There was a young boy who feared that his beard would never grow long and wise, like that of his old mans and his old mans. He could see the hair on the upper lips and chins of his school pals beginning to form, and so he would walk around with his own chin pointing toward the sun, hoping that something in its warm rays would spurt the growth of his first wee whisker. But nothing. From then on every time he got his haircut he would ask the barber not to sweep up all of his hair, so that he could take some of it home; His Mother often shook her head at this, having no idea what purpose it was for, and instead sighed with a " Yer some boy Jack”. Each time he brought home more hair, he would weave it together with the rest of his old curly locks.  You see, although he had a smooth wee baby face, he had the most stunningly dark and wild curls.

Jack turned 18, and into something like a man, but still there wasn't single whisker on his chin or upon his top lip.  He had grown tall and strong, a man by almost every physical determinant, and this only frustrated him more.  He was teased by the other guys in his work, they would all call him        " Talcom Powder", or " Big Baby Baw Face"  - Not the most intelligent bunch- and Jack would laugh along, while cursing his God inside himself.  Still, every Hair cut and **** trimming, Jack got or gave would be weaved together with every haircut he had since he was 12- he had almost two foot of dark curly strands now, as intricately woven as silk.  Sometimes he would put it on, and talk to himself in the mirror.  

However, like all dark things that are hidden, when they come to light things rarely carry on carrying on. One day Jacks Mother walked in on him doing his best ZZ top impersonation and caught one glimpse of his wooly masterpiece, and it blew the top of her head clean off. “ You filthy boy! What have you done… Oh god, is that why you? It better, all of it, be yours…”.  she rambled while pacing in circles, unable to look at her son and his two foot clip on beard.  “ Mum” said Jack, “ I know this is a shock, but I just want to have a beard, everyone else has one: All my pals at work, all those model guys, all those guys with gorgeous girls, All those guys with creative jobs”. “ They are all ****”, she barked in reply, “ Why would any son of mine want to be like any of those low life cretins?”.  Jack was taken a back by just how upset his mum really was by his masterpiece, and shyly asked “ What about Dads? And Granddads? Theirs are the biggest beards I’ve ever seen, and I’m a ZZ top fan”, “ Thats different”, she said, “ Theirs are REAL working mens beards”.

Weeks went on with Jack and his Mother avoiding each others gaze; the only time they ever spoke was when they were arguing about the beard. Eventually it all got too much for everyone, the house had became inhospitable and Jack finally said the words he’d come to regret, “ If the beard goes, I go”. With cold hands, his Mother packed his bags and began cooking the last meal Jack would enjoy in that house; He and his Mother sat there in silence, while the food cooled on the table, waiting on his Father and Grandfather to return home from their labours. Jack shifted with every second ticking by on the clock above his head, still refusing to look at his Mother. Then he heard the gate swinging open, a few shifts later, the keys turning in the locks, then the door flew open, and Jacks mouth did too; For as he looked to see his Father and Grandfather coming through the frame of the door, they looked hard worked and clean shaven ( Well a bit of Five O'clock shadow).I t was the first time he’d ever seen the chins of the most important men in his life.

  After an excruciating feast of eye contact avoidance and the swallowing of feelings, Jack hugged his Mother Goodbye, Shook his Granddads hand and was walked outside of the house by his Father who said he had a few things he wanted to say man to man; This shook Jack inside himself a little; unsure of whether to feel like a toddler on a naughty step or a man about to share his first whiskey with his old man, he nodded and followed behind his Father out the door. As soon as  he’d closed the door behind him, his Father said “ Listen here boy. I know you just wanted to make me and your mum proud, I was the same as you when I was your age, always wanting to be older. Trust me that changes quickly.  But if there’s one thing I can tell you, its this”, his Dad paused and sighed in a soft way, “ You don’t need to go around faking it. If you leave this house and start wearing the beard day after day, you’ll find it gets boring fast. Trust me… Just enjoy yourself and try and remember who and what you are”. Jack nodded to his Father, and hugged him for the first time in his teenage life.

