I have not always been good.
I have been punished for the smallest mistake
and shown more forgiveness than I deserve.
I have been softer and more vulnerable
than I have been in a very long time
and had my heart ripped out because of it.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the purest water trickles
from a Highland stream and into a tap, far away,
and where I am not.
You are right; I am lonely.
It enfolds me like a cloak, billowing in the wind.
Meanwhile the wild geese are beginning to fly south
and I must head for the north.
When we pass each other, in our flight,
I will smile and nod to them on their way.
They have all that they need
and I am still searching.

These days
It hurts less to be away from you
The pain is more like a
Gentle sting
Several seconds after
Pulling off a plaster
It’s still there
And it still hurts
But I am beginning to see
The light in all things again
Tequila tastes no longer
Tastes like desperation
Flowers bloom with a delicate scent
Mornings are an opportunity
For fried breakfasts and
Coffee warms more
Than just my hands
Forgetting you is impossible
But seeing you
In every day things
Feeling those tingles
Along my spine at something
Other than your touch
Gives me hope
And that is all I can ask for
These days

You might as well ask me
Not to take another breath -
To climb to the top of Arthurs seat
And not stand with my arms outstretched –
To stand in the middle of an icy street –
In the depths of midwinter
And not gaze with wonder
At the cloud of unspoken poetry
Pouring from my lips
Utterly failing to warm my hands –
And ask me –
Why do I continue –
Look in awe upon something –
So natural, that gives me
So little pleasure in return
And yet enriches my life -
So indescribably?

Whisper,
on the surface of the crockery
the fairy porcelain
and Satie's piano.
Rinse
unconfessed wishes
and, among the cutlery,
I say goodbye
to Gymnopédie.
There is always an air of water
in the words that tell me
when the morning ends
and in the brightness of the dishes,
the same colour
of sorrow.

Nunca vou pronunciar essas três palavras
Isso não significa que não existam
Mas quando as tento dizer em voz alta
Nada sai dos meus lábios além do ar.

Nunca vou dizer estas três palavras
Decidi fazer disso uma regra
Como Maria Madalena
Não sou uma boba amante.

Nunca vou pronunciar essas três palavras
Mas isso não significa que não seja verdade.
Não vou ficar calada, nunca tenha medo, mas por enquanto,
você não sabe " nada de nada".

If I were to forced to breathe my last breath now,
Your name alone would be carved on my lips.
Three words to you would be my final vow
And every former flame would be eclipsed.

But still, what fool could give her heart so fast -
For what? The sweet talk of a preacher’s son?
A fool yet wise to know it could not last -
For I’m as fickle as I’m quickly won!

So I must live and learn to love again -
Until the weight upon my heart can shift,
Until your sad grey eyes bring no more pain,
Until the curse of loving you will lift.

To steal a heart, my darling, is no crime -
I’m thankful that no man may steal my thyme.

Dedicated to the victims of Grenfell Tower*

She stands amid the buzz of metal flies:
This obelisk, memento of the dead.
The sirens crudely mimicking their cries
As pilgrims in their guilt leave much unsaid.

A once sweet hive is now an empty husk,
Her armour was to be her Achilles' heel,
And as the cold grey sky fades into dusk;
I speak not what I ought, but what I feel:

Instead of words there comes a cry of pain -
A strangled howl and heavy sobs of guilt.
What can be said when words are all in vain -
Like rain, on this gazebo that we built?

While politicians bluster “Nevermore”,
We will remember them forevermore.

Could it have troubled Pandora’s mind,
On learning where Hope springs -
At the base of her box she chanced to find
The cruellest devil with angel’s wings?

To foresee it seep into our veins -
Leave us to blunder and fall,
Cause mankind monumental pains,
And make a mockery of us all.

As the drowning heretic looks to the skies -
Before a wave knocks him to his demise
Into an absurd and uncaring ocean.

Somewhere a poet quietly smarts
The excess love from her swollen heart
And on a page whispers her devotion.

