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.

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

I don’t want to know,
No, I don’t really care.
I don’t want you to show me
How you’ll always be there.

Because I don’t think I will,
No, not for a while.
So just allow me to ****
This mindless smile.

It is doing no favours
For you or for I,
It’s not making me braver,
Just guiltily sly.

My heart pours
smooth like a
fine red wine,

And I scowl and
scamper for a
glass in the night,

So it can land so
safely and surely
for consumption.

But someone always
drinks it so fast
with no remorse.

And it was I
who poured it.
I allowed it
to be drunk.

If I could lie in bed, by my window
forever, I would. But only when
it’s dark and stormy outside and
the wind whistles by my side,
around the middle of November.

If I could listen to the trees roar
and growl, so peacefully loud,
not here with me, but still so
close, I would jump at every chance.

If I could feel the subtle draft
of chaotic darkness kiss my
cheeks and bare shoulders
for years and years, I would.

A country road with
a hazel glow, that
settles around the
watching lazy clouds.

Some kindly fox
that creeps and sits,
camouflaged in a
familiar field of corn.

The floating flies that
swarm adrift, they’re
careful not to try to
care about anything.

Smells of sweet air,
of apples and of pears
and of heat that hugs
your drooping nose.

This land which I don’t
know, and never have I
been will allow me to
visit maybe one day.

Outside, below
I am teased so
Coldly, by a
Dark, dull and
Dismal morning.

Then I hear the
Kind click of the
Radiator ascending.
Hugging my feet.
Kissing my shins.

I’m not going to
do today. I refuse.
I can’t. For when I
Try, I feel nothing.
Nothing at all.

My tutor will have
to wait. And my friends
will have to wonder.
Only for a second, a
mere moment or two.

Somebody has crept
Up and into my room,
Inside of my heart
And taken what was
Once beating well.

I don’t enjoy giving
Segments of my soul
To eyes greedily stuck
In desperation.

I don’t enjoy sharing
The atmosphere of
My skin, with hands
Like mine, only guilty.

I don’t enjoy showing
The burden of my
Abilities, so focused
On hitching a ride.

I have tried to enjoy
A feeling of tranquillity,
Amongst the beholder of
Somebody else’s eyes.

There is a fascicle
Of anticipation in
Labour inside my
Brain – where
Hope can spurt
And spit through
Chance. Though
I see it I can no
Longer nurture
Matters of disgust.
There is a funeral
Inside of my eyes
Which sit like the lazy
Cup of tea on my
Table. And it whispers
To me in the warning
Of a night so coldly
Scarce of cheer.

You're never
Gonna' quit
It. We're fast
And illegal in
Suburbia and
You say you're
Gonna quit it
But we can't
Just yet in a
Birth so quick
And shy of
Hate with
Extensive roots
And long
Black pride
That shatters
Every swam
Of doubt;
It's almost
Six, the sun
Will knight
A worthy
Soul with
No teeth
And no
Pride. As
We all lie
Aching and
Bleeding,
We beg for
Assignment
of the
Title.

Last night I had a
dream, so definitely
indifferent from clouds
of thought which drift
over my sober-wreaked
mind.


I squint and shake
and shiver with
movements, so
statically paralysed.
Bathed in my pit
of sweat and insanity.


To fathom these
patterns of hidden
truth, libido,
won't do one bit.
It can't cease to
become.


If I'm not careful
enough or tentatively
scarce in a midnight
screech I'll be sure to
tell the world my fears.

Spit on me with your mind
And dissect me with your eyes.
Decipher this very self, less
Orientated being that simply exists.

Plunder your skin around
My thoughts without effort or
Worry. Everyday without knowing,
Show harshly, I do not matter.

Lie inside of my ribs, caged
In a blanket of spring. Warm
And numb in a cornucopia
Of love whilst it howls outside.

Please, stop recalling time as
if it is the oxygen you breathe.
We have until the last sheep
verbally dismembers me cold.

I feel I only have a little left.
Yet only a fraction has been
Taken. Hurry, find me, and
allow me to climb out of my brain.

Annual months cry by, alas, in these
familiar, yester-years. In a flash of
a wipe, a sweep, a brush and a
weep, every monotonous November.


Here, I remember, the last closely
past and present in timely rafts of tears
and laughter. Though I know, I beseech,
the next will be here if I wish it hard enough.


Al’ never, only render, the unfathomable
words that stand by it. And hug it. And
kiss it. And give it a tinge of worth under
the watchful eye of the wintry night.


Aid me, please, in a boundless voyage
of wonder through winding trips of ache.
In four walls of acid, sour senses of taste
soothed by toxic smoke of illogical fate.


Don’t seek me too hard or fast in
a look. That will tear me in two. That
will crucify you too. During life and death,
as I and my thoughts
are detestable.