,
as the horizon torments me as she shines.
Maybe when I pass I’ll be another
atrocity stuck on that old horizon,
beckoning fool hearted adventurers
to discover the truth of these waves.
We’ll threaten but never bring the disaster.
We’ll tempt, We’ll deceive, We’ll do nothing.

We'll watch them stumble, fall and give up.
And as each one does each one becomes stuck.  
Disappointment is the air with which they last breathe.  
A metallic taste is on the tongue of the next youngster to leave.

Waiting can be a madman clawing his own skin.
It can be drying paint, dying libido, or crying dogs
at the window watching a car roll off.
Sometimes waiting is just a phone that never buzzes.

I’m still waiting.

Hunks of meat swinging and forced screaming,
I remember, would always do the trick.
Now it sends a hollow feeling rushing to nowhere.
Now I feel like I’m watching a reality show.

SOME SCENES ARE CREATED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.

This programme contains product placement.

The pair of air Nikes she keeps on while bent over.
The Maurice Lacroix watch he wears while spanking her.
It is a nice watch; they are nice trainers.
She is beautiful; he is handsome.

But, I’m still waiting.

The predictable ****** comes and goes.
The conclusion’s always the same.
It never used to bother me, the farce of it all.
It used to do the trick.

But, I’m still waiting.

With sleep I fell and fell deeply too.
Into his withering meadows and among rationality.
Where those who are living have lost all vitality.
Limbless are some, some thoughtless too,
Never had a dream yet mine they walk through
Painting disbelief with their faces: I look to the sky
But my eyes are drawn to a castle at the end of my view-
Far off, far from the far out margins of mind.
      I walk with a beat, leaving the limbless behind,
I walk in his circle until it loses its point.
I fall, crawling around each and every wind.  
Until I feel time grabbing a hold of my knee joint.
I try and kick back- along the ground my teeth grind.
Then I break back untouched, but still trapped in my mind.  

I awake again, toothless and out-worn. A
broken spirit, hoping without it. Spinning madly.
Amidst my spin I see her arms, into watch I do fall gladly.
But being without time, I miss the perfect second.
And I awake again before the castle, its sombre music
somehow whispers as it calmly beacons.  
           Without wit or a winding tongue, I alone embark
up the hill as the songs grow louder in my head.
I pass a ‘laughing dead” as it rolls off into the night. Dark
is the blanket that descends on my plight. Its fed
by fear, but I have nothing but spite.
So I carry on alone, and with myself begin to fight.


“ I dare you to pass me. You’re a coward.
You’re a weak little druggy,  who’s ego empowers
him to believe that it is he who should belong at the top.
I’ll leave you to rot. Remove your mind from its shop.
I’m telling you stop. Turn round. And awake.
Or you can die here, while in sleep you but shake”

New nothings are here,
and nothing will ever be the same.
But there’s no reason to fear
that animal coming to maim
you, with it’s sharp drooling teeth.
Sit back, and marvel at the beast.
Let him take you down,
and when he does let him feast.
There’s no reason to fear,
For the new nothings are here.

These hollow voices haunt my head space.
Following me room to room, place to place,
thought to thought till I wear them on my face.
I'll take down the mirrors, I'll paint windows
black. I can't see them dressed in my clothes.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
We've walked this walk before. It's harmless.
Let us wonder off now. We can return to calmness
once we've stepped past our farthest darkness.
What we find in this mind, you and I will share.
Lets take one together, and of each other take care.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
You're too late. You're too late. You're too late to see
the voices that are walking all over you and me,
Through and throughout, shouting " This life is free".
You can't come walking with us.  You'll get lost.
And I'm afraid I am not willing to pay that cost.
"Snap back. Snap back. It is me, young sanity."
The ground snaps, and they all fade as they fall.
For no windows or mirrors can ramble on and on like a wall.

I don't mind hearing voices from time to time, for they keep me company in lonely hours. They never say anything harsh, hate filled or humiliating, they just chatter on while I sit here in silence watching the paint dry- thats not a metaphor or anything, I literally did paint the walls red this morning. I don't think I've don a very good job though, because I see little devils in the sloppy brushwork; They do hurt, throw hate and humiliate me.

I really need to put on a second coat, but I'm tired and the voices aren't telling me to move yet. I'll wait for their command, or for the devils to walk up and off the wall. Oh boy, then I'll have some real company. A crowd some would say.

