Once more, through town upon my bike, I flew
On Marston Rd, to think, that once, I knew
This road was as the daily one to school.
Then up through Cowley, thinking myself a fool
That hot summer’s day
To make the same way
Down Magdalen St so late, so mad,
Thinking of the fun I had…
Then down past school, the roundabout
Where I’d do a quarter turn about
Each and every day a month ago.
Even past the fields, father would not let the river slow,
The river of my memories, as he asked were these familiar to me
Too? And so they were; Rounders, tennis, punting days’ insanity
Have not escaped my mind just yet.
Up High St, past the colleges, I could not bet
For thoughts to be abated. My sweet town
Bereft of all but my memories strewn down
As I still rode on, and down Queen’s Lane now
Where many a happy lonely moment was spent, thinking how
I rushed down there with shopping early before Christmas…
Taking the corner, admiring the blooms, and fast
The next one, and my chest is filled with a twinge
As I remember a rainy night beneath New College Bridge…
Then St Helen’s Passage, the Bridge of Sighs, the Sheldonian!
My sweetest, proudest moments as an Oxonian…
Broad St, broad and small from lack of crowds
Still my head is in the clouds -
And St Mary Magdalen, the concert with my brother in winter,
The Ashmolean standing tall within the hinter,
And up St Giles, and down the Lamb and Flag,
Thinking of the afternoons I’d sometimes drag
Walking there, various aims or none in mind,
Now leaving the Natural History Museum behind,
And Dad reminds me of the trees that used used to fruit
Along Park Rd where now there are none… So, en route.

I am a girl, since in my soul I know no better, of curious notions:
I take storms in teacups
I collect them, and channel them into whirlpools
When my soul can no longer take the ups
And downs, when I no longer possess the tools
To build a façade, or can no longer hold them
I accumulate the dust from molehills
And make them into volcanoes, from which stem
And flow the plumes of fumes and spills
Of my lava anger.
And if my spirit intellect were stronger,
I would not bottle my emotions.

"I tried hard to be useful, but no dice"
No, you're right, it's not dice I'm calling for
For Law's a game of chess, it isn't nice:
To blame it all on chance is prison-poor.
We know exactly what we are doing,
But, true, it's d*mn convenient to say
"Just luck of the draw the blighter's ruined,
He should have made it out until payday.
He should have not been born into the slums,
He should have pulled himself up by the hair,
Taken example from our glorious sons,
And to cap it all off, life's rather unfair."
That he has to wait an age to see someone
Who'll legally diagnose him off the stream:
His parents kicked him out when too far gone,
Let dreams alone, a bed is just a dream.
While other lucky kids who made it through,
Whose parents got them to adulthood ripe,
Contend with debt and scrounging their way through
What by true Reason should be our birthright.
What crime is it, to be born silver-spoonless?
We do not ask to take the spoon from them,
But give us but a means to feed ourselves,
Give us a means, we'll polish our own gems.
Give us a means, you who hold your fist tight,
"Hiding" the fabled "dice" in golden rings,
Youth, by your fault, isn't growing up right,
And tomorrow, we're taking charge of things.
With nature, dice exist, but nurture, not,
And standing trial, we point our hand at God,
And He explains, "Have all you quite forgot,
The evil that Man does won't count as odds?"

What, when my intellect was too much,
And brash beauty too little?
And I seemed cool to all touch,
Made of paper and spittle
Like the wasp's nest that I am
And admit it now, I do,
And goodness how I own it too,
"They do not like green eggs and ham."
You've got the wrong end of the tale:
I'm caviar, champagne, and bread,
But I, alas, am not for sale,
And I give love freely from my head.
What, when my name is written in the stars,
Will you remember how you said I had it all
And still was not enough? Could you curse scars
That never felt a wound, and fall
From a tree you never climbed? You fool,
You wise fool, for your ignorant wisdom,
And your Fortune's shroud is still my chrysom,
Yet for my rising are you still the ghoul,
And ever will be. And still, live unhurt,
For how could you know disappointment
From one who you never gave appointment
And opportunity to commit such a curt
And curious crime? As how could you know,
Inert as you are, the blessings that could rain
On you, who are so averse to pain,
That you wouldn't risk letting Eden go?
How can you laud or regret,
That which you did never get?

