Old man; it is not that.
It is not that you can’t think of more to say,
that you rely on your drink to
persuade me to delay.
So, your wife died,
and your job is teaching children to fail
at what you wanted to be.
I also remember you’re from Durban,
but my first 3 numbers is all you will recall of me.
You see, I gave you the benefit.
That human interaction could satisfy
on a level far from fantasy.
But you took my words and made them opportunity
Where, if you’d been listening, you’d known the reality;
It is that, Durban man;
i’m not easy or stupid.
People are why I talk
and their words are what make me listen.

It's too easy
my mind gets up and goes
it's too hard to relax
to know what to do
I'm stronger everyday
until I relapse
and think of you.

The silence
of falling eyes.
Just the shameful scrape
to be heard,
pushing the lump of bone down your throat.
Surging
to the ground:
the red hot burning mess
urging
you to say it back.
Spewed over the carpet
the sticky stench
a congealing puddle
of ****** up me,
is emerging
the ****** up amount that
I love you.
Still,
That ***** stain
it lingers
not fading.

I'll walk to you some pretty day,  
the birds will swoop          
we’ll peck in the hay.            
Like needles, we’ll lay, with touching feet
To the hum in the grass.
Tracing ******* down the soft of my spine
And over my ***:
“I've got you”.
My hair will sleep across your cheek,
weaving the crevice of your lips
wandering you.
And then
silently
eyes fixed
finitely;
i'll help with socks as I had before,
you’ll re-knot laces
We’ll kiss once more.
We'll follow the sun
Jump from the bails,
We’ll hail to them both
And to our love
Never un-done
Never re-fail.
But as night falls
And spring is lost;
I’m sad
I’m hopeless
Like a needle is
Tossed.

Your backward non-existence.
The ignorance of your destruction.
You **** the breath
from our family.
inducing heaviness into everything
beat by beat
you dragged away dreams,
bit by bit
you tore the cord,
selecting to rid the choice
that connected a life to itself
and its beauty.
And,
in frustration
we tried to get at you;
cutting, inserting, scarring.
But we can't recreate you
Any-more than we can rid the pain of your absence
and,
in your absence
as instinctive as the hole that grew
between the chambers,
a mother relieved her grief and
a baby was born
to pre-fill the hole and
to re-honour the grave
so as I hate you
I must thank you:
But believe me here
It will only ever stretch as far as for
my name.

The future is blinding me
I'm lost in a space of bliss
and falsity
It could be something by which we all are led
or does it inhabit only my head?

Or maybe it's real
something planted to test it's appeal
for Miliband to prove his great pledge:
That school leavers are struggling in this big wide world
something to give him the edge.

Or for Clegg,
millions of pounds for the looneys in Bedlam?
he'd have to beg! But use it on us, boost the statistics
he'll get more votes for the kids gone ballistic.

Or maybe it's our parents as Larkin said,
In the genes they passed down or
the time they sent us to bed
"we never had all these choices"
they say. They really wish our lives to be better,
but how should the modern mind handle such pressure?

And oh the irony
that God and his threat has faced such scrutiny
but even now
in thinking finitely,
we still have brutally
created hell, right here
an earthly community.

if you cant fall out of love
all there is to do is
**** and fight
kiss and cry
live but learn
until you forget
and find
each other
or just yourself
again
standing complete as one.