I have given legs just before he steps, but I have forgotten to give him ground on which to stand. He plummets into the abyss.

I will try again.

The sky was on his side, lay’n with his eyes closed.  
So I lay down a little while longer.
She spoke, then vanished, then laughed and posed,
as shifts under foot were getting stronger.

Then he walked in with a clock on his head,
and a parade of actors I could’t place
to a role. Some, by now, were surely dead.
Then the skin came loose from everyones face.

She was back in my arms a moment later,
with a smile that shattered like glass.
Then the crash:
                        There
                     we        lay,
broken
in our euphoria.

I tried to stay there, but there’s always changing here.

After you’ve fallen for that old foolish belief:
That we live In our heads. And in his head we sleep.
It starts to make our secrets just that bit harder to keep.

Even our dreams; Are they ours, or through each others can wee creep?

Can we quench our own thirst upon another’s tears?
Or is the empowerment bitter in its taste?  
So wastefully we throw words in exchange, but so
right it is do so? Who knows he who knows? I envy you so.
For him I went looking, for her I did too. Young pity
fell in and through my pockets, Now I’m lost and need you.
I need you to reveal where the conscious of it all wakes forever.
I need signs to come tumbling, I’ve scoured to long.
I’ve delved past the devil only to write a few songs.
I need reason and poetry, and logic that makes sense.
I need a future that doesn't make the past seem tense.  

Can I belong to a moment with this world as it spins off?
Or is the vanity in wanting to do so decrease my odds.
Well if I could stop that clock from clicking in my head,
I would,
but it proves much to fitting in it’s dark little room,
In which I’m consumed by a rambling of thoughts that stops.
Only to start to gambling with my will as it fills the ceiling to its top.
Now I could drown, or swim back to my life.
Out one room to another, back to baby being mothered.
Colour me yellow, I swam down again.
I’m afraid I can't keep from falling with little poetry in my descent.

The sleeping pill awoke,
     walked up the stairs
     and down my throat.
     From my stomach it spoke:

    " Sleep's the lie that wakes you.
   The Lord can & will soon take you. "

An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been sitting there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There is some money in my leather wallet.
But there's a blockade at my door,
Therefore I do not leave the house anymore.

So, I've been taking my coffee black.

Knowledge is powder running through fingers.
Knowledge is crushed by a card on the table.
Knowledge is stuck in your nose and it lingers;
each sting brings regret, and makes a mind unstable.
“ A little learning is dangerous thing”;  
A little smoke to make a fool feel able
to lick the dust up with the devil and sing:
“ Theres dust on the graves and ashes on the cradles"

Don’t mistake this feeling for true wisdom.
Don’t get caught lost in it’s smokey shroud;
for each thought is fleeting and their relevance is seldom.
Like this drab, mess of language said out loud.  
It’s a sober reflection, a warning to myself,
to tell the truth, and to think thorough and proud.
To shame the devil, not blame him for my health.  
To lift that heavy head that was bent over bowed,

And crack it open on the edge of that table.

Like and hour glass smashed and spilling,
this kind of learning seems a waste of time.  
But I can see the filth that had been filling
my head,  scattered out across each rhyme.

Im pulling the better version of myself
from out beneath the wreckage.
He was stuck in the wall until It fell
and crumbled with its message:

“ We-Dream-Till-Wake”

For years I’d stared at it knowing
it was bleak and dark presage.
I thought I knew, and knew too well,
so I never let my mind start guessing:

“ Maybe this is a lesson? Maybe a problem?”

But I just carried on through, stayed
true to myself with an honest belief
that within you and me was purpose,
and to my noisy head it gave some relief.

But at times I could hardly breathe;
This world can choke you against the wall,
It can crush you as you are forced to
hold its weight while in its circles you crawl,

And when you fall and your on your knees
and your beliefs are like bubbles popping,
And when your heart beats through your
chest like its building up to stopping,

And when your minds been abandoned
and your thoughts are left and rotting,
and every rush of blood feels thick
and visceral like its gone stuck and clotting,

Thats when that voice whispers in your
ear and quietly begins his plotting:

“  Let me take you from this fallen world
   and fall just that little bit further.
   Give in to sin, give in to deciet, give in to
   me- to be free is to be a server.
   You were not meant for truth or virtue,
   You were not meant to be a studious learner,
   You were meant to walk with chains.
   You were meant to accept this pain”

And I swear I started listening intently
to this charming and confident speaker.  
His words like a breeze breathing gently
through my busy head to make it weaker.  