This minute gives me no strong feelings - “...Going no where...”,
Stornoway, you had it there
Yet we are, just slowly, as slowly as Boats and Trains
And I fear unrequited love too, and I fear the rains
That bless tomorrow, and I fear Dad’s bottle of wine
Will never see the day when the light will shine
Through glasses it’s poured into, and our eyes, and our hearts
I don’t think anyone has even thought about rehearsing their parts
‘Cos it’s a very, very, very long way a way
Too too long way away, freedom to love, to smile, to breath, day.

Ravished by lethargy, I sat outside, and gazed at the ground,
Then, thinking, how all the ants and flies went about so sound
About their business, I posed a question in my mind:
Are they aware of our misfortune, or are they blind
And thus continuing untroubled, and so unhindered,
And so thriving...? As we just sit, bewildered,
Inindustrious, confined as mentally
Just as we are physically...
And if we go, dozy giants that we are,
Neglecting of the fact, will it truly matter?

You can say all roads lead to Rome
And a few lead to Wytham
Yes, a few lead to Wytham
As quiet as it is, but roam
Your way, on your bus, on your car:
I only know one, I only want one
And it may be long to go so far
On so little, but I shan't be gone
Unless it be by foot or on a bicycle
Run past the ruins of Godstow, the road
A minefield in sweet quiet from the bridge, tickle
The Trout, press the hedges at the goad
Of yet another motor, on bike or foot
On bike or foot, that I may kiss the ground
In pilgrimage to memory and childhood
Before the shades in which we're lost, we're found.

Came I hither with all the gold possess'd,
Came I hither with all the wisdom gain'd,
Came I hither with all the truth and jest,
Beauty, health, kindness, luck, thou'd'st have complain'd
That I came hither with an underhand
Desire of something greater thus exchang'd,
Unable to conceive or understand
How one who offers free is not derang'd.

Came I hither with all the gold possess'd,
And came I bearing rubies and pearls, too,
Came I hither bearing all the rest
To thine own mortal self, still erring true;
Came I hither, and ask'd nothing, giving
All that I have, and more, and still I err,
For the Lord ask'd nothing of the living,
But sacrifice is matter of a cur.

Mistrusting as you do, with sense, I see,
Love's made not for this world, nor I for thee.

I'm a bit over the weather, really.
And last year's me may well have been
Rather under the weather, and nearly
Submerged by the deluge when it was seen
That beyond the grey was nothing:
I did not see far enough, and if I
Have seen further, it is because I
Once stood on the shoulders of giants. Nothing
To say I can't do it again, even if the ascent
Is easier said than done. Rather than a further descent,
Rather than the blocking of my sun, a sun that I
Have a right to as much as any and all that live,
I will embrace all, and thank even the rain, for I
Am really a bit over the weather, and ready to forgive.

No markings to paper
Merely a personal choice
Unravelling rhythm guitar
And shore and off-shore voice;
Alice said, Alice said, Alice said,
And my mind opened, and I
Walked home thinking, why
Do I live by what the cradle read,
In extremes, and why do I
Not deserve to do better?
Why don't I burn every last letter
For every time I didn't cry?
All this holding, holding back,
When the "baby" twists and coils
To bite what some consider spoils
And I look at myself wearing black,
And red, and a man's coat,
So I can forget who forgot.

Gliding on the Isis, Dad at the castle
Not hindered by the usual watern bustle
Summer is come, my sister’s a flower
Unfurling to sweet sixteen’s tune in this hour
Dog roses and nettles, poplar and willow
Leaning over the bow’s bitter pillow
The world’s upside down – Didn’t need the self-posed illusion
To prove it. Elderflower, wine, and face masks are an odd infusion
But I lie, steampunk Docs in first position, stilled in time
Immortalising it in few photos and poor rhyme
Poor as my experiences are rich, but capturing to perfection
The aimlessness of mine, of our, wonderings’, wanderings’, their recollection.

