How do i feel right now?
Death seems to be like an eternal wave violently sweeping over people whom I care about. While the nights are getting lighter, life seems to be getting darker. It will pass, I am sure, though I fear death now more than ever. Not to myself, but to those near, those whose lives are real, tangible things which can be touched and which touch other things. Maybe I am being selfish fearing death, a fear which should not belong to me, for I am not in such a morbid swamp of torment like my friends I am, after all, lucky. But for how long?

What do they all mean anyway?
These screens which flicker, spit
and hiss in front of our very own
eager blind eyes. Convincing you
that apathy breathes without remorse,
from the posters, and the stars brightening
up your dark dark sky. Hysterically attached
to an insipid oil running through our
streets and into the fields of a by-gone
era of vital detachment.
As clouds thicken, and pellets
of blood fall from the sky, dare
not to look away from these screens
who absorb you while your many
mothers die outside.

It seems that I have reached an age,
where death follows me, that
all consuming shadow wreaking havoc
to those I love - why? I ask in vain,
knowing that no answer lies behind
the thickening morbid fog of
tomorrow. He does not exist, and ****
all of you who dares say he does,
that vile creature spitting blood
onto ashen faces then expecting
my knees to bend in fear - I can't
take this anymore.

How many words
will you devote to me,
- if any at all?

A feeble etch into cold stone,
a measly trench encapsulating my past,
where ice lingers on cold November
mornings, a distant and futile scar.

Prove me a fool, then
I shall dine at your table.
But my mind has not
been as oppressed by
the heavy weight of
sanity's absence,
as you would have liked.

I can see through your
windows, there are no
silk curtains like you
desire and crave, a guise
to hide what really
goes on in the darkness
of your deeply worrying mind.

You think of me as a
wounded deer, who dared
to stare for too long,
helplessly strewn across the side
of your road, carrying vehicles
quickly along to better places.

That long instructing finger
of yours, points to billboards
who say that I can be someone,
live the lives of those I see
behind a glass shield, so much
more fragile than you think.

I am content atop my fort,
while my foundations may
be small, they are stronger
than ignorance and folly,
and I do not preach to ants
to reach heights only to fall
back down into a dust of your dirt.

I will never dine with you,
and I will never come knocking
at your door, as I am sure that
one day your idiot soldiers
will see behind the canvas of
mistrust.

Lay with me now,
under a blanket of
our entwining sighs,
and watch the sun
slide up in front of us,
oblivious to what its absence
had given birth to.

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.

Sniff, wince,
adjust the black hat
sticking to your damp head.
Where the **** am I?

You know, so the conversation
continues, cracking white
in a manic laughter.

Crane your head to somewhere
else, ******* aliens wrapped
in an unnervy heat,
watching you.
Where the **** am I?

Long inhale, lion’s sleepy breath
amongst the din of unfamiliar
noises - unsure if you’re fond
of the narcissist’s choice.
Who is he anyway?

Looking right to the mirror,
or an old bus window,
startled by its revelation
you crash back into the room.
What the **** was that?

Voices tickle you, unwanted
intruders wrapped in bright
blue dots, “it’ll make it better
for you guys” she says before
falling behind closed eyelids.

Step out into the street with me,
and see with your eyes what it
is which entices mine.

We are not alone, and though
I long for your presence, here
beside me now. We are together.

Smell the air which I taste,
everyday and night, fresh
yet dank with the vibrancy of death.

Feel the squelch of the wet
pebbles beneath your feet,
like an orchestra of crushing bones.

And hear the Arabian Accordion
in the street, amongst the pitter-patter
of busy but pointless people.

Though I may not be there,
I see you all, in the white-washed
stone walls, laughing with me.

Young flag-bearers march backwards,
as stone walls crack shame,
and hysteria burning red tonight,
ignorance carrying archaic flame.

As shadows stretch to smother,
yesterday's scarlet blood,
the bell rings to beckon,
as tripped civility throws mud.

Figures cheating deserved fate,
spider-web lost, idiocy breathing,
**** fed from fools distant old,
backwards ticking, clock is freezing.

Lunatic mass gathered in the square,
Inerudite tongues lick His spit,
as spire stabs prevailing wind,
kid's jigsaw, this piece doesn't fit.

