Im sitting in a French café,
people watching and methodically
casting judgement. I feel
like George Orwell.

My coffee has gone cold,
but the taste has not died
like the warmth, and as
a man walks in, his face
creased by the unforgiving years,
I order another one anyway.

As we walk out into the night,
suitably filled with Cognac and
cigarettes, I see an array of patterns
in the ice, as If drawn by a deranged
yet at the same time satisfied being.
And then I realise, you know,
perhaps life isn't so bad after all.

Hear that sweet symphony of
birdsong fall over the mountains,
next to the turquoise sea and let
the sand sleep between the toes whose
neighbours have travelled far in
recent times, along iron and air with
no destination but only searching
for some tangible peace, next to
a fiery headed woman who you
pretend to know, only in an effort
to pretend to be known.

Crisp the evening lies,
with the songs of flight long fallen,
and around the masses hushed,
to the bell which has stopped a-callin'.

Darkness breathes the ice,
as crescent silver lights stone,
vagabond in vain searching hope,
nightime cries red alone.

Shards cold of glass crash,
to doorstep but no bed,
figure hunched like tired oak,
lay he there already dead ?

Soon black will yield to morn,
the grass fresh will shine with dew,
yet the oak still moves not,
but it's better him than you ?

When was the last time I wrote something meaningful?
My life has become nothing more than shifting from one
house to another, encompassed by drug taking and a sense
of nothingness. I have become a working class flea, but with enough money
to feign royalty, structure is a distant memory, no longer tangible.
Living in total squalor with no desire to change, a perverse lusting
to continue down this dusty trail of over indulgence and self-deprecating
destruction. I need to get out of this ******* mess, yet at the same time
a sick voice within tells me to stay, so perhaps I will, perhaps I will crash
further into the aphotic world of the people I loath, the people who I despise. But I am not like them. I am different, right? For the moment, my blade has been sharpened enough to slash through the inevitable wrath of unfortunate circumstance, I am still in control, unlike the others - dying in their own self-encompassing shadows of subjugation.

Carving my thoughts into
your flesh, with my tongue,
tracing hideous metaphors
all over you – tonight.
The porcelain touch of
your freckled breast, a play
dough mound is my reminiscent
toy – tonight.
Violent lights flicker at our
bedside, casting dying angels
on the wall, sinking into a dark
irrelevance – tonight.