My soul was steeped in guilt
Ink was over my conscience, spilt
Obscured, I felt my way through life
Treading carefully on the knife
Edge I used sometimes to cut my dignity
In pain and shame and in indignity
I’d become addicted to more pain
When life dealt it to me again
When I dealt it to me again
I became blind, I saw no gain
I wished for death, I wished for light
I wished that walking through the night
I might be swallowed into the ghost realm
Where once I stood with my pen at the helm
Rewriting, writing, making history
I still think it is a mystery
In some senses, that I pulled through and made it out alive
Only to survive
With guilt, and my parents now holding me
From falling deeper into the emotional self-harming sea.

Gaze at me, with you ever-so-slight smudged lipstick
Pop-punk lyrics issuing from your perfect mouth
Dark circles from the khôl and folly
Forgiveness from your youth
Torsion of perfection into a wry smile
Sober, you say, drunk, who'll walk upon my style?
Who'll dare? I dare, in laying bare, ballet hands,
The contents of my *****; You know, friends,
I may be an actress, and pretentious,
But my ability to lie's contentious.

I learnt to start justifying my actions
After years of crying sin
On everything I did and said
And only now the thought pervades my head
Now that I can breath, and I have no one to wrong
Just how wrong I was for the long
Of these two years.
Amongst my fears
I count – Will I ever be as brave, as honest, as forgiving, as principled
As before the time the reality of Life hit me, violent, raw, carried me on its current, limp, unbridled?
Will I find Truth again
Not calling it vain
To struggle and fight
For what is right?
Will I learn to forgive myself, not because ‘it was a hard time, too hard for me to take’,
But come out of the shame I have descended into, and give forgiveness for its own sake?

Do you wake up only even now?
She tugged on your toe, sleeping giant, for long
She did not speak in me, but spoke to me
Only now, you get up, and you bow
I grew up silent, my parents saying that shouting is wrong
Perhaps it is, but speaking firmly and clearly
Is the opposite – It demonstrates control and frustrates the enemy
Let measure be your ally, sleeping giant, as you unfurl like an anemone
Though you slept through her trying
Through her crying,
You heard little. True, you woke up sometimes,
And moved mountains, but the times
Are still cruel to her, and you, as the big man, must protect
Those who are oppressed, else your size is your greatest defect -
They are not lords that forget their strength, and so, their duty
To aid those who are in difficulty.

When tenderness became a thing
That left with you, well, I've regained
It - there are men, who care, and show
It, too. Kissing on main market streets
Is a thing. This wasn't supposed to be
Revenge. It wasn't. I asked my friend,
And he said yes. Well, he kissed me,
Like a man. He took what he wanted.
He took joy from seeing mine, and I was
A woman again, and your rejection faded,
And men were men, and women were women,
And all was right in the world. Save that I
Messed up my knee and should have told
My family where I was, why I'd got stuck
After the work-do. I was supposed to have
Helped and all. I have a love already - it is
With those waiting at home, not waiting
To be found on a street corner, cold and
Desperate, like a Frank Sinatra song, sung
Nervously by a girl who wishes she were more stupid.

But, (you whose name dare not cross my lips),
It wasn't so sad. My colleague was gratified -
What do you know of a ten year love story
Falling apart? You, who built me a lifetime
In two weeks. Were I better at talking. Could I
Figure you any more than he could figure her.
Do you know what desire tastes like, your own?
Do you remember mine. Did it feel alien on
Your tongue. Did I feel like "No, this is nothing
Of mine, this is not mine, not this." I wonder.
What do I know about love? I know about seeing
The hurt in someone else, and kissing that.
I know how to care for wounds, and I know
How to rip them open, too. Last night might
Have been the first time I didn't want revenge
On every deep cut men have grafted in my bones.
Someone cared (and people cared at home, too).
Someone wanted me (at home I was wanted, too).
I wanted to cast light onto a shadow in his mind
And found my own darkness again, like you will,
Perhaps, the next girl you take a chance on,
When you need a reminder you still have the touch,
Or when you fall, like a boy. I reach out and I
Find my own wounds, and yours, in the night.
I reach for you, and I find you barred. You
Swallowed the key and the lock, and I don't -
Can't - want to reach into your chest to pick
The lock with my bloodied fingers. Benya,
(Oh I dare), I'd gnash flesh to bone for you
And break that to the marrow, but your name
Would be "Love", and I am not that stupid.