Like the king of a rainy country, am I!
Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye -
The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns,
The company of dogs leaves him forlorn.
Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry,
Nor the mortal jousts  before his balcony,
From his favourite jester no ***** tale
Can redden the cheek of one so pale.
His ornate chamber has become a tomb -
And courtesans, *******-clad, to whom,
Though royal favours inspire their provocation;
This skeletal youth finds no temptation.
Flamel himself could forge no plan
To extract the dark humours from this man.
In the baths of blood from days of yore,
He finds no properties to restore
This dazed corpse in whose veins once red -
Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.

For Max

O cruel, drunken soul, darling tigress,
Come to my heart, you lethargic beast!
I long for my trembling hands to caress
Your thick and glossy fleece.

In your petticoats filled with your scent
To bury my poor, aching head,
Inhaling your flowery fragrance;
The sweetness of love now dead.

I wish to sleep, to dream perchance
As sweetly as death’s embrace,
Without remorse, my tongue will dance
On your coppery body and face.

To bury my sobbing for hours
Nothing equals your bed’s abyss,
On your lips lies oblivion’s power
And Lethe flows in your kiss.

Like one resigned to meet his end,
I’ll face my fate delighted;
Docile martyr, innocent condemned,
Whose fervour with pain is ignited.

I shall ****, to drown my malice,  
With nepenthe and hemlock blessed;
Placing my lips upon the chalice
Of your pointed, heartless breast.

Come, lovely cat, lie at my breast
Cease your scratching and settle,
Into your beautiful eyes let me rest
Swirled with agate and metal.

When my fingers caress you at leisure,
Your head and your back's elasticity,
And my hand tingles with pleasure
At the spark of your electricity,

In your spirit, I see my lover’s expression
Like your own, amiable creature.
Profound and cold, leaving a deep impression.
And, from her head, across her features,

A subtle air, a musky sin
Floats about her dusky skin.

Mud drenched months, so soporific,
I love and find you beatific
Envelope too my heart and brain
In a gauzy shroud and tomb of pain

The south wind plays on this great plain,
Where nightly creaks the weathervane,
With ebbs and flows, my soul sings
As it extends its raven wings

My heart is filled with dreary things
As it does when frosts descend,
Oh shaded seasons, my regal friends!

Your shadows sweetly lingering,
- Unless in darkness, like newly-weds,
Numbing the pain of a hazardous bed.

At night the time is ripe enough to mate:
In close proximity, we duly prowl  
Thro’ slumb’ring streets advancing, cheek by jowl,
With caution like a tiger’s guarded gait.

For us, our claws convey both love and hate,
Into the sea, our songs we shriek and howl
Of treachery and longing hear us yowl;
Bewitching all with beauty is our fate.

For you, I am your ever-loving slave -
Upon your feline charms I’d happ’ly sup!
To have you by my side is all I crave,
Like cream tea we could lap each other up.

Oh! What loving phrases we could hiss
While resting by the hearth in endless bliss.

He sleeps. An enigma, his life bereft -
He lived then died once his angel had left.
It happened as simply as anything might,
As from day there follows the coming of night.

i am a mountain stream
meandering through
a rocky mountainside
one day to stop
and become
still
a deep pool
of those who meandered
before me
whose channels
cut into the earth
with speed and power
to ease my journey

i am always becoming
never ceasing
in the plummet towards
oblivion
i was born in the sin
of my forefathers
tarnished by the acid rain
of my surroundings
and my mistakes
lie in me
as impurities
that only time will filter

Ardent lovers and scholars austere
Love equally, in their twilight years,
Powerful and gentle cats, their masters’s pride,
Who like them are cautious and indoors abide.

Friends of science and sensual delight
They seek the silence of the night;
The dark god would have them guarding graves,
Were they so humble as to be his slaves.

They have the air of a sphinx on a throne
With thoughts of solitude they lie alone,
Who seem to sleep in a dream eternal;

Their fertile ***** are full of magic sparks,
And gold patches  and sable marks
Sparkle dimly their eyes infernal.

Shootings, shootings everywhere
Forty-nine face down in the mud
But who will save our rainbow lives
When we can't give rainbow blood?

