If I am to die in front of other people
Then I must be mortal
Wherein lies my body my eyes
To strip others of their immortality.

The loose bed sheets is the chasm we
Hide in
Underneath the bed of the white river.

Cleaning the air we can now
Feel the wind in our hair

Beyond the fan is the man sitting on the
Chair
Delivering comforts with water

The pillars are made of my legs
I stretch and stretch until I tremble, until
The temple collapses and I

Have to face the day
With vigour and a lust for learning beyond
My castle dream of prisons.

Small flashbacks include; high
Dunes on the Isles of Scilly,
False memories include telling
Friends to *******,
Dreams beyond dreamers that lasted
Only on that island.
Deceased ones brought back and
Smothered, that’s the theme these days .
Seas sickness was, now that I
Look back on it, was a metaphor for the way things were;
Just regurgitating wretched and
Foul memories or anticipating the beginning.
Protection from enemies.

Just a shame. My Father burnt a rodent,
And we have visitors in our home.
For once we probably shouldn’t elicit such
violence.

So far the dream has been tumultuous,
There has been no ******.
This time I think we should attack his psyche; erase the lines in the sky
have his enemy call.

Does he give the mind freewill and tear down the enemy,
Debating on his happiness as a whole.
The wind pipes suggest to leave it be but the kingdom encourages
Madness savagery.

The enemy awaits and is kind,
******* kind as a castaway.
The low brow suggests complete massacre of the mind
Though whose mind - he is not one to discriminate.

I have always been under the impression,
Or been surrounded by, that
Women are far too sophisticated to be
held down by material things.

They don’t need television, all they have is
the sun, whether they like it or not,
When the moon joins the sky at night and
Where their fires flame in conversation.

Beyond men, myself, because of subtle
Behavioural conditioning differences in
youth
Women taught insecurity.
This in turn makes for a heart to heart
person, trust, loyalty, kindness.

Or maybe it’s just my
Mother
The one person, there’s only one.
This one has taken up so many others’
places in my life, scattered amongst every
good soul
I see my mother.

The most sophisticated. A loyal song
Beyond anyone’s understanding but I think
I am
Nearly there. Close enough to touch it
Far enough to keep itself
From entrapment.

Love, her

The father of our child becomes obsessed
And forgetful,
Letting his new life eclipse the things that
Made up his old life.

You came to me in a state of euphoria and
Bliss,
I came back at you for you to apologise
You demon.

How could he have known how much he
Had left me wilted,
Now there’s little use in watering my soil
But at least give me a burial.

There’s so much I could say regarding
Your deals with the unholy,
So much you made me do to try and undo
What happened.

It took months to come back,
And now I just hate at the sight of
Pleasure for myself.

I can only see your hand but you forgot
You had hands back then,
If you had been in an accident I would’ve
Taken them from you.



On the Thursday you told me you loved
Me,
However the Tuesday was exceptionally
More romantic.

I left you to be oppressed by your parents
And squashed by your own head,
Yet you want to talk to me and I say you
Know but you forget.

I’d take your hand if you were here,
Destroy them and inhale.

Where’s the romance in a coffee house, where’s the romance in my ability to see
the romance in a coffee house. Clearly the romance belongs to those who aren’t aware of the romance.

We who see it cannot participate in the romance. Just observe. Whether it be
ironic or envious, either way, there’s no way to ever burn your vision and experience and replace them with brand new lenses.

Where’s the contentment in your own home and life, wheres the contentment in my ability to see
the contentment in your own home and life. Clearly contentment belongs to those who fall on hard times and, in a bitterness, strive for contentment.

Those who don’t have it and never will, spit on those who do, not out of hate, or out of jealously,
but out of pity. Like romance, within romance, contentment can cause comfortability,
And terrific misery. Welcome the misery though, you’ll never get to experience this again once you
Cast it away.

Where’s the misery in anxiety and depression, where’s the misery in my ability to see
the misery in my anxiety and depression. Clearly misery belongs to those who are
Possessed by their anxiety and depression, but, not taken over by it. Clearly misery belongs to those who
Are close to those who are possessed by their anxiety and depression, and like a exorcism, the
Loved one dies in an attempt to extract the devils.

Every dead fly
Crushed beneath your feet
Splintered into the sole
Limbs dragging along the floor.
I’m watching you as I observe this
As I write this
You’re nice but cruel
Explaining your troubles.
Only you make the simplest things
Burst with malice
And I feel sorry for you
That you have to receive my invisible
Cruelty.
You’re still wearing those shoes
And the fly is still on the floor
Like a butterfly.
Would this life taking influence
The future
Holds my tired voice
Barely reciprocating your speech.
And replying just for nothings
But genuinely receiving and
Reaching out to you
That happens often.
Just those cruel moments are so few yet
So impactful
They switch my entire view
Spin it to see your red air.