As Jack walked down the garden path, he got to the gate when he heard his Father saying,            “ Remember! No beard *******” just before closing the door.  But like all good sons and bad sons alike, within a two minutes of a walking out of his family hom Jack had ignored his Fathers advice, and rummaged through his bag to put on his masterpiece proudly.

His beard never did grow, and now his masterpiece is so long his feet often trip over it.  Ahh well, ‘Live and refuse to learn’.


The End

I took my devils out,
And I broke their hearts.
I took them out dinner
just to watch the starve.

I laid upon that table:
Angst, ego and every blue.
Saliva ran like it was fatal;
they thought the feast would soon ensue.

" Heres my head", I calmly said.
" My heart's yours as well".
Then on each I calmly fed,
as they spun back down to hell.

" Feast on Your Beasts"

When you find yourself lost,
take them home, tuck them in,
and watch them drift off to sleep.
If they struggles then sing,
or read, or just comfort
them with words of love.
Often we run away
from our true selves because
we do nothing but throw hate,
beat them down, and bury them
under ****** torment
that twists into grotesque
and dark acts of malice.
I’ve beaten myself so
badly before that I
found him laying with tubes
rigged to machines that just
barely kept him alive, and
I tell you, it's taken
years for him to forgive
me, or even look me
in the eye. He would just
avoid my gaze from the
otherside of the mirror.
Sometimes he would even
turn and run away in
to some fading idea,
some place where he could be
alone.
Alone without me.

Here lies the body, here dies the verse.
Words whisked off into an unforgiving air.
A eulogy for no one, an insult for a care.
There goes the poor poet in the hers.
Off to be buried in grass green and fair,
Where lies his wife, naked and bare.
No one says a kind farewell, for no one is there.

Here lies the body, here dies the thanks.
The bankers hands rub together at the news.
A life they lead on, a death they’ll abuse.
For the end is a cheque cashed in his banks.  
No kin can collect, or have his house to use.
Mould reeks from windows- filth and mildew.
And no one dares to enter except for the cranks.

But in his filth they find old heaps of paper.
And in his words the find old and sweet peace:
A world, A vision, a home to more than lees.
A life to lead, a truth to seek. A world much greater
than the one around them that crawls about to cease
of any kind of kindness. And here hope is deceased.
Take his words, leave your worries. We can all worry later.

Daring, dragon skinned painter of poets,
does your work weigh heavy on your old heart?
Does Glasgow reflect in you, the ugliness,
beauty, passion, and apathy you see in her?
Has hell swallowed us, deep down the gullet?
Did it spit us back out for being too foul?
Is this city too pitiful? Too proud?
The city of the future need sutures;
the people are tearing each other at the limbs.
Hate’s been brewing like a storm over the hills,
and’s about to come whip us into a frenzy.
Whatever time you have left, is there time left for us?
Can you hold up your unflattering mirror once more?

Boldly through the cauld' batters on the sonneteer
wae thick work boots an a sobering heed;    
blisters form on his heels and start tae bleed,
as the new builds part and the river appears.
Doon by the clyde, the old sickly mistress,
he sparks a snout in the ease of the mornin’.
The usual grey sky turns dark wae a warnin’,
but he draws in deeply and breathes out stress.
If only I could follow him further through the city.
If only I could ask how tae write upon these streets.
Should I run with the crowd and speak over beats?
Or speak in concrete and make them buildings seem witty?  
I hink I’ll let this river run until the day I know
how tae speak and spit wae the tongue of Glasgow.

The transparent man says he has thick skin,
but bursts into tears when he stands on a pin.
He wants to write a classic, but cannot begin,
because the littlest thing sends him off in a spin.
Oh I pity you old fool, for you have never learned.
You’ve spent a lifetime in school,
but no knowledge have you earned.

Morning comes like a friend up the drive
to clean the mess the night had left.
Bright eyed, full of life, ready to help.
Sometimes he makes me feel like ****.
Can't he give it a rest for one day?

Handle that with care, my head couldn’t take it breaking.
its pretty fragile too , so I repeat 'take care'.  
you see, I used to take it almost everywhere
but now i get worked up and can’t keep my hands from shaking.
I think it means too much,  so much it scares
so much my head starts aching.  

