The ice cream van
Has today reached
The melancholic realisation
That the only kids who
Chase clocks for Mr Whippy
And lick the exhaust fumes
In nostalgia
Are the kids who are not kids
But who prematurely aged themselves
With lipstick kisses
And cigarettes
Lowered themselves into nooses
Of sweet-sixteenths
From the age of six

We are a generation of
Peter Pan inversions
We ran ashore
And beached ourselves
Beyond the lure
Of Neverland
We are a generation of
Failed cloud-catchers
Aspiring rainbow-clinchers
Secretly slipping our hands
Back into a dead air
Of former innocence
In the hope we’ll be able to
Retrieve the pieces we left there
We queue and scramble
Like gulls for
Inches we can claw back
Preserving our age in
Wafer cones
And bleeding snows
That glue between our fingers
Each 99 flake
Is a time machine
Which we spin like a music box
And wait for the rewind
Copper coins and sea stains
And we hope we’ll find
Some of the things we lost
But we cannot predict or realign
The atoms or twist ourselves
Back into them
So we sit and watch
The incorruptibility we once possessed
Perished
Sexualised
Corrupted
Pool in the March drizzle
Someone once said
That youth was a process
Of being torn in half
By the past that pulls you back
And the future that tempts you
Being too big and yet too small
Longing but fearing
But an ice cream van tells me
That youth is a process
Of trying not to drown yourself
In what you’ve never had
And when that ice cream van tells me to
MIND THAT CHILD
I can’t help projecting echoes
Of its wisdom
On to all who pass me by
Mind that childhood
Before there’s nothing left to mind

Near light improvised music
Under a moon so gray
Tomorrow's song
Sings of an evening
Pocketed in the dark
Absorbing us
Breathing us
Feeling us
Pulling us away
And we but following
Our usual routine
Lose track and thought
Of our words and hearts
Lose track and thought
Of our sight and light
Lose track and thought
Of our love,
And we simply
Reminisce.

I remember your face, so I'll write about your scars.
I remember your heart, so I'll scribble apart
broken lines about good times and our promises in the dark.
And I'll write about your scars.
The one that ran from your eye to your ear,
that I told you was beautiful, and I meant it.
The one that made it hard for you to see or hear,
how beautiful you were; That I really meant it.
I remember your eyes, both of them so deep and so brown.
You hated your eyes, and wished they were more light or more dark.
I remember your hair, on your head like a fiery red crown,
But I'll write about your scars, because that's what broke us apart.
And because, in the end, that's why I'm writing you down.

The trees along this city street,
  Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
  As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
  Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
  Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
  Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come,—
  I know what sound is there.

I lie awake every night, with thoughts of your face forever in my sight.

My heart is heavy and full of sorrow, knowing that there will never be another tomorrow.

You were my partner, my lover and my best friend, I thought I would be with you till the end.  Your passing so soon feels like my heart has been ripped out of me.

While I am filled with grief, I hope you have finally found your peace.  

Till we meet again

it feels innate never relating
I follow you up the stairs
but we arrive at alternate lairs
your inner child throws tantrums
while mine cries in hiding places
that no one's ever destined to find