When I am older and my brain bleeds loss,
I will look for a glass under the autumn leaves.

When I am older and my heart leaks guilt,
I will cherish the hope that I have in the trees.

Once, I was older, and I used to bake souls,
in four walls of ash and of morning oats.

Once, I was older, and it was sweet like vanilla,
in a world which was so absent of hope.

Magic man of monophonic root
wreak havoc on the planets of
the yester-years I never saw.

‘Til this very morning, I wake.
I listen to the thirst and fear
and funk of a trembling flower.

******* and pain is hard to
swallow. Breathe, awkwardly
through stars of the regular.

Your tears are too cool to cry.
They would dry up and crust
under a spotlight hotter than Mars.

But you cry to me, in the midst
of an hour, minute or day. Now
a momentous speck of stardust.

I'll never render, only lie
through teeth so cracked,
so broken. By the fluid of
desire that has tainted me.

Forgive my splinters and
excuse my scars which
scream in your face and
strangle you, Father.

Idle consoles and dusty
comics. They lie upstairs,
with much more honesty
than me. Your bearded child.

It took short of ten years,
to grow long, *****, and
poor. I have been taken
by the concrete of London.

I have a new found love,
a libido for burn and for a
*****. ***** of the promise
land. Intravenous fling.

But I am back now, Father,
with some chocolate,
sweeties and smack. I am here.
And I want all that you have.

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Sat in the Pub Zoo, I can nestle
And lie, in the hustle and bustle
Of this merciless crowd of brick.


My thoughts are my own for me
To lay down on a bed of broken
Bones, and weary, weeping eyes.


I look up to see a skeleton of black
And of piercings. I will never know
What it thinks, for which I am grateful.


For sometimes, I don’t wish to seek
Another ruin. My neurological debris
Is enough, it tortures me until tomorrow.


I do not hope, or wish, or think
Or willingly believe. I just sit and
Exist and critique the sobbing leaves.

I am watched by the familiar trees
that tower over my head as I lay to
rest on a pillow filled with ambition.

This courteous view of a field so high
on immature spirit and tender cries,
never fails to seek love and hope for me.

Me, a sack of bones that sits alarmingly
awake and aware of the clouds as they
drift solemnly but surely into my eyes.

I will try to acknowledge and love the
others but it's the sounds, not noises,
I dwell on here, and cry at every night.

I tell myself that
I don't need the
Speed, or some
Rush that drags
Me discordantly

Soul twitches fast in
A morning rush for
Peaceful dreams,
Which I can’t even
Begin to pursue

She, he, won’t let
Me drift heartedly,
So weak that could
Perish if I sneeze
Or if I cough

There’s a shiver
That’s shouting at
Me so harshly and
Coldly but I will tell
It to please, go to bed