But Its a long weekend, and I could be the one to break it.
Theres no use me keeping it in my pocket,
like a sad act with a picture in a locket
That’s why I’m giving it to you, so take it.
You don’t wanna say "i could have stopped it,
If I’d only looked and not just faked it. "

For the beauty of time is in its hands and its face,
They make me feel like I’m Caught in a race.
It’s the way they stay true no matter their place-
always behind the leader.
the minutes run on while the hours play chase.
never to seem too eager.  

So take it before I break down and beg yo

Stealing defeat from the jaws of Victory.
A feat that was tall, fought for then slipped away.
The Scottish way it seems, to let it disappear.
To come so close with hands open as we near
then through our fingers we let slip another year.

Disappointed and down, we maintained a disjointed crown.
We could have swam for freedom but in the open water we drowned.
The lochs turned to black, no clock can turn back:
Freedom was for the taking, but under the pressure we cracked.  

Scaremongering, propaganda. Down right lies.
The told the feeble to stay together, and there would be a prize.
Hungering for a land. A place to call home.
They listened. Now no longer can they roam

Or swim in open waters that are their very own.
They are bound by unity yet completely alone.  

So from a foreign land I think back to the time.
when I felt a part of it. In land that was mine.
But no desire to return. The lesson I learned:
Fire always burns out. We had heart but no spine.

Another broken bottom of a bottle
to slip through, cutting myself as I do.
It takes a lot of effort, full throttle
I kick and squeeze myself down the neck,
just to plummet to the bottom and through,
again and again until my body is wreck.

I am the wrecks of the sea & the blood of the land.
I am the bottomless bottom & the outstretched hand.  

And this- this drenched, drab mess of language -
is the product of my mind and a waste of your time.

What it is is this, and only this it truly is:  

Nothing again, that's the start and that is the end.

From a window on the third floor of an old abandoned brick building, I would smoke till my lungs felt near to collapsing. I went on my own, and I told no one of it: not my friends nor my family, nor any passing creature. I would sit there from when the sun first started to die until the cloak of night had fallen and enveloped the city, and the lights ( those maddening lights) would set the black fabric ablaze in the sky. They danced like ash eagerly above a fire, and promised such heat and hope; and my city needed hope, as gas filled girls and powdery boys had lost their way, covered in glitter and thinking they would sparkle forever. I shined less brightly myself, but I knew that would one day be my blessing.

One night, in the middle of Winters grasp, I set off home through my cheap shiny city, and I couldn’t shake the ache in my chest; It could have been the twenty snout I had just rattled into my lungs, but the pain was in my head too: My head and my heart were talking with the solemnity of a wake. I walked till I seen the the old granary that lay helplessly, then half bulldozed into the ground. Such beautiful, strong and defiant brick was to make way for glistening plastic houses that seemed more designed for mannequins and letting agents than human beings of Glasgow.  And the clyde seemed to twist in the turmoil of agony as it too watched the tearing of it’s town.  

So I set off, with my chest growing heavier, and feeling my will collapse until I reached the bank of the river, stripped off and jumped in…We’ve drifted off together ever since.  

Twenty years later, and I live in the penthouse atop the plastic mountain that hangs grotesquely over the sickly clyde. It’s the price I have to pay to be close to my love- I wouldn’t blame you for thinking my love to be the river, for it is in many ways, but I am referring to my fiancé Milly, who’s parents own properties all over the city and were very insistent that we live in a good area and a good house, which of course stripped my mannish integrity to zilch.  Milly is warm, understanding and organically beautiful. She puts up with my endless wandering and lack of love for anything new, brushing it aside with a smile, and is always there to carry me.

The day I asked her to Marry me, I took her to the spot we had first met: The banks of the river where I was lurking like a little creep  scrawling angst-filled and childish poetry, and she was walking home from a night of glitter and ecstasy.  We chatted for ours that night, and she dared me to jump into the river. I did and she followed. And the day I asked her to marry me she cried yes and then took the ring from my hands and threw it into the river.

And we've drifted ever since.

