take me to a place
where i can see You
face to face;

because all i want to do
is slip away
into the darkness i've been
trying so hard to fight.

I have nothing more to teach you
For you have little more to learn.
All that's left to tell you, dear
Is cotton torn to burn.

Don't fix your jump on raucous bones,
For listening is done
With eager ears and cagéd breath
Without a thought for fun,

Without a thought for interest,
Without a thought for care,
I leave you lonely, such it is
To leave you dancing there;

And though your shouts shall echo on
I shall fade like paper
And though your ink on my skin scalds
You're still all I paid for.

Immaculate Breakfast

I should congratulate myself on choosing the Raisin stuffed and Lemon Drizzle Scones
Who else would?
Spill the milk gently into granola and berry cereal
And an Immaculate breakfast is laid out in front of me
Like a pastoral English farm valley disturbed by thunder in a Turner painting
Which makes you consider how the sunset depicted must have occurred on a Sunday and
you can almost hear the firebrand puritanical country church sermon that was lanced unto the congregation that morning.
But the sun's high and full of itself here-urban nature's reliable humblebrag.

Underwhelming Work Routine

The reason I doublebag tea -most apparent in its amber hue before the whisker of a milkdrop eases the cannonroll
Is that I need to be aware
Of my shortcomings-personal, financial, strategical, spinal, ******, lexical
While typing out this or the next sentence on a screen that could really do with some Mr Clean
-A line that sounded like it made far more sense in my head
A head that is probably in need of a good dose of Ms Benzedrine
A dilemma which lays the foundations of an oft shoddy, disingenuous, misappropriated, underwhelming work routine.

Oh, the work gets completed
just with far more of an effort and
far less of the breezy confidant
self-satisfaction than I originally intended.
And the tea needs to keep me awake
or else I would daydream restlessly, evoking
rats in cages who make political decisions and far away destinations where
I can at last make my life
completely redundant, or, whisper it, a success.

But that's the great kicker of working life, isn't it?
You make a meal out of the easy stuff
And wish the good bits didn't capture people's attention.

I am afraid to write about you
The cushioned dark corner I have placed you in
Could suddenly become back lit with soft candle glow
Or blindingly bright mid-summer sun blaze
I became photosensitive to your light years ago
These emotional sunglasses, black out curtains for my vulnerability
Are all that stands between my willpower and the truth of it all
You are delicious. Dangerous.
Completely wrong and perfect for me all in one bad decision
Time passes, memories fade, so I turn back to take another sip
Tip toes become full submersion
Why does it have to be so easy to drown in you?
I use drowning as a way to describe the sensations you evoke
Not as some romantic metaphoric notion
You are Deepness.
The surface only a tease.
You are Suffocation.
Lungs struggling with their intent to breathe.
I know this but yet continue testing these waters
One day, perhaps soon
I will not resurface.
Stones sink heavy in the heart of a sinner
Taking my better judgement with me

Autumn's amber hued
Sunday afternoons
are laced with regret
for days gone to soon.

Yellowed pages
folded and faded,
are the leaves underfoot,
sweet and decaying.

Now the fall moon
will be waning blue,
and so goes this life,
a memory too.

There must be more than this.
More than what lies
beyond the deep,
blue sky.
Where stars condense,
and collide.
Where glalaxies spin,
and multiply.
Where life blooms,
but never dies.
There must be more
than what lies
at the end
of an ordinary life.