Some things get you down,
And getting up again,
Just when you had regained your crown
This morning, after ages of pain,
Is difficult, especially alone.
Talking to loved ones feels only slightly better;
All methods of self-care are gone;
So I write a letter,
A short thing, saying, Guys
Life has lows and highs:
There will be vermin on this earth -
Don't let their arrogance push down your own worth.

Pray, seek not glory for thyself for love.
Learn from the master: ‘Tis a waste in shame
To think the earth and sky and wills to move,
To think to make Heaven thunder thy name,
To think that falling stars are thine to keep,
To think that one converse with merfolk can,
To think thou know’st the place where fairies sleep,
Believe thou canst turn stone into a man.
If such, thy sweetest idol, asks for blood,
Wouldst thou grant it him, to appease his wrath?
And even if he asked thee to do good,
Look to his brow, if he a conscience hath;
If such are the demands that thou hast done,
Believe, he is no better than a stone.

The anger's in my cheeks
The words aren't in my mouth
I know like I have for weeks
Everything's only going south
If I stay to hear you say
Another word of your fanatic way
You cannot be wrong, sir
Your stance is on fleek
Your shoulders are strong, sir
But your logic is weak
And I know the ins and the outs and the world
And I'm sitting and spitting with my fists curled
Oh yes, oh yes, you have got the answer
But haven't you heard, you're not the new cancer?
I'm mincing my tongue, you're not mincing yours
And I know that my knowledge is worth just two straws
Wise men ask the fool
And they all sit and drool
But I burn in my anger
At how you don't know hunger.

Darkness fell like my love's feet
Softly o'er the fields of wheat,
O'er the valley, o'er the bridge,
O'er the mountain, o'er the ridge.

And sitting still o'er a blazing fire,
And my heart blazing with desire,
Dark is the fire, I still confide,
Compared to the eyes of my would-be bride

And blazing like my heart, my mind,
For that your kindred could not find
That I had will where had not kind,
So to our love were deaf and blind.

And rove I will to seek my worth
And rove I'll o'er this whole earth
And though beside you I mayn't lie
We'll share an earth and share a sky.

Perhaps, one day, Fate will prove fair
And let me pledge to you my care.
For now, our love benighted be -
Hope, soon, we shall a sunrise see.

If only I knew "mind over matter" in my heart
I should not be paying for my youthful sins
And my transgressions stand apart
From others, because I do not know the outs and ins
Of bars and flesh, but rather human character
And the confines of my mind

If only I knew that "a stitch in time saves nine"
As well as I know my hometown blind
How in my soul I knew that I would dine
Upon the mould of fruits of being kind
To nothing bearing even a love's spectre
I threw all warnings to the Wynd

And over the summer I have gained a new coat
I shun the cold of loneliness and pain
I seek not to hide from the iodine
Troubles no longer merit building a moat
I smile in the face of lions
I can take defeat upon my chin
I do not know its name within
Tomorrow ever has only more scions

But my sins come back to haunt me
The old moat crumbled inward, letting me know
I still look on his face, and it does daunt me
That I must pick up my tools that I may grow
Because the damage doesn't go, it only festers
To bite back later when I think I'm fine
Even with the mood of ten-score jesters
Taking down Hell is much a task divine.

Tell me that I won't find myself in rioja.
I think you'd disapprove, but you pretend not to care;
I sobbed four years worth of guilt out, and ya
Can't reply to my texts like I could dare
To beg forgiveness over and over, once. I knew
I wasn't good - and I knew I could be, but you
Had me well believing I'd struck gold. Why don't
You tell me I was a mess? But you can't and won't,
Because I wasn't, and it's true that you are lost,
And I'd find you where it'd hurt you most.

