Passion is something that coats my skin.
It runs through my veins constantly.... knowing that this is it's home.
Passion is a feeling, a power, being alive at midnight because your mind can't shut off. every muscle in your brain always on memorizing unimportant details because that's what catches it's attention.
Passion is having no one match your energy, feeling like nothing is ever enough.
Passion and I are best friends.... always have been. we live for one another. knowing we'll never find a kindred soul.

Too young for the first
Too old for the second
Quite the fine timing
When all is reckoned
He could have been one of the 20 percent
Destroyed at the Somme
Their flags and their bodies
Horribly rent
Or shredded with schrapnel
On Omaha beach
French liberation for them
Just beyond reach
Instead he was a docker
And fathered eight kids
Imagine the population difference
In this fair land
If Arch Duke Frankie
Had not got whacked
By the Gavrillo and the Black Hand
But the war machine rolled
And the tales all got told.
My lucky grandad
With his dockers hook
Stands and stares at the future
From the Liverpool Dock.

Father Time and Mother Nature
Conspired one drunken night
Off the rip
To meet again
Decades later
Upon my gimpy hip.

My left knee tells me it’s still winter.
My shoulders are still unsure.
Every part of me that aches
Aches more for the uncertainty.
I smoke some Acapulco Gold.
A serpent creeps down from the sun
And curls round my spine.
A warm wind blows over me
And for a while I don’t feel old.

The knife’s worn handle is solid against my palm.
Sharp edges, dull tip,
Stained with resin.
It has lived far passed it’s lifespan,
But it sits in my drawer.
I hold it some nights when
I want to feel the weight.
I use it now and again
When my scissors are misplaced,
But mostly it sits.
I wish you could see the life that I’ve made.

I count my heartbeats in time with the clouds.
I hold the smoke.
Let it blacken my lungs.
Four-hundred thumps in the time they move four trees down.
Exhale, and accept
This rocky path to which I’ve clung.
The horses almost trip,
While dragging their carts.
Like a half-finished sentence,
Lost at the start.
I am stuck in this place,
The air thick with time,  
And lost in gravace.

Is it in your chemistry?
I wonder as I’m choking down
Tears scorching my throat like an acid rain
Hoping to bleach your name from my recesses
Built a bridge past the swap of your defenses
Tried to massage your heart without pretenses
But you burn me down.

Do you feel anything when you immolate
Everything sets you off like a hair trigger,
Bear trap my mind and clamp down while you drill deeper
Pour in your toxicity like a waste dump
And set it all on fire.
I’ll be the embers to dance at your command.
Ashes drifting like autumn leaves
Snow down in a distance like a winter dream.

Is it in our chemistry?
Do I excite you to ignition
Gods envy the way our bodies friction
But you believe the fiction,
So I’ll weep for an ending,
Burning my nerves as the acid’s etching.
Retching flames like an allergic fire eater
Your conflagration rings around me.

Are you the pallid horseman
Can I be the one to the blow the horn?
I’m weary and ready for an ending
And you burn me like white phosphorus .
Can we mix and tether,
One day coalesce
Solvent in your trepidation
Waters deeper than the ocean.

Is it in your chemistry?

Now that you have
disappeared into the
mist, now the distance
between us has become
severe, now the rain falls
on the old tin roof and the
light from the moon is honest.
Deep blue shadows swallow
the room as the warm breath
of Hope Sandoval whispers
so softly in my ears, I drift
away into a delicate world,
a world where my mind can
melt into a million lonely stars …
Clay.M

I'm drunk, I'm drunk, I'm a silly owd sod,
Stumbling through the still shiver of the early night;
Each step a clumsy sonnet written on cracked pavement,
Every stumble a verse that mocks my fleeting might.

The fog of memories curls around neon glows,
Where lamplight winks in rhythm with my muddled heart.
Here, life is a scattered bottle of bittersweet prose,
And each shattered shard reminds me of its fragile art.

I laugh at the irony in this unsteady parade,
An ode to lost directions and moonlit confession.
In the echo of my antics, the city's secrets are conveyed,
While the pavement hums along in a raucous procession.

For in every spilled pint and every whispered rue,
Lies the raw, untamed truth of being splendidly flawed.
Though my path is crooked and the night askew,
I dance with destiny: a drunken, beautiful fraud.

And so I wander, a silly owd sod beneath the sky,
Grateful for the chaos, the laughter, the imperfect song.
In every stumble, there’s a glimmer that refuses to die,
A promise that in brokenness, we all somehow belong.