he's a two ****** drinker. pleads that maybe a bit more money would subdue him, a bit more leisure, a bit more love.
every sunday in secret he kneels at the pew, screaming at the alter "if only"
if only his mother never left, maybe things wouldn't be as they are. maybe he wouldn't wake up monday morning with the wood residue underneath his finger nails, the bitter after taste of wine on his tongue and the similar symbolic stain ringing in his head.
only resemblance of religion he's ever practiced, the only proof he's shouting at god for answers too.
but oh, the nights he drowns himself in liquor are the nights he said god responded once before. claims he heard his voice... he's all shaky hands now, blood shot eyes, spitting with every word... it goes unnoticed.
we never fully learn the meaning of being lifeless until we are, until we feel the bones nearing skin & the flesh between diminishing, until our marrow is blackening at a parallel rate to that of our heart,  until we've convinced ourselves the breath felt on the small of our neck is indeed god, is indeed death, it's then that we realize it wouldn't be so bad after all in the after life, if any

Before I come and wake you
With hot tea and kisses
I will say some quiet words
In the dark
where you cannot hear them

I founder sometimes in your beauty
As if the side or depth of it are out of reach
I sink beneath its density
How your body shudders
With unwinding joy
When everything and breathing stops
In one intense point of space and time
Resounding and fading
A sheer pulsing drift of wonder

Then I feel your flesh vibrating
Like strings beneath my fretted fingers
Like an ocean of dazed and dazzled being
Exploding beyond your senses
And flooding your soul with holy vespers

And I am blessed to be in your body at such a time

And I am further blessed
By the intimacy of your secrets
Those fears and hopes
Your most precious self that no one sees
Beyond the energies of life and death
Beyond healing and forgiveness

You let me touch your prayers

In grace and bright dawning
When being is done and the universe explodes
Will the murmurs of our love
taste like Sanctus on the lips of angels

And I will be blessed to be in you at such a time

He collects copies of The Watchtower
to get a feel of true America,
to spike a lonesome fever, a voice of
desperation now in the hands of fate.

And in the black tapestries of starlight,
upon smoke and abandoned birthright,
he will stumble into a walking pace,
whenever the moment has come too soon.

He writes about writing more than he writes,
delusions of tyre-swings and fallen kites,
dreams of solitaire and those black-out fields
where you started the fire, then danced within.

And in the grey misery of hindsight,
in lack of sleep and forsaken sunlight,
he will stumble upon an inner peace
for the moments that are still yet to come.

He thinks of naked women all the time,
opened boxes of wine, slave to the mind
of divided poetry, words that rhyme,
a missing person, hidden in plain sight.

I broke again today.
Mind caged behind emotions
Not of my making,
Not of my choosing.

The tempest whipped up
By foreign deities
Which reside inside
Whom do not mask their hate.

I cry out for your help
Even as I strike your hand
When you reach for me.

Yet you stand resolute
In the wake of my broken fury,
Birthing new love within me
As I find strength in numbers
For I am no longer alone.

The truth of it is-

he's not going to fix you

she's not going to make you forget
the way your father would hit you

He is not going to make your collarbones sprout roses
He will not make you forget how to need

The truth of it is-

She is not a savior
She is not able to fight off the demons in your dreams

He will not make you forget the way your mother left
The bloodstains in the bathtub will still be there

The truth of it is-
This is your life
This is not a movie

No one is going to swoop in and save you

You will have to grow your own wings if you want to fly away

there is a certain comfort in the shape of his soft lips,
in the way his bones crack while we lay together,
in the way his eyes radiate

there's this poison that has settled into my baby bones,
splattering fat bruises on my pale skin

there is a certain comfort in the ringing in my skull,
like the long lost school bell of my younger days,
the days of Easter eggs and milky ways

there's this beautiful boy in my arms,
one who smells like rain and laughs like lightning

My south country that we call the Sussex Weald
A place of gentle landscapes of softly rolling hills.
My south country where I grew up and played as a child
Where I learned of nature as I studied life in the wild.
They stand in magestic glory between the land and the rolling sea
Those magestic hills we call the downs
we of the Sussex Weald
Yes, I'm a man of the Sussex Weald, of generations long gone bye
I'm a man of the South Country
And as a south country man I'll die

Poor girl.
In love with Poet.

Poet and man; angry at times;
Firing insults you can't

Possibly
Counter.

Beating you black and blue
With flowers
And feathers.

Poor girl.
Loved by Poet.

Loved and held closest;
First to fall victim

To every sudden movement
In matters of hearts
And hands.