The Censorship decides for you.
It pre-emptively gives you the eyes of a boy;
A boy who is done with his *******.
When those sweetly unclean pleasure swings
turn to simple actions in all clarity.
It makes that denied apple rot backwards
and in some cases rise to the tree above reach.
Lest you forget we made the wrong choice once before.
So you fall to the fiery shame of the nation
as where procreation surely belongs;
to the maelstrom of breathing sins
And good company.
Where never the G word is uttered
to enter your head.

But to those who like to hear dangerously
I give the public
The last letters of the last four lines to you
Before censorship has completely won
For any reader who wants to hear it.

At this age he chews his steak with a knife,
Safely outside his body the little crescents come down,
These many red smiles that he holds in his hand.
He likes her cooking overtly sanguine now.
This added barbarity to make up for his caution
as he shows off to the crows on the fence.

Meanwhile she mutters like cautious clapping;
Voice muffled by her Cupid’s bow, turned down with age
and she only speaks little irritating truths.
French tips awkwardly grip a tin she washes out.
She drops it often with the weight of tomato-ed water
and she winces at every wince he makes.

Now the pages of their days are reflections of the cover.
To all those crows at the window
who notice her nails and his appetite
as much as they notice each other.
Dreaming of the past is for the old and the second choices
but what if they each got that one that got away.
(Return to top)

A harsh wind kisses my fingers into sleeping.
Blurring the movement on the toggles of an anorak,
But my eyes dart quick, oiled and fleeting,
searching for my beloved old salt, looking back.
Funny, how in those footprints,
the piercing night that bites the ears and cries
can feel as soft as sheets
washed in the light of the moon, pulled by the tide.

this darkness which surrounds us.
it makes the world one of thrashing silhouettes
And as the earth breathes in gusts
It gives calmness to a mind, to comfortably forget
this, lulled swoon of nature pulsating hits
the windows, we can't help to be animated.
we cannot be closed to it, cannot obscure it
the call of the waves that past fishermen created.

pausing, that sun-baked, sinuous arm rose
and peering through his cigarette smoke specters.
the steam of my own breathing, softly froze
As the sky illuminated my weary lenses.
the theatre of sky before us fight light polluted filling
My mind left wandering like waking sleep.
These gladiators of light bleed ochre from shining artillery,
Their particles drifting into the night's sea, so deep.
Sparks spat by suns lie suspended above me
held like dew in nets of celestial string.
as the sunlight comes peering through these
the intensity in a pinprick, unearthly passion within.
lancing the sky too are spears of my dreaming
as neon cobras strike and churn to flee.
these heaven-borne beings carving visual song
Cutting luminescent pathways into my memory.

The soundless iron giant is now still as a caryatid.
Holding me before that blacksmith showered light.
an artist plucks flaming dewdrops from the wind
illuminating my foray into this night.
I sensed a small piece of gene pierce his yang
a black taint to his overall brightness.
In my black yin a spark from him i hang
and I'm proud of the infections we posses.
As he narrates this landscape, he narrates himself.
a new side to a shape I felt I knew.
As far into feelings as his masculine paradigm delved
like a square’s seventh face, always hidden from view.

He chews his cud at her.
She blows her cigarette smoke at him.
The equilibrium is uncomfortable but scenic.
The eyes of the walls stained yellow long ago
and every room feels like every room they've ever been in.

He rubs his shirt neck on his nose.
She flicks her last molar irritated.
a broken radiator works overtime, wheezing.
Holes in the bread, where she cut away the mould,
the food's still cold, but, for this, he'll eat it.

He never loved her personality.
She never loved his face.
Both of them knew, for this, they'd never leave them.
She says "I do ******* love you you know",
as she smoked her last blow.
He says "I'd love another cup of tea dear".

On my skin I wear the bands of shielded sun.
Commitment to the heart makes this skin colour run.
With one liberal hand, I tear down these branches being hung,
to shower in yellowed leaf confetti.

These forest roots ran like hair line skull fractures,
under canopies blooming red from the sunlight rapture
and now these trees leave their taller brothers to fall as ashes,
with ivy on my ankles, stifling hope up to my chin.

Living memories, my forest sheltered, scrambled for home;
small pretty beasts, unrefined, breathing caricatures with bones.
Screaming they beg for attention, inattentive to this situation as a whole.
Our own view is all we can consider.

This house of cards built on paper-cuts, from the trees before.
I'm now growing wiser to my winter freeze and your summer thaw.
I need all of these things I hate about me, and they can never be ignored;
a psychological pre-disposition, the only one I can afford.

Phyyt phoo, two aqueous lenses peeling through, the oxygen layers.
Pupils turn as they unfold, hungrier for light behind burnt sand barriers.
The switchboard like a carnivorous plant field independently moves points
And compacted, segmented panels respond like exoskeletal joints
There come the staccato screams of steam one at a time, puff, lining the door  
Capsule, contaminated with air, is cleaned when the beetles wing lifts the floor
The boy I was, offers a raised thumb from the ground, science disciple
With Helium fission equations on a sheet hanging from a bible.
My eyes behind a visor open slowly, it’s time to take control
Still tears slowly lift from my face like a violin bow rising to sing low
Now in a place where time means nothing I can’t regret a thing
I just wish this clinical empty cold on all, to take the warmth that lies bring
With Creaking myofibril strings so imperfect in this black vacuum dream
I shake the hand of god; with polystyrene gloves as his work is so unclean.

My queen of the spider’s flies awaits me,
To tame my black iron horses of blood.
A mistress of the finite she will be,
A whisperer to dead hearts drowned with love.
Into the dead mans pupil I lead her,
Across ocean floor deserts for our right,
Fishing for men, luminescent and fair
And My darkness will not reflect her light.
I am ashes to which she is the spark.
Sowing her lands a path down in dead grass.
Strangle fresh air for its freshness, this land I’ll mark,
I’ll declare my love in the fear that she’ll pass,
But for all my passion’s flames on her tears,
She is but steam, just out of grasp gossameres.