The sun is waning, 
the earth getting cold,
the rivers are slowing,
as night's hand takes hold.
 
The bottles are empty,
the bread's gone stale,
the table deserted,
flesh is turning pale.
 
The leaves have fallen,
the paths are lost,
the birdsong over,
floor's hard with frost.
 
The door is shut,
the house it is dark,
the souls stuck outside,
are naked and stark.
 
The laughter has ceased,
the smiles are broken,
the memories are ashes,
all final words are spoken.

There's a magician in the corner,
and he's showing you his tricks,
while you thumb through old photo-
graphs in a vain attempt to grasp
something meaningful from your past.

That trip to Cornwall, when those
gypsies stole your bodyboard, well at
least it made sense to blame them – at the time.
Foot pierced from beneath, blood along
the sandy beach, a trail to your then
present discomfort.

Back in the jingle-jangle room, the magician has
revealed your card – it was the four of hearts, yeah ?
Artificial applause echoes around you and
the photos, you've creased without
even realising.

Familiar faces shift with expressions,
like Freud in motion, acrylic, synthetic
and somewhat flamboyant people. This room
is where it's at, so you keep telling yourself,
character's from Kerouac laughing at the magician
who's dropped his cards, accidental confetti.

As the smoke thickens, your
grip loosens on what church-folk
call reality and perhaps even, dignity.
You return the photos to the mantel-
piece, amongst plastic teeth, tobacco
and important papers.

As your friend interviews himself
in the mirror, and somebody
licks the inside of a plastic bag,
because he's efficient, after all,
you crane your neck upwards and
hysterically laugh at the crazy patterns
in the ceiling.

The car whose paintwork
claims that the end is near, trundles
past my window as I look across
the ebbing amber of civilisation
before me, which I have become
perversely accustomed to.

The Arabian accordion has
ceased to play, in the streets
where the masses move as one,
buttoned up to their necks in
a futile attempt to escape the
inevitable wrath of circumstance.

The dusty silhouettes across
the bar have all finished their
drinks, clasping onto glass hollow
like the minds of which the
harsh winter rendered strongly,
to be alone is to feel nothing.

The air hangs thick amongst
the stone walls of the houses
of the slowly suffocating people,
the ones with the stained ribbons
in the hair from almost six years
ago, clutching on to particular thoughts.

And the oriental lady plays
with tins outside my door,
while I peel back my nails in
search of ink, all the time thinking
the sleeve made wet by nostalgia
is nearly rolled up, all the way back home

Nightmares linger, it is a fact,
clinging to memory like an acrid disease.
When I was younger, I dreamt I saw a witch in
a local church, now whenever I pass this church,
I am stabbed with the feeling of total fear and
isolation, just for a split moment though.
Like when a mother loses her child in the dairy aisle,
only to find him almost immediately
– a brief sense of horror.

In a sick and perhaps perverse way, I long for this feeling
of total fear, yet wish to rid myself of it at the same time.
Teetering on the edge of a knife, wanting to touch death,
but not allowing it to touch me.
Wanting to squeeze blood from the tormented tears of my youth,
whilst wanting to smother my childish screams once and
for all.

Perhaps one day I shall enter the church,
though I very much doubt it,
for I'd be disappointed to see no witch there,
grimacing at me, like she did that one
dark, lonely and vulnerable night.

Cathedral spires reflect
éclatant drops of fire,
lingering lovingly above
the damp grass which is my cradle.

A sodden cigarette
caresses the chapped rim
of my mouth, whilst
vagabonds search through
wavering sacks of *******.

We feign eloquence as
gnomes question
multi-coloured scars on
a once bland wall.

And first-ladies laugh
at me, from the dark
mirror who viciously consumes me.

A mosaic carpet shifts
like a slug sleeping in salt,
while my expectant eyes
fixate upon strangers whom
I know well.

The clock no longer knows
the time as the sun
rises backwards over wet machinery,
and we smile through
the thick haze which
suffocates sanity.