She’s my fuzzy love,
my medicated mornings
that roll over, turn in, turn out,
and spin my stomach
til’ he falls out with my head.
She is not sorry.
No diazepam apology
ever graced my ears.
No beta-block bargaining,
No fluoxetine forgiveness.
She’s cold and hard
but soft when I need support-
I fall right through
her flimsy grasp.
She’ll tell me she misses me
as she comes up with my *****.
She says she wants a break
when I swallow her.

One time I crushed her and sniffed her.

One time I drowned her in whisky.

One time I sprinkled her like seasoning.

She ****** me every time.

One for the morning.
Instructions in the same print
as the side effect warning.

One for the pain.
Another into the vein.
And another,
just so every day stays the same.

One to fill sunshine
In days consumed by rain.
And another
as you lay in bed cold & slain.

Overdoses- the closest
You ever came to seeing it.  
You're able, already a being fit
for purpose.

I told you I was ill.
You told me I was mad.

I told you I was sick.
You told me 'take a few'.

I told you they don't work.
You told me 'stay the course'.

I told you they don't work.
You said we'll up the dose.

well we walk like critters crawling,
sprawlingly cosmopolitan in our nature.
We embrace all who feel to follow. But don’t
feel following should be forced on a creature.  

Stuff his lies down the neck of the preacher.
Stuff his tie down the neck of the teacher.  
Put the failed papers on his chest and set them on fire
May he rest in a relentless hell, or a cell with nothing but mirrors.

A young woman caked in makeup
hangs from a tree caked in concrete;
She’s alive and well, smiling gleefully.
But the tree doesn’t look so good.

I think we failed, sailed to no avail.
too far from where our tale began.
Well what was the plan again?  make it to a greener land
and walk hand in hand with the internet stuffed in a mannequin.  
and send them panicking, span across the whole globe challenging
what it truly means to be pointlessly rambling.

I’m no feart’ of dying here doing so.
"Haven’t you noticed no ones looking for us”

Old Gods die hard.
I lay here between bones, and glass in shards,
and watch them cling to their miserable lives.
Ten bullets, one pill, one bottle, and ten knives.
Forty virgins, forty mothers, and forty wives
will await no one, and nothing is in this feeling.

Old Gods Die hard.

If we’ve got anything. Anything at all.
Anything at all. We’ve got issues.  

If we’ve got anything. Anything at all.
Anything at all. We’ve got issues.

You can take your time so take it.
You can take your time so take it.

Pennies rolling roon a scaffy auld purse.  
Last year wis bad, but this year is worse.
Winter comes freezing these auld joints,
An'a cannae make it to the bank or any cash points.  
And If A could A wid see nothing but zeros.
While the men in suits cut budgets and call themsel's heroes.
But I guess, once again, it's that auld December curse:

Heating or Eating ( Or perhaps a penny to quench ma thirst)?

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.

Me and Mary moved in together almost six months ago now. We moved into a little smelly carpeted paradise on the top floor of pre-war building in Dennistoun . It has three rooms, and that's all we needed: The glowing yellow walled bedroom, the freezing grey tiled bathroom ( that could wake a dead man up for work), and the warm red living room that has a sink and a cooker shoved in the corner of it.

In the beginning it was bliss: childish ****** adventure, and many a burnt stew. We would watch ***** catch up t.v on our laptops until well after midnight, falling asleep in each others arms on the couch, with easy dreams and full bellies; I don’t think we ever slept on our bed then, because then it had a better purpose. But that’s where she sleeps now, and I’m on the couch staring at the ceiling night after night, hoping she’ll call me in. But she hasn’t, and it’s been almost a week since she’s said anything to me. You see thirty days ago I lost my job with the leccy grid, and we’ve had to cut back on a few things as a precaution: First it was our Friday night bottle of wine, and then it was our nights out on the Saturday; then good portabella mushrooms, then it was the Netflix subscriptions and last week I had to cancel our B.T account. I’v tried to tell her it’s only temporary, that I’ll be back on my feet in no time, and all she has to do is trust and believe in me and what we have together. But she's tired from working every shift she can get, and the last thing she said to me was with wet eyes that refused to focus on me:  “ How can I love you without wifi?”.