When you grow older,
The fondest memory you have is of
Plucking her hair from her scalp.

And she appears in the mirror behind you,
Tying the straps to your wrist
To be gazed upon from the bed posts.

Just attempt to forget that incident,
Why it’ll only spoil things
When they can be so perfect.

She doesn’t appear in the dreams,
Just after
Just enough form to wrap around me.

I don’t understand the figures,
I pray they are not people I have seen
I shall see that face for days and days.

The figures want to get me,
They are spawns of her
And I know so for they terrify me and wake me.

As she arrives I shall know whether this is realm
Whether or not she is the director of my madness
Or wether or not she is my madness.

I am attracted to her darkness,
The opposite of a moth
Except for leaving a stain along the road.

I ran with the beautiful man in makeup
being so afraid, the bombs getting closer
and closer towards someone I once loved.

The endless road stretched far into the
side of the hill, a bunker room filled with
background people and only one love.

Where am I in this blitz world? To be sure
I’ll have to sacrifice myself, leave the door
open and welcome the vampires.

But if that makeup man should lose his
precious creased smile, one day the wind
shall wipe away and it’ll vanish.


All my friends are there under the comfort
of the imminent doom. We found solace in
war and memories in darkness.

In this dream of reunion people were
missing. But they were replaced with
those I have chosen to be family.

This family is not aware of my addition to
to their home. Under one roof we thrive
and revel to continue deflecting the blitz.

So the school party leaves the simulation
for a more obscure living. Gods plan was
to make ours a more ingenuous life.

To make it painful he had to make it
painless. We mask and hold off the bombs
to free us so we can run smiling.

The tragic air of someone
you love,
Expels the fiery and watery
deaths,
And instead attracts a much
simpler end.

Missing the first light
night of summer.
The birds never fed decide to go
someplace else.
Left alone in the last snowfall of my
first year.

No more early mornings where
we don’t even see each other,
And when we swapped positions for the
goodnight,
It marked the beginning of
the end.

I know this may sound sombre but it’s
precious.
You’ll leave behind so much, if only the
other life would
allow your possessions.
The books most of all, I don’t know how
but I shall get
through them in my first year.

The heels are the ones.
You can’t go on stage without heels,
You’d have to be mad.

But she is mad.
Mad that she’s bound to this world,
With the voice of a siren and the heart of
a rose,
She gets pulled in too deep to make any
recovery.

But she’ll get out.
She’ll rise higher than each time she falls,
Begging the songs to manifest with
beauty,
And to forever be idolised,
As she has idolised her whole life.

Someday, there will be no
memory of my mother.

And the day shall
come, where there will be no memory of me.

Would they go, towards time
in space?

Should our memories rise
up, to join memories of ancestors past?

To be held in the air, to
sing amongst cousin, aunt, friend, priest,
memories of others.

Those flowers
That ****** me 
On the table 
Pink and green against 
The brown
That table stand
That stood before the curtains 
Of fust and weight 
Rejects the calm and 
Curls too harm and help and hand 
All but mess. 

The serenity but misses my and her life gone by him
the flowers that ******* ****** me,

Hate on those tables that host a meaner guest than mine of
Which do not exist of your.

The flowers 
The ******* flowers despised me
**** and shipped from **** against my mind 
You know you don’t feel me yet you still observe 
Like a parasite feeding on space between seats but flowers
****** me more
Than 
Your table clash 
Down

I’ve spent the last few years perfecting my
speech,
Learning to emote eloquently
Like leading the rapids through stones.

I refuse to feel without meaning;
The water doesn’t cut through without
force so
It doesn’t gush through at once
silently.

Yet I stumble over my words,
Tripping so I lose them forever,
Oh but I know they were words of
use.
But meaning isn’t something to pass on,

It is to transfer
An energy that has no form yet such
force.
Rising from the feet to envelop the
Curses from our mouths.

Like water, words can ****.
Pulling sailors under in such intense
ferocity,
Hammering down on their chests and
invading their hearts.

There’s so many things I want to but will not do in front of you *******.
                                No you don’t deserve it,
It isn’t handled within yet outside alone.

                                Mobbing and torching the whole way home, swimming.
                                Trembling in anger,
So much you’ll vanish and suffer yet recall.

                                 The kindness comes from their throats
And the face is the highest facade.
                                 The unwanted affection of strangers is elevated,
When they have knowledge of who you are. 

                                 What’s the use of spite originated satisfaction,
If it doesn’t quench any thirst or curb any craving.
                                 Like a bird ******,
Or any revenge.