My adoptive father
(A week younger than I)
Who once dated my adoptive mother
(4 months younger than I)
Took us out to a posh joint in New Town
Where both of us took turns in being the clown
Taking the jester's, drama queen's crown
And taking down
Our Spanish waiter
Not sure if we did cater
More to them than they to us.
The racket, the drama, the jokes, the fuss,
My Instagram, and A.'s.
I remember his attempts to chase
Us, to gain to our level, to chat me up - make me leave trails
Of mirth tears, too, not just vinaigrette. "If the lady would give me her details...
Have my heart..."
(Serving four of a chicken on my plate)
"You broke my heart."
(Agreeing to and pulling off staging a "stage kiss" with my mate)
And they both admired my guns - He knew not to cross
Us. We're a dream team, my school-dad and I, no loss
For us, though we take Ls with smiles on our faces:
We'll keep on joking, laughing, irreverently, untying your laces,
Tripping up on our own but still making the trip;
And when the bill finally came, it was more than worth it, even the tip.

These days in budgeted decadence
You twist on your thrifted finery
And leave me to mine own
You are children marching the cobblestones
Like soldiers into lines that you know very
Little of, together and alone
Collective and individual struggles fought
Black coffee for the morning
Ethanol for some inky hour after twelve
None of your souls have been bought
Yet, and I hope they won't in the true dawning
From the cutting of the safety net, may you delve
Into futures sufficient and abundant,
All ye heirs apparent.

Remember how I looked to you,
To tell me I'm not mad?
However, I was not in view,
The best you'd never had.
I walk, your kisses on my lips,
I walk with your words, forward,
Fate declines the power trips,
And love is untoward -
I can't find you in every glass,
I can't see you in that window,
In every chance that never'd pass,
For I cannot be their widow
Like I'm yours.
Like I'm yours.
Like, I'm yours.
Like. I'm yours.

The gentleman is too proud, methinks
As is the lady, lazed and dazed, not, too aware
And with all her cares upon the brinks
She toys, with painted fingernails
She knows that not much of what she's doing's really fair
But is is it fair now, when it fails?

That the heart is troubled by the heart that is troubled
That is not your own heart’s troubles: the ecstasy doubled
And the room beats full of hearts, overbubbled
In the heat of the moment and the drama that’s cobbled
Together by them, of real sorrows that aren’t theirs to share,
But very much theirs to tear and wear and overstare,
Because the blood cares only as much to care
For the fizz of the moment, and it isn’t your hair
That is being torn; it isn’t your paean that is being sung -
It’s you caterwhauling it, as you will, lung and lung;
And deranging the song, like ten cats being hung
And their guts played alive, violins freshly strung…
But forgive me, I tell you – this is the horror
Of those who will stake in another girl’s drama.
It’s not a piece of your pie, and it isn’t mine either;
I just know what it’s like, so spare us the fever,
And spare me the fiver, ‘cos I’ll dish you no more
Than nothing and dagger looks: The heart still beats sore.

This is desire; nothing you have heard of in
Romantic poems, of red, of pink, of green,
Of gold and pearlescent white - it is a picture
Of me in my pjs, with my sexiest underwear
Beneath, for no reason at all - I have my feet
Up on the footstool of our stained sofa set
Coffee and alcohol and goodness-knows-what
From bygone beggars who lived our student lot
And it's quarter past two, and I have a well-eaten
Granny Smith core in my hand, and the day has beaten
Me. The week has beaten me, but hey!
I smiled through it all, almost all the way.
And my household (mis)adventures mean I carry a stale chipshop
And washing smell about me. And I stop
And I think, yeah, I'm only up because I'm working late -
I'm only working late because I got up late -
I only got up late because it finally hit me -
It finally hit me and I'm working on trying to get by
So I record myself on IG live reading a Victorian novel
I discovered two summers ago when another total
Fool decided it was wise to break my heart
Because I'm needing the typed-in hope, on my part,
Discovering that I'm sitting with a journey ahead
Stilled, getting over the craziness, the pain in my belly and head,
A hundred things I could do fresher and if I just lived normally
And I'm sitting, again, a picture of nonchalant insanity
Over a pair of strong tan arms, great hands, quick-fingers,
Beautiful blue eyes, a jaw, a beard, a chest, a heart that lingers
Everywhere, in every word you speak - it resounds, rather,
Root-chords and sevenths and sixths and fourths, and, bother,
I write you as a blazon when it was your whole and soul
I loved. "I loved you once". I think I love you now, the fool
I am, staring into the dark night, the flats across where they
Have potted tropical plants and a couple and a cat, and hey,
I sing whenever the window is open, hoping you will pass
And hear my clear voice lauding your songs and more, but alas
These hopes are vain, and the window was open wide tonight
And I wonder how many I entertained, not going left or right,
Dimming the lights, thinking about you, and losing my mind
As I still do? No, it's not a **** picture, but I'm inclined
To say it's real, and if that ain't ****, the ****** says,
Then I sure as heck will never settle for what is.