I’d never lived in fear of life or in fear of the reaper
but I feared persisting, existing in this torment.  
My head often heats in a hopeless hollow fever
And I needed an escape, to obey and lay dormant

beneath her- My love and long lost reason,
my absolute zero in a world I couldn’t figure.
But I couldn’t even remember the soft curves
of her face, they would always twist and disfigure,

Her skin would slide off her bones, her eyes
would sink into her head to avoid my stare.
I was turning her lakes into pools of oil,
making twisted fantasies out of her every prayer.

I didn’t belong with her anymore, I was sick.
I couldn't turn moments int marvels for her,
I couldn’t find any beauty in our spinning,
All I could see was decay as we would blur,

All I could see were devils swimming in my
ageing reflections jaded and sad eyes.
All I could feel was myself slowly sinking,
All I could hear was my faiths dying drowned cries.

All I could smell was our peoples flesh burning,
and thats when I really started learning:

There is no Angel that will lift me from here,
Nor is there a devil thats dragging me down.
What pushes me under is my own fear,
Heaven and Hell are in between both my ears.  

So I spun myself ten times to be free’d
from the prison in which I had built the bars.
I rose from the soils of my love and land,
to smell freshly cut grass and gaze at stars,

I blinded myself looking on the bright side
of this. Now I cant look at anything the same.
You see pretending for the sake of pride
isn't bliss, it's ignorance to avoid a shift of blame.  

Aren't you the one who said:
" Take a minute. Take two. Anymore and it's on you"

Well I've sat on my tongue for two days
trying to think of different ways to say this.
And it's now aimless
Cause you're not there at all.

They say writing it down
won't help.
And it don't help to down
pints of it.
And it don't help to spin it
helplessly.

This self-help selfishness
don't help.

In my dreams there are screens playing dreams
And I sit with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
I sit, now, before the same hollow blue light typing it out:
I dream before a screen, I wake before one and I live in one.
The good old eight hours has been eaten by a box set,
and we like to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle, and a very real problem.  

In this screen there a dreams framed by screens.
I sit, now, with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
Tonight I will dream by its hollow blue light, watching it too.
I talk through a screen, I listen to one and taste it too.  
The good old imagination's been eaten by a box set,
and we link to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle and a very real problem.

Screen 1 ( The Sordid Sit-Com)

Ross and Rachel prepare a meal upon the floor;
The rest of the gang arrive and feed each other
with shaking hands. It all gets to much for the
director, and he gathers the knives and forks
his cast refused to use, and gently bleeds them.

( hahaha cries the canned laughter)

Dream 1 ( Mundane Madness)

I sit before a 20 foot laptop watching series 3
of a television show I have never and will ever enjoy.
There is nothing beside me, behind me, above me
but blinding white. And I sit fixated on my boredom
and the minutia of fictional lives. I reach out to ****

but fall down in laughter

1st lad-' Here mate, do you have a spare snout?'
2nd lad- ' Aye mate, nae bother'  
1st lad- ' You're a ******* life saver'

I picked the pieces to put you together
From box on a shelf I’d forgotten to remember.  
I Stumbled upon you But was drawn too you
Like you were the dark and I was December.

You're real! You're Real!
I made you up.
You’re real. You’re real now
I’m mixed up.

A puzzle sat before me and only for me,
For I was the one who wanted make believe.
I put you together, thought it took me some time,
Four late night phone calls and 2 bottles of wine.

You're real! You're Real!
I made you up.
You’re real. You’re real now
I’m mixed up.

Under a tree atop a hill
we sat and gubbed a pill.
We split it down the middle
and sat drowning in the sun.
A pure bond, a cheap thrill,
we lifted weights by the ton.
Our chests empty, but love did fill
them and sent our minds on a run.
Summer climbed up our noses,
the sun shifted into many poses,
the red screamed out from the roses
until the day was done.

You’re free to talk until someone listens.
You’re free to walk but only in circles.

It swims in his eyes
without worry of me watching.
A kind of crazy spin stuck
like blood clotting. The rotting
space of a wasteland for a mind.
Where memories of people jump
      from the eyes they lie behind.  