                                 My real form is the poems,
The layering an example of my ever extending souls.
                                 But impossible is to be shaped so perfectly by creators,
That these are not perfect themselves.

                                 Instead, vulnerability,
And magic!
                                 And my god I use my my my far too much,
The only way I know how to **** is to **** through my heart. 
               
                                 And **** har d er th an e ver t h a n yo u kn ow y ou c an, 
Though these broken letters I ramble.
                                 Never again,
I’ll never talk again for I am speechless.

The voice deep inside my ear
Releases an abundance of noise,
A constant battle of sound lures
War to my bed.

There is no blockade for
This year long masterpiece,
In which the viewing makes a man tremble
In his descent to real earth.

He hears what is truly there
Beneath the earth yet so above,
Screams and drama shake the waters but
You must shake my waters to escape.

                      

Another bed holds sanctuary
A sacred place to push out the voices,
Oh so terribly violent is my head
An internal part but never letting go.

The stairs are more like home
I can thrash my head against opposing walls,
Only to have them reach out and pretend
Something is just a part of us.



A real rush
A real stagnant noise,
What can reside in such noise?
What could withstand such a beating?

It’s worse than any abuse though
It’s weaker than any true reality,
Is the skull so fragile to let something so savage in?
Do the walls see what there is or immerse themselves in other reality?



The reality.
The reality no one sees reality.

But the reality everyone feels reality.
The reality that connects us all reality.

Relatable reality.
Hopeful reality.

Wonder reality.

I have no one

But I have my book,
and I grab my book as I sleep

For it is the one being I love with, 
and the one being that lies with grace

The qualities I strive for lies within the book, 
the satisfaction for what it is

It leans on my lower shoulder,
Without moulds it sinks into the crevices

It doesn’t give back for like me,
It believes it is incapable

Yet why does my book feed me when I am hungry,
even I am ravenous and doesn’t contemplate

So who comes close shall not waver at the sight,
For knowing they will never come close

To how we love.

My room is red and blue 
Underneath is where I dwell 
Proclamations of sin ensue 
Bargaining the broken gates of hell 

Somewhere in this eternal life 
My mother’s sanctuary is frail 
Whereupon moments are broken through strife 
My fathers pain blossoms from rage

To have the origin of sorrow 
At your doorstep means to conceive an end
Though this end may not be tomorrow yet
Today, I shan’t be your friend

I want to leave for London in a car that tramples the sunken roads,
But the arrogance of this place is always stronger than the will to keep convention, 
Where their lives are propped up in bronze coated frames,
But quickly I shall impale the corners, starting with the holes of the house.

But this place is confused and left to entrap it’s own young,
And having own sons tainted so you put up walls to keep your sainthood,
Since he’s losing it and drinking again which can’t be seen by the friends,
At last this shall all be our story, 
Coming up with even more obscenities! 


Come on it can’t be held together,
It can’t be helped either,
It can’t be that perfect show,
Where the arm extends far further than it should for her,
It doesn’t tell you how far it goes,
It doesn’t tell what it’ll achieve,
Come on she knows don’t tell her again,

Watching this shrink infatuate
something, a fetish,
Beyond even the most taboo the family
Breaks 
Leaving him and her to suffocate within their own walls,
Thriving yet completely truthfully dying,
Being a saint engages in pride, 
again, 
indulging in fallacy.


But I am happy,
For I know in London I can’t be touched for I shall sever the fingers and 
Suckle the blood, 
Away from the heat.
The complete heat
The absolute sweltering
And
The ultimate saints.

I will not waste my youth
For wasting youth is selfish.
Ethereal dreams are the only source for
some of us,
Since wasting while young is our ultimate
act.

Our ultimate act dies,
And our youth leaves us.
These false hazy summers are so
desirable yet so far,
Polaroid evidence captures them to be the
ultimate fallacy.

Over false tales of boats on water,
This age cannot live a song.
The cigarette shall burn a hole in your
longing lie of a heart,
And how does this picture live outside where
the world is too cruel.

For me the world is too cruel to answer to,
Acting upon our land but hers.
Our mother’s mother earth presents the
sky each morning,
When to only have the true ones isolated,
in deep sorrow and mourning.

I need you to scar with your most true hate,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to carve flames fiercer than my regret,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to produce gashes as figures of sincerity,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to be afraid of my body -
                                                                       the deformities you caused to terrify you.

I need you to erase your being - to scatter your ruins,
                                                                       down my throat.

For future imitations,
                 I need you to be present.

For future imitations,
                 The true ones will scorn you.


The true ones will never get through,


You need to be held.
                  You need never be forgiven.