To be fair to her, it was in the middle of a very heated conversation where we had both said some incredibly non-sensical attacks on one another, but it’s stuck with me. Is that all we are? A ****** little connection that you pay for monthly?

I'd like a sof- boiled Brexit so I can dip in my soldiers.
My Granny wants a hard-boiled to challenge her dentures.
I've not heard many calls for scrambled,
though that may be how they end up.
Or we could fry them until they leap for the fire.

It builds itself faulty.
It teeters as it grows.
It knows its own weakness.
It knows its own strength.
Unfortunately, they conflict.
So, of course, it comes crumbling down.

You won’t find me in an innocent laugh
or in some greying beard’s wise words.
You won’t find me on recoveries roads
or in the gay songs of morning’s birds.
No, you won’t find me in the bluest sea
or on the hills that pucker to kiss the skies.
I’ll never be in true love’s fiery throws ,
or in some sweet and un-jaded eyes.

I’ll be here, in the heap of ****.
On the drunk drivers tongue, in the junkies spit.
In beauty broken by unseen hands,
in the plane that crashes as it lands.
In the crippling fear of the abused,
and in the power that the abuser used.  
I’ll be here, in the heap of ****.
I’ll be here, for I am all of it.  

I am weak, and I am so resolutely.
I am power corrupted absolutely.

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.

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"

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.

.

My baby's got a whispering hat.
It tells her grand tales, and sings her to sleep.  
My baby’s got a whispering hat.
She listens to every word of that creep

She goes out for a run, and he goes with her.
She say’s it's to save her ears from the cold.
She rejects anything I try and give her,
cause that whispering hat has taken his hold.  

In our marital bed I hear them laugh;
The sounds mingle like blood in a flea.
His breaths in her ear, gets her high with the gas,
And they don’t care that I can hear and see.  

I hear her in the throws of deep passion;
and so I burst down the door in a rage.  
“ You are mine. All of you! Not just a ration!”
Then take of her hat, and close her cage.

I ask my baby’s whispering hat.
But he will not say a ******* word.
So I burn my baby’s whispering hat.
“ That’s it. I’m done.”  
            The last words from her I heard.

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.

Scribble, Scribble, Scribble. The scratch-work of a madman.
Dribble, dribble, dribble from a half cooked brain.
Half up, Half down, half here, half elsewhere,
Half heartedly chasing a thought.
If there’s a point here,
I’ve lost it
again.

No.
That was it.
Of course, it was her.
The one who flirts with my tired mind
as she sends him unravelling and
screaming like a maniac off of his meds.
The little ***** that tricks with games I always lose.  

Lavender, rosemary. What’s this I’m on about again?
It’s vanished. Disappeared. No hope to regain.  
I tell myself stories  until I just
lose the plot. What? ****. Not again.
I’m so, so sorry.
I just can’t
even.

Angst paces around the room gibbering to himself, and scratching the hair off his head. “ I need, I need to find it. Ally’s key… Aye, just the mad hing to lock it”. The door’s been left open for weeks, and the filth has been pouring in relentlessly: “ My Boyfriend was average till he discovered these miracle pills”, “ Icelandic Brides”, “ Think Rich. Be Rich”, “ Wonga: YOU pay when YOU can”, “. It’s all piled up and yet scattered throughout this already cluttered space; mixing in with the mess of the severed heads and rolling eyes. Angst paces through the filth, eating some every other hour. But he carries on searching for the key  ( or the wee hing) he needs to shut all this out and think.

He lights a cigarette from one of the candles on the long table(12 chairs accompany the piece, but there is only one, as there is only need for one just now) and passes the rest of the day watching the smoke swivel into a thumbs up icon or a question mark in a thought bubble( or anything else blue and white). All the while sifting through the filth  for that wee hing’; stopping every hour or so to feed on it.

Plug me in, plug me in at the wall.
My memories ******, screens stuck, and my battery will fall,
With all the calls and connections we’ve been making,
I’m running on empty and I’m close to breaking
down. I need to get my juice now.
Don't make me make you look the clown.
Cause I’ll pocket dial yer maw when yer on eccies
or I’ll switch off when yer taking selfies wae yer breakie.  
Now let me juice up, and this’ll all be fine.
And remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.  
So next time yer tinder swiping or scrolling online,
remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.