I was never good at avoiding pain
It is what comes from placing faith
And why I do something so vain
When I can't know that there is ground beneath
I can't tell you, but I can recount
How my days are nothing until
I hear from you, and then I count
Another age until you will
Show me something I think is love.
I don't know what makes me depend
On knowing this; perhaps I could dream of
Stopping and do it, too, but rend
My heart in three rather than that I
Should let your claim upon me die.

Why do I feel like I’m falling?
It isn’t me, it’s lost time falling
Away from my feet.

But why should time be lost,
When it is I that am lost,
I acknowledge my defeat

In the face of my own blind pride
And beg that you might spend another second beside
One who deserves to fall from grace,
But in its place
Is flying, soaring, hurtling,
At a rate so star-rate startling
I had to still my coursing thoughts to realise
All of this beauty is passing before my eyes
Passing in my life, and I saw none of it.
I accepted, lived in, used, but saw none of it.
Therefore it isn’t time that should be lost,
When I failed to make the most
Of it, when it’s my value that’s falling
And its is rising, and I’m failing
To match it, in its falling, and its rising,
And realising
Far too late, the worth
Of stopping, admiring, planting ones feet into the earth
For just a minute.
Living in the minute since I am, you are, we are, in it.

Dully, the dewy eyes make their way towards a bed
And not, before something should be said:
The cure seems to be tomorrow.
The panacea for all death, lethargy and sorrow
Is tomorrow, which washes over us
A wave, the new day, fresh salt and water
And anything sad and onerous
Goes away, or at least can be approached by the daughter
Of today’s dying mother cell, and all hope lies
In the next day, because if not now, then mañana, demain, zavtra
Therein lies the happy ever after, after
After today, as the loom of life keeps on weaving
And the thread of life keeps on beading
And the sighs of life keep on leaving
And the tides of life keep on receding
And washing in again upon the shore
Washing my beached body evermore
Until I choose to stand up as I may
Stand, rise, up and seize the day –

By Jove, how am I so bare, so salted, so lost?
“Day one, or one day, you decide”
Oh prefect of 2017, where am I to hide
From your words? Where am I to hide from a host
Of other words, phrases, calling me out on “laissez-faire”?
The tide will wash over and over
The tide will erode the cliffs of Dover
The tide will erode me with time and lack of care
Because the rhythm cares not,
Though it bares us on
The music won’t stop,
As we dance as one
The machine keeps grinding
The barons keep minding
The hurdy-gurdy keeps winding
And Time keeps binding
And the poet keeps writing
And keeps writing, and biting
Her nib
And her lip
And thinking this sounded better in my mind
Than put down to pages unlined, undefined
Nothing can be defined, only compared
There is no pen that can know,
No knowledge that may be shared
Only pondering
Wondering
Musing, when the muse gives
When one feels one lives
When one feels, one lives
When one reels, one gives
When the world keeps reeling
And I keep feeling
And this page is keeling
And your eyes are peeling
But I did not come to write horror –
I wanted to give hope for tomorrow,
Which will surely come, but, audi vocem meam
Te imploro: *** venit, carpe diem.