It lies
in limbo
a beautiful
wreckage
glistening chrome
the wind
from the sea
stings salty
tears for the
deaths of
youths and
one man
whose name
is not
spoken but
whispered along
the cobbles
of the shore
nature at
its most
unnatural
tells all
and nothing
a secret
like that
of Midas
but the touch
is silver
not gold
tainted heavily
with guilt
the tale
sung by
the breeze
but not
the villagers
their tell-tale
hearts thumping
as they
pass by
for they hear
those voices
that will not
be drowned

When, in disgrace that I myself despise
And all alone do I lament my fate
I think upon my sweet love’s steel blue eyes
And doing so my troubles dissipate
In my philosophy I do declare
That in all heaven and all earth
There is no one so wond’rous fair
I have not a whit of her worth
In wallowing in thoughts of pity springs
My perfect songbird from solemnity
As the dove from the ocean brings
Green sprigs of hope from land to sea
To the ideal you lift me from my spleen
I am, forever, your earnest faerie queene

I am sorry
That I was hungry and you were weak

I was insatiable
What I had was not enough
And you were there
Irresistible
Sweet and perfumed
As coy and cloying as candyfloss
I had to consume you
And throw away the paper stick
Damp from my tongue

You tore my heart like a dagger’s ******
When before you it was laid
You, a parasite fuelled by lust
Like drunk demonic parade

You’ve tarred a mind that once was sound
To make it your bed and your domain
Degenerate to whom I'm bound
Like a convict to a chain

Like a gambling man to fortune’s wheel
Like the lush to a bottle of gin,
Like the maggots to their grisly meal,
**** you, you rot from within!

Give to me a swift, sharp death
For to set my weak soul free,
Give me poison to taint my breath
For to take my fear from me

Alas! both the poison and  the blade
Contemptuously said to me:
"You will not be freed or slayed
From your accursed slavery

You fool! — if from that deadly trance
Of which your release you desire
Your kisses would necromance
The cadaver of your vampire!"

It's a tale of revolution and dread
Where most characters wind up dead
Some end up insane
Some end up in the Seine
And all of this over some bread

O noble muse, where perched thou singing?
And in what ear, upon what summer's day?
When our bard begot this, his least good play?
Your graces to some other were bringing,
To prose and verse with beauty adorned;
For, on sitting down to read this once again,
I see well why this one is scarce performed:
For to read it causes me less joy than pain.
My worthy bard, it is as I did fear:
Of all your plays of ******* and kings equal,
There have been none as good or fine as Lear!
What madness prompted you to try a sequel?
An orchard of fine works you have begotten,
But of your tragic fruit this one is rotten.

The curtain frays at the edges
Unwinds, disobedient
Only to reveal
No bed (where one should be)

Dainty white muslin
Conflicted, floats
Away from the pane
More like a halo (than a shroud)

Here, in the cage of your mind,
Lies a mandolin
Hollow (with no music in its heart)

Towards another window
Its brother may lie
Born of nothing (but of itself)

I am soft
With a hard shell
Crack me open
And I will
Ooze out
Raw, white and foamy
Clinging to your fingers

If my memory serves, Satan dear
I once went to Hell for a year
Attempted in vain
To find love with Verlaine
And now that’s all done, I’m a seer!

On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?

Iago, the self-serving menace
Knew how to play people like tennis
Got inside a guy's head
Now everyone’s dead
Including the poor moor of Venice

Though Adam & Eve were so cute
With God they had a dispute
Thrown out of the garden
Without any pardon
And all because of some fruit

Dear reader, you know that we’re cursed
By our nature’s decadent thirst
At the hand of the devil
We’re drawn unto evil
But it’s boredom that’s really the worst!

There once was a man named Beowulf
Who was fiercer than a demon or werewolf
Except that he had a flaw
A dragon made him mortally sore
This prologue is prophetic
To the ending of this epic
So I’ll tell you more


Beowulf made his mind up at twenty-three
He would race his friend to swim across the sea
But fighting many sea monsters is quite trial
Beowulf only caught up in the final mile


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Breca nearly beat him
He managed to defeat him
But he would make up his mind


Beowulf made his mind up in his head
He would battle Grendel until one was dead
But even though his strength could cause a lot of harm
Beowulf only severed Grendel’s left arm



Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Grendel he had saddened
Beowulf wasn’t gladdened
And he would make up his mind


Beowulf made his mind up then and there
He’d **** Grendel’s mother in her watery lair
Although the angry tarn-hag had put up a fight
Both monsters were beheaded that very night