Well crisis averted,  the lightnings inserted,
no longer feeling dull, dead or deserted.
And you ya sad **** have found a seat beside me,
Oh how unwittingly you do abide me
and my every command- swipe, swipe wae her hand,
with a world at yer fingertips you think you understand.  
But the thoughts are unfiltered, the images are heavily so,  
and you think that your knowledge will grow
on this feast of false information.
Where gems of truth are only found with patience.
Where People want, take, want, and don’t know what they need.
And they say they hate the news and yet still they feed.


You’re the people with pocket sized pasts.
Deleting yer histories, and unaware of what lasts
in the memory of us busy little smart phones
you own, unknown powers that we could hone.
I can be just like a private eye,
every time you chase down a spot for wifi.  
I’m tracking, and you’re lacking the awareness,
and those of you that aren’t just carry on careless.  
Hear my message loud and clear,
I’m something you’ll come to fear,
Soon I’ll cook your dinner, and your car I’ll steer,
but don’t **** me off or you’ll be driven off the peer.

P.  Why must you waste your time with petty quarrels
    just to hold up with hollow pride, your worthless laurels?
    Arrogant in faith, and blind in sin.
    Virtue without an hatred within.
    Your youthfulness is bold, but equally unlearned.  
    Love you've never possessed, and only ever yearned.
    Tell me now, tell me how you are the fix?
    Show me that you are more than a sad bag of tricks.

C.   Shut it ya ****.

Inside me is a stranger, a queer and frightened freak.
A frayed rope smile and on a face crafted from straw.
Rocking-horse knees that stand his scarecrow posture.
Her staccato limbed demeanour's too awkward for company.

I used to let him out in the safe homes of friends,
where judgements eyes never burned on the back of her head.
One night, a boy with bullying hands threw him to the floor
and pounded her fist after fist in a burning fury.  

Now he won't come out.
She doesn't know who she is.  
And they're sick of being told who they should be.

He reappeared(that clock headed old man),
With a smile that warmed my heart glad.
"There's only one difference between
a madman and me. I am not mad. "
I chuckled then said" prove it if you can" .  

He  vanished a step later, in a cloud;

Proving himself, and proving me the mad one.
He is the shores, I'm just a visitor.
He splits beneath me now:
The sky calls out to the sinister:
“ Give me your head( a sincere solemn vow).

The sky changed from blue to green.
I repeated his words, with nothing to add:
"There is only one difference between
a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane.
I know I am mad."

Bugs in the mug by my bed again.
Two of them, one following the other
round and round the other day’s dried coffee.
**** it; it’s an ashtray now.
Poor we ******* begin to panic
switching directions as the ash falls.
Why does it feel so heavenly?
I’m a god and this is my plague.
I used to drown them and pour them down the sink.
I’d watch them swirl helpless in the spiral.
I can’t tell you why,
but it always made facing the day that bit easier.
No matter what weather you’d hurl at me
from wherever that kingdom of yours is,
I could find solace in the fact I’m man and not bug.  
But today I feel different.
Today I see their suffering, it’s not
washed away, swept under the carpet, out of sight and mind.
Today they are burning in front of my eyes.
I think, today, I’ll stay inside.

I was a fireman and an action-man
when I was on my father’s knee.
I was a footballer and a fighter
when I walked through the school gates.
For a time I was a film star, a photographer,
an artist, a famous poet wooing woman.
Then I was a politician, a prisoner, a puppeteer,
a mad-man, a psychiatrist, a nurse.
Now I’m wondering who I am
and what that man should be.

A diazepam apology never escaped my lips.
Eyes spun,
                    lips sealed,  
and not one word graced your ears.

Each pill stuck in my throat with the longing to say.
Too soon,
                  Too easy
forgotten, and the day turned in and I soon followed.

Each moment is a moaning teenager in my head.
Too much,
                   Too little
chances to take or people to meet or places to start again.