Some three-quarters of the time the mind is a-whir
With all of the poisons and burdens I bear
And, honey, if I could be sober, I would, but I try.
I deny the flesh, and I deny the liquor,
I deny the substance, and God, and I'm sicker,
And, honey, if I could be sober, I would, but I die.
The answer it lies in my opposite hands
That try all at once to conquer new lands
And write terrible poems, and bake dastardly breads,
And still all my lovers lie cold in their beds -
I satisfy no one, not even myself.
But, honey, I try and be sober,
Though maybe that's not quite the answer,
And maybe that's why
Life has left me up high
On that dusty, dusty shelf.
But, honey, I wish I were sober
'Cos maybe all this would be over
Until another voice says "You're not lost enough."
And I say, Milady, you're plainly wrong,
For the wind is my carriage, and silence, my song,
I'm a diamond that can't cut herself out of the rough.
"Lose yourself to the zest, lose yourself to the tune
Of the rhythm of life, and find you will soon
There's another disinhibition that can aid you,
Turn that thing around, that madness that previously stayed you."
I'm full of good colour, I'm full of great life,
But I'm tied by confusion, who bares a keen knife,
If I embraced my health and my joy, then perhaps I'd be sweeter,
And I do like change, but I'd love for my mind to be neater
Or at least wilder with thoughts that bare better times
I'll try catch the rhythm, and I'll follow with rhymes
I'll be drunk on Life, not forever hungover,
It's only my outlook needs be a wee bit more sober.

Doing one’s best is a chore.
Can I not do it? No more.
I have offered you all
But you just let it fall
In one **** messed up heap on the floor.

100 metres to the end,
The finish line’s in sight
You’re laughing,’cos you can’t defend
Your feelings from last night
‘Cos it was all fine, not to worry
Your legs were there to carry you
“It is all mine”, so slightly sorry
Your lack of practice tarried you
But in the end, it is all blind
You can only wait and hope
You’ve left the others far behind
And tripping in the scope
Pete Hall may have a named place
And your name draws from the hat
And then the name’s stuck to the face
Before you know, that’s that
And if it ain’t, well then it ain’t
No use crying over lord’s own spilled paint
In the back of your mind, there’s still a force
Adding “St Andrews had a very nice course.”

I put up an advertisement
"WANTED: A handsome man
To play the villain of the tale."
I was in earnest in this wail -
My play is falling as it can
Apart, in disestablishment.
I didn't think you'd laugh or like
My addition - "I don't need one
Personally." Well, I don't, no,
I don't need one, but if you'd show
A wish for consideration,
I'd love a hero on a fixed-gear bike.

Someone burns their vision of the world
In Western leaves some factory somewhere curled
And leaves the stump to burn upon the green
Where ducks and frogs make their domain,
And drops the package, too, still cellophaned,
Venom for the worms, a note to the society who brained
You - I see your disaffection's ribbon in the grass
And know I feel it, too, and yet, alas,
By all the powers that be, I know,
That I must be the change I want to show.

My hands were stained with beetroot
My hands were sour with lemon
My hands were salt from cabbage
As I cried in your defence
"He would have kissed me on the steps
If I'd looked up, if I were not such a fool
The cue was there, you know
When he asked about my necklace."
I always wondered, so now
Where's this bold solution from?
And she said, were you a man
I wouldn't have to look.

Yeah, I know I have no claim
Upon you or on your time
And the seconds walk by, lame,
And I pen another rhyme
About how painful it remains
To be the what-the-hell-ever.
It wasn't that I didn't wake
With my good friend by my side
It wasn't that I didn't make
The pancakes, or I tried
To refocus on my gains
Or whatever the hell ever
To remember to fail
To recall you exist
To laugh, not to pale,
At the wish to be kissed
And how stupid are the pains
Of being the what-the-hell-ever.

