In the barren bowl
Of the local park
There is more brown
Than green
And naked trees
Rest like tired moths
Upon grass
That has been lacerated
By studded shoes
And knees and toes
And elbows
That have ploughed it
Bare.
The edges of the path
Look like eyebrows
Scant
Poorly plucked
And rats-tail
Mongrels  
Scatter and shred
Across the carpet
Sodden
Sinewy.
Jarring teenage love
Letters
Sit upon February
The fourteenth
Like it is a mantelpiece of
Glass
Tip blue hair to grey sky
Beiged fingers
Intertwine
Black fingernails
Fumble
They watch their childhood haunts
Through the frosted panes
Of spectacle windows
And wonder why
Nostalgia dies so bitter
Today.
Kiss my empty skin
Waiting.
I find myself a love affair
In the sky
Clouds form a coastline
A single dribble of peach
Taints the ash
Like careless words
And I tilt my chin towards it
Already the spindle of my mind
Turns
And begins to weave
Gold from straw.

i've been looking for poignant truths
that i can force into poetry
recently
things that will be like pebbles
into ponds of thought
concepts veiled in fact
overlooked ideas that i could
reconstruct my life
around
because poignant truths
are like raspberries
late in the season
rare sweet and sunny
only a few ever find them
i tried to scrape back the dust
and the rust
of my mind and
hoped to
discover that i had some
sort of enlightenment stored there
like pennies tucked away for
safe keeping
recently
but sometimes a glass is neither half empty
or half full

sometimes the curtains are just
blue

You know that moment
When you just want to
Shatter everything
And you want to have the power
To tighten it all into the
Clenching ball of your fist
And all you are searching for
Is some sort of hole in the canvas
Some sort of loose thread
Of thoughts
That you can staple around your fingernails
And t
e
        a
r
You want to slice upon the sky
Let the sun bleed out of it
You want the ground to rupture,
The carpet to erupt
The clock faces to be seared right off
The only satisfaction
You can imagine is one made of
f
r
    a
g
             m
   e
n
           t
      a
t
       i
o
n
   ?

You know that?
Yeah.
This is my rage song.

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes
Into words
They would be like
The skin that sits on custard
And crinkles
Or they would be
The shattering of sunlight
Over leaf-spears
That toy it apart into
Forkfuls of sweet butter
Or they would be
The winkles around the heart
Of a daffodil
One day growing,
The next dying
But always yellow

I don't much like the colour yellow
But there's a richness to it
And a glassiness
And an optimistic up-swing
That I see in the corners of your blue eyes

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes into words
Because we've all sold out
Of happy poems.

You've got lies
Like you've got acne
Raw and sour
They deform the skin of the room
Leave scars on its silence
Creep unbidden into pores
Brand themselves into reflections
Hung
Ugly as battle wounds
On the arpeggios of conversation

And you wear your lies
Like you wear acne
Smothered in pretty chemicals
You deliver them like scripted text
Into a world of disingenuity
The self-affected
One-trick-pony of your tongue
Plays them down with beauty
But fails to remove their aftertaste

So please,
Feel free to keep talking
But I thought you should know
That no one's listening any more
And we no longer believe in
Your cries of 'wolf'
Because we know that
No matter how you sing your lies
The world will not cease to orbit the sun
And then re-align itself to you

they ask me the colour of my soul and i say
mustard
and then they ask why and i have to think

is it because its bright but coated in a layer
of dust
not grey but not entirely yellow bright?