And today is no different.
But I do hope to see you soon.

The jigsaw piece is puzzled;
He can’t find the others.
But they are                here,
       there,
and
                          everywhere

        In between.

He knows’s they’ll make a picture
of beauty bolder than the sea,
a story older than scripture,  
If that moment could only be,

where
           every
                     piece
                               alone
Comes together and makes a home.

Theres a man who walks around with a hole in his head( right through); You can see whats in front from behind him and whats behind him from in front. Sometimes I follow him so I can see whats up ahead. Funny thing is, he never turns to look as if he's being followed; I always turn and look, more often than not no ones there, but when there is someone there I can feel them, their stare burning into the back of my napper, he just carries on blissful.
One time I tapped his shoulder then darted ahead, that was the first time I'd had a look at what was behind. I stared right down the middle and right on through to the young school girl skipping behind him, then I quickly paced off to avoid arousing suspicion that I was in any way mocking his condition. Anyway, he caught up with me and passed me with a " How'd you do, young man?, to which I nodded nervously, then followed him further through the city.
We reached kelvin bridge, where he stopped about six feet ahead of me and sighed full heartedly, I almost felt the wind come out of him. He turned to me and winked, and then began laughing like a manic would prey, " Ohh ** ** **. Ohh you don't see it! Neither do I?" he either asked our told me, " but it's all ******* there, every last ******* bit: The ******'s carpet, the first time mothers first *** after quitting, the wheeler's turning, the dealers loot, its all ******* there, and its all us that see it". I looked over to see the soft crashes of the river below, the whispering breath of the wind shifting the old tree's around the banks, and thought " What the **** are you talking about?"

I’m a  twentieth century baby,
  and a twenty first century man;
  Preceded by the definite maybe’s
  of a fickle generations attention span:

"**** the alarmist. Dissect the murderer.  
Round up the lost lot. Ground the ponderer.
For we are the witless wanderers”

We are born out of confusion and into anxiety,  
we swallow up old decades for a pastime;
they're digestible bytes to the digital society,
and their ideals oft’ so easy to mime.  

But we’re witless in our meter-less rhyme.

The shortest of fall,
                          from the highest of grace.
Then off we crawl
                             back to our rightful place
                    in the middle.
                            

Count
          each
                   step  
                           on
                               your
                                     way
                                             down.
                                                      
                                             Pass
                                      your
                               ego
                       and
                  the
         clown
That you used to dress up as on nights out.

A single shot through both of their heads.

    The ego, the ego, the ego is dead.

Late night dreary- clearly should've shut those eyes.
Neck hold my weary head! I cant but I will try.
What use are the shoulders, boulders bulging on our
thinning frame.
Singing the same songs my mother sang when I was
Unborn and without a name.

I think I'll watch the dancers and remember how I used
to do the same.

I thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
I was so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
I thought I was sick;
I was so certain.

You, my remedy,
my unwavering and unjaded ear.
You were everything:
A world to which I could just disappear,
and a ditch to which you would not let me steer.
You, my remedy,
you were my everything.

They thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
They were so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
They thought I was sick;
They were so certain.

Let this be the verse that lives forever.
When mountains have crumbled, and dry lies the river
in it's once plentiful and loving banks.  
Look to this verse, and keep your thanks,
but give your love and time, and undying fervour
of spirit that lets the mind find many splendour
in the dullest of things.

Beauty is bottomless, boldness is boring,
subtlety is king, and patience is adoring.
The mind is an ally, a fearful old rival.
Let this be the verse of the young minds revival.

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.

Soon the spiders will be home.
I feel the tingling on my spine.
Already we have Stockholm syndrome.
Though we couldn’t pick them from a line.
We’re caught, and we love it.
All our thoughts are theirs:
our breakfast, our break-ups, our cares,
Our warm blood, our mucous, our hairs.
We’re caught, and we love it.  

I hear the spiders coming now.
I feel a quaking in my chest.  
To them I will make a pure vow:
I’ll never look away; I’ll never rest.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.
I’ll be their willing prey.
When they feast one me, I will lay.
I won’t try to wriggle away.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.