sometimes I feel like a still life
that won't sit right on the wall.
sometimes I feel like a guitar
with one broken string,
so all the chords come out slightly wrong.
sometimes I don't feel at all
and I'm not sure I mind.

I'm a study in grey.
And I've nothing to say
as I paint my portrait of dissatisfaction.

I eat ash with my hands
and ***** ink on the page.
And if I sit real still,
I swear I can feel myself age.

In a room full of silence,
I have conversations
with the space between echoes.

I'm always running,
but going nowhere.

I'll meet you in Big Nothing.

kissing you felt like
swallowing fire, like drowning
in thin air, like causing an earthquake
under just my skin

and it was perfect

Unobservable universe,
with all knowledge, illusion;
will you meet me in fevers,
and lucid delusions?

Will you frame my thoughts
in your concepts of God?
Would you allow me my slumber,
would you spare me the rod?

There is no mercy, nor divine retribution,
no cosmic ray, and static collision.
All that we own will turn into rust,
into the cracks of the Earth,
and beneath the crust.

Give me meditation,
and the fruits of the trees,
a town to return to,
to stretch out in ease.

I'll let this beard grow,
you'll take-out again,
we will sigh in our beds,
and play remember when.

There are no favours in a lifetime short,
there's no ambition, in attributes bought.
All that we left is now memory;
a fortunate fossil,
a bleak melody.

I get so close
To it
I can taste it
In the
Air

Then my personality
Changes
To a lesser
One, like
The

Wind suddenly
Changing
On a hunter,
Giving his
Scent

To it;
Seeing it
Flee from
The mouths
Of his
Children.

i was walking around
in the Tate
on the Thames Embankment
London that day
it was hot hot hot
the heat haze
shimmered
above the river
like the sweat
that rose off my back
i saw you
all mixed up
with Picasso's
misplaced eyes
in Malaga blue
long necks,
curved limbs askew
morning balconies
the sculpture of a goat
made of a basket
***** ram
with a bicycle seat
we weren't allowed to ride
i kept thinking
of painted naked flesh
Velasquez, Degas, Matisse
and flying to Malaga,
Barcelona, Granada,
Paris, Venice, New York
all the cities we could **** in
over and over and over
if we ran off
together right then
any cheap hotel room
with a bed
and a shower
would do
we could give up
on looking at art
completely
screaming
meaningless
poems
words
endless
passiona­te
words
consumed
by life

And the memories we so lovingly crafted, like a child building sandcastles by the sea, will forever wash over me.