When that I should stop looking at the couples passing,
Smile, thinking I've had my day, and retreat, musing
"Some people grow up and get married, and are happy"?
And I don't, because being yoked is what I see it to be:
There is freedom for others in love, that I in my wanderings
Have not found; I was not meant in all my constant ponderings
To be mortal; I was not meant to not question a tie to one:
I am condemned as the artist to observe, and taste, but, for one,
Never know, because I am Nature's scribe, and Chaos' vessel.
Perhaps one day I should concede, and cease to wrestle
With mortality, that there is a level-headed fellow out there
To be my foil, who I can wrestle with instead, through fair,
Unfair and to the last day of our wear down to dust,
Such a one who has my perpetual (grudging) admiration and trust.
I can see myself, crowned with fat braids, kneading bread
As he complains to me of the vicissitudes that rise from bed
At work, my writing in a tidy heap as the children, crossing swords,
Threaten to bring down our careful peace and all my words.
With doughy arms I reprimand them, and set them to the work
They yet think of as play, and sit, my arms around his neck
Whispering sweet words of comfort, wisdom, love,
And he'll look at me in turn, ready to move
Earth, sky, and stars, let alone fire his secretary...
But I, for now, only know how to write poetry.

Doubt truth to be a liar,
Doubt that there are heavens above,
Doubt in the burning power of fire,
Never doubt: I do not love.

When this is all over,
Assuming it’s nice weather,
Let’s take punt of some description and conquer the Thames.
When this is all over,
When we can meet together,
Let’s make all Oxford sick of our songs and games.
The air cries for youthful fun and folly,
The butterflies, birds and brooks are jolly,
I look on and I smile, but inside I’m glum;
Since this promising May
Makes no promise today
The date on which the end of this prison shall finally come.

When this is all over,
Let’s take to fields of clover,
Let’s tear down through New College Lane
Crying for the love of life though you’d think we’re insane
I’m tired of walking and having to feign
Being happy, when the secret to happiness shall always remain:

“Por sentir la gioia,
devi condividerla” - Mark Twain

“Whilst often I do have the guts to write
Outrageous verse to pin for all to see
I sometimes do wish that on such a night
There might yet be some guts left within me
To write something that just you’d understand
Something that speaks and signs a tune unread
Tales of a time of no such “upper hand”
Notes of life within those once thought dead
And something realer than this pretend verse shows
In all its mad combining and design
Song text written down for modern freak shows
A paean for a thing that isn’t mine.”

Wrote the poet to the singer, who was in bed,
And who sighed in annoyance, and left him on read.

Far from it being mine to know
16 years of pain, maybe more,
Far from it being mine to show
The stars to follow back to shore.

I do not know where you may be,
I do not know the currents there;
Far from it, mine to know the sea,
Far from it, mine your soul to bear.

Far from it, when you rise to cut the line,
Far from it, when you cut all ties to me;
I can't be yours, I offered what is mine:
A hand to guide upon a darkened sea.

It is literally only the cold now that bothers me:
I can hug my knees, feel warmth of the bowl of curry
That I warmed up for me and my girls. You fall in love
And I fall behind, I fall back. Move on and move
In and marry, sweet and twenty as you are, sweet and loving
As you are, who don't listen to Infinity on High shoving
The irony into the backseat, gazing at the lyrics' memories
Like a postcard collection on a corkboard. Ryan Ross could have cursed at me,
And I could have cursed like Kellin Quinn, but these are dead times now
To beat down with a combat boot in moving, as I row
With my personal indifference to the candles and the wedding bouquets,
To the political matches passing me by, the parties of croquet
That I decline to program, combat boots ever on the road,
On the road to being Her, a still concept without a goad
Towards what the fairytales say I should be - I'm a pop punk song:
I take no prisoners: Your definition's wrong.

You know, I'm not defined by this
I never was this, I never was his
I spent a little time
In a skin that wasn't mine
I played a small pantomime
Where I stumbled over every line
And you probably though this was me
But it isn't, and it's not who I want to be
The person I want to be is still banging on
The walls of my insides, still hanging on
For a day that she will come outside, even if
There is no one around to see it, maybe it's
Better that way, for the first time, I will strip off
And Remember what is wearing no glitz
That I thought was me, but my own skin -
I'm tired of the shape I see, I'm ashamed of how I appeared in
Your eyes; yet, there are people who believe still,
Who never stopped seeing the real girl.