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He took a child and mother
Like Cain had killed his brother
But he had made up his mind



Beowulf made his mind up when he was old
To slay a raging dragon of whom he’d been told
But Beowulf couldn’t deal with the dragon’s fire
And he was later burned atop a funeral pyre


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He once was a great hero
And now his worth is zero
But he would make up his mind

Keats may’ve died of consumption
And Dante in his personal hell
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Or so I’ve heard them tell

Shakespeare’s mortal coil had shuffled
And Byron could a-rove no more
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Of that much they are sure

All of Auden’s clocks had stopped
Dickinson felt death in her brain
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Though it’s heavy as a ball and chain

Blake had entered Jerusalem
For Carroll, Wonderland beckoned
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Yet I wish I could any second

Miss Rossetti’s winter was bleak
Thomas raged into that good night
But no one ever died of a broken heart
At least not without a good fight

I love you more than all the technology
And more than pigeons lactate,
More than you enjoy biology
And sharks that procreate.

More than misogynists swim in shoals
Or a ******* loves a good beating.
Manchester City scoring goals
Or the lines that you love repeating.

Music cannot compare with your laugh;
Your beauty can’t be “aliquot-ed”.
Rarer than rhinos on a graph,
Your infinite charms can’t be plotted.

Sweeter than berries picked in a storm
And softer than a duck’s downing,
Your poetic love keeps me warm -
Be the Bob to my Liz Browning!

No, I’d rather not have a foursome,
I don’t think you’re onto a winner.
If I wished to disappoint several people at once,
I’d take my family out to dinner.

No, I’d rather not have a foursome,
The thought of it makes me quite ill!
Besides the new season of Bake Off is on -
Give me Netflix but not the chill.

No, I’d rather not have a foursome.
It’s not really my cup of tea,
Like Boy George I kinda prefer that to ***-
I’m mostly asexual you see?

No, I’d rather not have a foursome.
It’s the government’s fault, I’d say,
The Tories have ******* us multiple times;
I’ve been ******* over enough today

No, I’d rather not have a foursome.
Today, mate, you’re just not in luck,
Like spoons I only have so much to give,
And I gave away my last ****.

No, I’d rather not have a foursome,
With you and two other “bi chicks”,
My sexuality isn’t yours to fetishize,
And you [insert name] are a ****!

When you are older but have not aged,
And lie restlessly with the cat in your arms,
Think of injustices you once against raged,
Or perhaps of that gauzy fairy’s charms?

The nightingale hours pierced by larks,
Recall the ones that we once shared,
As each new lover leaves red marks;
I think of how your heart once cared.

My memory will have begun to fade,
Less of a “belle dame” than a shade -
Paler than you, my vampiric soul!

To you, dark bat, I give my dreams,
As the fire's embers cease to gleam
And leave in their wake the coal.

I had a love and my dear love left;
And I could not comprehend his leaving:
O why did you run? My heart’s bereft,
And sore from all this grieving.

O loving heart, why did you lie?
To be forsaken, wherefore and why?
You had a life and a world before me;
Was it I who stopped you being free?

I gave you gifts and wished to please,
What affliction could I not appease?

I’ll never tell you those three words
But that does not mean they’re not there
But when I try to say them aloud
From my lips comes nothing but air.

I’ll never tell you those three words
I’ve resolved to make that the rule
For like that Mary Magdalene
I am no lover’s fool.

I’ll never tell you those three words
But that does not mean it’s not true
I’ll not stay silent, never fear, but for now,
“You know nothing”, will do.

My youth has been nothing but stormy and savage,
A tempest of thunder and lightning and rain;
Though glimpses of sunlight have lessened the damage
Few ripe fruits now in my garden remain.

My mind has reached its autumnal phase,
With the ***** and the rake I begin my toil
In earthy hollows as deep as graves
To gather anew the rain flooded soil.

And who knows whether my dreams of new flowers
Will find in this earth washed bare like the shore,
The mystic elixir that would give them might?

Alas, alas! Our lives are eaten away by the hours,
And at our hearts the hidden Enemy gnaws
And ***** our blood like a parasite!

