The artist only used black,
he wouldn't say why his mum named him after a King

in palaces where feral children investigate
the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle from their sofa where

they translated “idiot savant” as
stupid servant was written on permanent files

somewhere hidden alongside
DVDs that were posted on line showing monkeys in boxes
throwing themselves to death against perspex walls

splattering Rorschach patterns of childish nightmares,
the boogeyman.

A butterfly.

I have this new beginning
To this end
I've been writing
To this wall
I've been fighting
To hold up
And now all
The biting
All the loose pen
Writing
Is holding up
Some lighting
In my mind
I see that the backboard
Has always been
A closed door
Waiting for something
Waiting for more
And it's strange
I've known you
All along
And you've never
Really gone
And now
You're hear
Slowly cracking
Down the door
That I only
Knew before
As a dark space
A bad place
That hid
Behind my head
Now your lying
In my bed
And instead
Of deceit
And picking off
My meat
You tuck
Me soft
To sleep
And kiss
My broken
Feet
I finally have realized
That you are full
Of no lies
No disguise
And now I'm glad to say
You are all mine

I'm imagining
Myself falling
Through
The floor
Leaving behind
Everything
But the pebbles
That I'd hit
When I quit
On myself
Floating
Was an option
Once
When things
Weren't
So
Brick walked
Shut
Everything
Must take a
Turn
In the end
Just to win
Back
Where
I started
Thick oblivion
Sickness
Caving in
It's nothing
But some
Nails
Hammered in
The difference
Is
The garbage
Is caving
In
The walls
Are taken
Down
And I am
No longer
Drowning

Celibacy
My friends think I'm crazy
Purity
A task hard to achieve

***
It's so blinding
Lust
Always struggling

STDs
I've escaped
Babies
Not on the way

Happy
That I can see
Carefree
Judge me

Fun
Found differently
Waiting
Until I'm married

Social media
Can't escape
Deleted friends
Don't like you

You cheated
You hurt me
I loved you
You ****** him

Heartache won't end
Tried to fill the gap
Can't stop picturing you on his lap

You're gone
I'm done
*******
**** him

I am in a room made of glass, sorry,
let me clarify,
the walls and doors are glass,
the carpet is woven by a machine where the workers are limited to toilet breaks,

the plants are plastic in pots of gravel

but the walls are glass and everyone can see in and I can see out.

The table is shaped like a kidney, don't ask me why, it just is, manufactured by a factory making furniture shaped like human organs.

That's the shape of the table, I can't change that,

and the chairs are moulded from one piece of plastic, in bright colours and people look in through glass walls.

I look out and I am really not there.

She faked her own death
and is believed to be buried
beneath the fourth runway
by the new apartments
fire engine red doors
over there:
the sunset is dripping
on to chewing gum pavements

in the window
a silhouette of her ******* prove
that she's alive, amongst silly revolutionaries,
aviators
avatars
and questionable friendships.

Scandinavian diets are seen by the satellites.

I've seen, I'm blind
I've tried, I fail
I've heard, I'm deaf
I've laughed, I cried

I've jumped, I fall
I've tripped, I crawl
I'm starting to think
you don't care at all.

Bad blood on the brain
I've got yours too
I don't know who you are
But I saw you that day
Thrashing in the east end hallway
Surrounded by showcase glass,
Blue ribbons, and too much noise
I thought it was best to walk away
I think a lot of things I guess
Your art was beautiful
I liked the girl all bent and blank
It forged this tragic kind of silence
It held your bad blood
But gave it air
Beauty without flesh
I thought that  you were beautiful
In this silent hateful kind of way
All that bad blood on your brain
I've got some too
I really wish we could have met
But I can't blame you

Lets go to his party later,
I don’t’ know the address
I never have,
but I know how to get there.

The house has a blue door.

We can dismantle the hosts bike
and throw the frame up a tree
let nocturnal birds fly off
with pedals in their beaks.

We can padlock his fridge,
and when no ones around
we’ll place a pigs foot under his pillow
then we can **** on the coats in a dark room
where we shouldn’t be.

We’ll ingest pills and potions and have epiphanies
under paper shaded IKEA lights.

Midnight is staggering down the hallway and
she was keen to remind me “we are appendixs in someone’s story “