I’m just trying to find a place to focus.
The locust leap from withered grasses-
hopeless. But land on greener pastures  
which denotes this time the enemy might
be closest.
         Closest, too close & under heavy dosage.  


No sign of sedation. Eyes boat racing.
Words flung from a tongue like first tasting
lust and embracing your own disgust. Chasing
thrills, gorge pills
                        By the bottle before replacing.


Crust flaking from wasting skin.
By eyes still wild, captivating with
a maddening spin.  
                           It can’t end.
If It didn’t begin.

I thought that you thought that we think the same way.
So I’m thinking, if your thinking is the kind that can sway
to one side, then I’ll go to the other so that we can play.  

Recycled heads atop our thinning frames.
Recycling thoughts of the greats,
but don’t worry-noone remembers their names.
So we’ll shout till we wake them
and then we’ll pass on the blame.
Some will choose to swallow, others
spit when you try and force feed them their fame.

I think that you think that I’ve really overthought this.

I BELIEVE THAT YOU BELIEVE THAT I BELIEVE THAT WE BELIEVE

IN NOTHING

Thoughts run, but are often unsure;
Tripping and slipping on their way.
They stray to sickness from what was pure.
And Black and white soon blends into grey.
Scents send the clocks hands back
as they track through a maze
of memories where clarity lacks.
They leave the host with a hollow gaze,
and their mind under constant attack.

My brains trailing yesterday around.
Fragmented thoughts seem soft till they pound.
Carve the shape of monday out just to scare-
Then Retreat into the comfort of another day spare.

Sunday, sings softly when your sitting on the day before
But the counter price is costly when you push through
Mondays door.
Even if you steal tomorrow from today-  Monday you’ll always pay.

I set fire to the remains.
The stain still wont leave.
Two straight weeks on my knees scrubbing.
The stain still wont leave.

Its not all of it,
For the most part its more than clean.
But there is a corner.
A small crimson corner.

It's sitting there on my eye,
even when it is closed.
Even when I rub spices, sand and
the bleach from the bottle in my hands

It sits there like a sick joke.

A rotten little written thought walks across and of my page before my eyes. As I am speaking to you now he walks with a whispering little shadow that mistakes his place and purpose,a cold and cowardly projection of words. But this is what I throw at you each and everyday- I throw the better half of my head, I throw my tongue, my lungs and my every hope and hate filled accusation. I toss begging questions until I’m tired of having to answer them on my own.
I am finding it a lot harder not to be alone.
It’s interesting to see what your head looks like when its spilled out across a hollow blue light- a cold computer’s stare. I do not wield a pen, my thoughts don't talk in ink. They remain in the memory of a busy little computer. They sit their among music and photographs and videos of friends, yet exist without them and unable to interact. They dwell alone until they turn rotten and walk up and off their page.  
I apologise if sometimes they offend or intrude, or if sometimes they take things without asking permission and lie about it afterwards, but they are only just finding their way so please show some compassion whenever your paths cross.

We are a whisper in an auction hall
where the greedy bid in a vile clamour.
We are unwanted; unheard in our call.
And yet it's our necks under the cold hammer.
In cowardice, we wait for it strike
like goats being lead to their slaughter.
And as the price inflates in an awful spike,
we are drowned deeper under their laughter.

' Sold! To the gentleman in black'

The gentlemen with the creeping crooked grin.
The gentlemen with the suit worth a home.
The gentlemen uncaring of hardship; unaware of sin.

Cut throats for comedy.
And cut close to the bone.
Speak and be honestly.
And be what you condone.  
But do not condemn those
for their differences.
Uniqueness is our reason.

"Judge not less thy be judged”  

1

Is it the pouring unfiltered thought
that runs through you, the vessel
of conscious, and down toward the devil?
Uncontaminated, but overlooked
still by he who has a stake in your play.
Or are you in the belief that its you
who filters,edits, and judges yourself?  
If either, I am neither, I am bottomless.  
I am lost among the crowd that is lost.
I pay a price to those who set the cost,
but I pay what I will.  
I pay to keep my head and my heart still.  
I carry books to look like I’m listening,
cover them in cheap glitter to look like they’re glistening.  