I am lovely, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where poets are bruised to the bone
Formed to inspire each in their quintessence
A love as eternal and silent as essence.

I unite Ledaean pallor with a frozen heart,
I scorn movement for it displaces my art,
A riddling sphinx, on a throne in the sky;
Never do I laugh and never do I cry.

Poets, at the feet of my imperial pose,
Which I seem to adopt from statues grandiose,
Will consume their lives in studious indulgence;

For I have, to enthrall those docile paramours
Pure mirrors to enhance all beauties evermore:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal effulgence!

Here are berries, leaves, twigs and blossoms fair,
And here, my heart that for you alone beats.
Clasp it in your pale hands and please do not tear,
But see it as a gift, to your pretty eyes sweet.

I come to you covered with dew and sap,
Which the morning’s wind freezes on my forehead.
Bear me, in my fatigue, to lie in your lap,
Dreaming of pleasures to restore me from the dead

On your young ***** let my head rest,
My body still sated with your last kiss;
Let my mind dwindle after such a tempest
And I’ll sleep a little beside you in bliss.

Your soul is a choice, bucolic scene
With charming travellers in a masquerade
Playing the lute and dancing, yet seem
Sad beneath their fanciful charade.

All carouse in a minor key
Of victorious love and opportunity,
They seem not to believe in their delight
And their song mingles with the moonlight,

In the still moonlight, beautiful and blue,
Birds in the trees dream and sigh by
Elegant fountains among marble statues,
And the cascades in their ecstasy cry.

As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of his tomb,
For you, Mistress, my tuneless voice rings
False in my heart’s catacomb.

Open your soul and hear the knell
Of my mandolin strings:
This song I wrote, for you, which tells
Of cruel and childish things.

I will sing of your eyes, onyx and gold,
Purged of every shadow,
Then the Lethe of your breast, the cold
Styx of your hair’s dark flow.

As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of his tomb,
For you, Mistress, my tuneless voice rings
False in my heart’s catacomb.

Then I will praise, above all
Flesh that heaven did bless
Whose opulent perfumes recall
Nights long and sleepless.

Finally, I will speak of the kiss
Of your sweet red lip,
Oh, how my martyrdom is bliss,
– My angel! – My Whip!

Open your soul and hear the knell
Of my mandolin strings:
This song I wrote, for you, which tells
Of cruel and childish things.

The rosy-green flight
Of hills and ramps
Blurred in twilight
By a soft lamp

Golden valleys darken
Red in the breeze
Small birds harken
In headless trees

The sadness fades
In my mind’s medium
These autumn shades  
Shatter the sky’s tedium

Dark bat, would I were curious as thou art-
Like a tea-tray twinkling at night,
And lying with eternal wings apart
Til morning when you end your flight,
And spend the day at your raven-like desk
Chanting incantations old and obscure
With lyrics obscene and Kafkaesque
Quoting first Foucault, then Sassure -
No-yet still puzzling, still remarkable
A black beacon amid shades of grey -
Elusive, and in pursuit quite snark-able.
To you I am drawn as a ****** to ****
I’ll be your muse and you’ll be my death.

My child, my lover,
Come away to discover
Continents far and new!
To love and to sigh,
To dream and to die
In a land as exotic as you!
Humid suns wink
Behind cloudy skies
So alluring and charming
So strangely alarming
With crocodile lids blink
Like the tears in your eyes.

There, all is order, beauty and leisure
Luxury, calm, quiet and pleasure.

Wood panels beaming
Polished and gleaming
Would decorate our room;
The rarest of flowers
In the height of their bloom
We’d while away the hours
Inhaling amber in our lungs,
Walls with deep mirrors hung
Our souls would feast,
On the wonders of the East
Whispering a sweet native tongue.

There, all is order, beauty and leisure
Luxury, calm, quiet and pleasure.

The aqueducts have, nestled,
In a drowsy slumber
With vagabond vessels
Lined unencumbered
Their sails unfurled
They come from the ends of the world.
- The twilight sky clouded
Leaving pastures shrouded,
The canals, the entire town,
Glows amber and blue;
The night falls down
In a soft, warm hue.

There, all is order, beauty and leisure
Luxury, calm, quiet and pleasure.

Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!