We live in a state,
where men in white-collars wait,
for you to fall straight,
onto their plate,
and we can no longer breath,
we can no longer leave,
how could we have been so naïve,
to even believe,
the lies that the spurt,
words covered in dirt,
free speech it hurts, so
you must escape the system,
the babies and the presidents who kiss them,
and those who will not listen,
limping away in the distance,
to be its slave,
it preaches that we behave,
****-filled spoons,
once consumed,
become propaganda dishes,
burying your wishes,
under piles of lies,
wearing their suits and their ties,
so doomed is your fate,
in this hopeless state.

As day falls to dark,
eyes turn red,
lusting, hunger, lusting.

Hatred will devour
the flesh of any man
at the bar with eyes closed.

Cursed forever he is with
the sour taste of change,
an irrevocable scar upon today.

We are not united, and we
will die alone, in a ditch
dug by fellow man, under the
crashing September sky.

A lunatic cannot cure a wound,
and one hundred will only
drown in ignorance together.

The man next door has shut
his curtains, fools do not listen
to the sound of yesterday,
only to the screams of cowering conscience.

The red cracks gape, as the tears
of dead minds pour in vain
over the edge of God’s last
and
final
vessel.

The jazz man on the metro,
is playing you his song,
while you inwardly cursing,
wonder where it all went wrong.

As light flashes to dark,
you remember that one day,
sheltered by the oak tree,
a glorious morning in May.

The man opposite shuffles,
you need to get off this train,
the sun doesn't rise in this place,
horror tattoed onto your brain.

The water is all frozen,
with you trapped beneath,
sometimes even villains,
need some kind of relief.

Scholars have all thought,
of why men do such things,
but the ghost on your shoulder,
knows not what tomorrow brings.

Her blood will be cold now,
the clown has stopped his show,
the trumpet has stopped playing,
and it seems you've nowhere to go.

The collective thoughts of a generation
stand huddled in the alley,
while the painter from next door
is erratically dancing atop his canvas,
and Beethoven booms over the
barking of the dogs, salivating in the
shadowy gardens of this ever-worrying
neighbourhood, home to the screams
of the past and the angst of what is
yet to come, beneath the thunder
and the blood of a washed out
society, more questions than answers.

The guilt will subside, for
a day at least - and the barkeep
will pour one more drink, to numb
the taste of an inevitably regretful
and shadowed past.

   These fingers, dipped in a hysterical
paint of red, taste much nicer than her
auburn eyes would have expected -
considering the
deathly circumstance of this
night.

As the lark calls outside, society
turns its head - slightly - a nod of
recognition to the disrupted
path between the
trees.

And

While he and she watch on
like those cursed with
a panging desire to idle under
azul clouds, the barkeep’s client
drinks with an avid intent.

The crucifix on your wall,
makes you weak at the knees,
the professor locked in the basement,
says he has a cure for your disease,
you philistine, you, burning those books,
take a look outside as consequence scorns you,
and the seagulls, they are a-laughing,
where on this earth are you going to?
 
While two shadows bleed out in the alley,
Over the hill the steeple is a-calling,
the old lady in velvet is already there,
doesn't that wine just taste apalling?
Nietzsche and Darwin fidget beneath,
whilst you all sing entranced as one,
and in the wind is that pollen scent,
and the torment of old memories gone.
 
The un-wed ***** outside the jazz club,
where the men play cards till the clock sleeps,
is wondering where He really is,
but does your heaven have room for creeps?
Suffocated by the antediluvian dogma,
though you of course blindly unaware,
of the reality behind your clasped hands,
mesmerised, committed, to his crucified stare.

The choir sings
as freckles on pale
 ignites,
pipe ***** 
fingernails alike,
and the young beauty smiles from frame,
melts into the scar with no name,

hat casts shadow over face taut with pain,

and the choir sings,
until we meet again.

Invade my dreams,
one more time tonight
and submerge yourself
in the dark waters behind my eyes.

Dance precariously, like
a nervous imp around my
thoughts, careful not to tread
too hard, for you tread within me.

Whisper quiet as the
cold chill outside my window,
and feel my gentle bones in a way
that only you can,

And stay with me, my effervescent
companion, in the tumbling
storm of thought, raging ferociously
behind eyes slammed shut.

Who smokes at his window,
lips forced to crack,
reavealing a grin at the
beauty across the street.
His eyes wet, slightly, the
expectant bride at the aisle,
waiting for the silence
to die like the leaves.