2

I apologise if my questions invade,
and more profusely for my blunt tongue.
I grew up housed were a ***** was a *****,
til' it cracked open my head and rung
my bells as loud as passing parade.  
So, again I apologise If I berate,
but that old ***** sent me chasing nightmares
and bedtime stories, deep under the earths layers.
I have no right to question you or him.
But I have the right to dig my land.
If I don't believe, can I sing each hymn?
When I’m scared can I outstretch my hand?  
I guess I’ll stand where I am and spin,
till his bellowing voice cries out each command.  












3

How I wish I could undress it to the bone,
but the implications of the littlest thing
send me drifting through cold spaces alone.
The smell of nothingness, the feel of everything-
each is an equally long and tiring list.  
I hold dear two things: An open palm. A clenched fist.
Each to aid and oppose the other,
Like our true father: Time. And earth our Mother.

Heller told me I could live forever
                                 or die trying.  
Despot told me I could be rich
or try dying.  

Life’s a lie but it’s when you try
and pursue truth that you fly the coop.  

But what do I know eh?

My head is just a borrowed mess
And I’m just a high liar, dire trier
                tried too much again.

All my friends are strangers
who’s behaviours vary,
scary times indeed, indeed.  

I’ll pick apart their heads and feed,
and I’ll  be there for them when they need.  
I’ll quench my thirst upon their tears
although its bitter in its taste.
I’ll force them to face their filth and fears,
and alongside them I will waste.

This world is lonely if it’s only you.

For we’re all just spinning madly off
and I’d gladly stop if someone else would.
Our problems are reversed- no **** for a ***.
Our tongues and wit are dim lit and crude.

Stop stopping me from stopping things from starting!

It has no heart for adventure.
It runs on cold sludge and grey skies.
They used to say it was shifting
towards the mitey Atlantic;
carried on by the surge of the Clyde.  
But the industry stopped working,
and the city stopped it's moving.
It lays, sad and beaten on its side.
The Clyde is now lined by ******
plastic. Homes for mannequins,
and not the people of Glasgow.
So I throw myself in the old
sickly river, and drift, and drift away.

Nothing is a balloon before and after popping.
Nonsense.
Yes.
Quite so.
Nothing is a ball before and after its kicking.
Genius.
Yes.
Quite so.

Passing through people
Is scarier for me than it is them.  
They feel cold for a second.
          I feel infinitely alone.

I shake them and they don't move.
I try and kiss her eyes closed.
She doesn't even blink. I sink
              into my nothingness

I think just as they do.

I feel like them too.
But whenever our paths cross.

I pass right on through

She had a tears before bedtime twinkle in her eye,
and a don't come too close shimmy in her shake.
He had a predatory grin salivating through the teeth
and hands that knew no jurisdiction.

He put a forget me tomorrow at the bottom of a drink
and handed her it to her like it was wrapped in a bow.
She sipped through her straw with a delicate smile,
all the while wishing she could go home.

She was bagged into a taxi at the stroke of two
by the boy with the bullying hands.
She was passed out on his couch when the morning came
while he slept in the scene of his crime.

The same that had fallen into and through ‘Alisdair’s' pocket.  
The key. The key. Where has it fallen? I’ll scour the place.
I have fallen through this world for it. Now I lay at the bottom.
For amidst my lack of bright wit, with which I did fall.  
I often thought I’d found it. Something to free me, all
but free from everything to a solvable small problem.  
But the bottom is bottomless, as it often was above.
I’ll scour this fallen city, till I’m sour, to find young pity.

She fell into my lap. With the key around her neck.
Not out of nowhere, nor from above or below.
But fell none the less. And so of course I had to check.
I pinched myself twice, but she still lay staring deeply
into my eyes as until her eyes turned sleepily.
And then creepily I wandered through her head while she slept.

Im a moulded mind,
shaped from junk mail and scam sites.
I’m a point that I can’t seem to find.
Caught between it and an apology,
caught between my natural state and drawn rights.
my poetry doesn’t fit in a ******* box.
Natural flows of emotion. Wankers posting
their unique feelings. Just like everyone else.

Guess what?
I do too. so ******* sue. Then buy yersel a ******* clue.

Here stands the ghost of a hopeless man;
he’s got scratches on his neck and blood on his hands,
and eyes that cry ten different commands.
He says "as the rose grows it causes problems with romance”,
and yet he stands before me with a bouquet in his hands,
and I say “ Why do you pick them apart?
                        He says “ because I can”.

Forget your love me’s and your love me nots,
I’ll leave you to rot. Remove your mind from it shop.
Im telling you stop.