I once had a way with words.
Wielded them like a gilded sword, ******
From line to ragged line in
Desperate lunges. A duelist,
Fighting an ever-futile contest against
Enemies within, for honours hardly
Deserved, never recognised.
I wrought small trinkets and gaudy
Sculptures; I fashioned some
Restless peace, if only for moments.
I wrote my way to draughty sanctuary.
I sought shelter, and on some occasion
Remained dry.

And so the shift, 'twixt gears of
Passion and those of despair; easily
Done, devoid of signals to alert
My dreary mind of its occurrence.

There might have been reason,
At least speculative notions,
Why we came to impasse,
And why you left and I stayed.

I dare not reach conclusion,
Nor do I attempt to find peace
With the tempest raging beneath,
My calm, unyielding surface.

Did we not enjoy some discrete joys,
'Neath pebble-dashed ceilings and dim lamps,
When you brushed your hair aside,
And it glowed in the darkness.

No, there is nothing to be done,
No way to turn but awry.
You walk to greener pastures,
I'll wait, to see if you return.

Tonight's expulsion
Requires anonymity and mild discretion,
For he will not bring about the disgrace
Duly owed, long overdrawn.
I've laid my heart on the table,
My ******* soul on the line,
But you chose across the partition,
Between a sure thing and a
Mild gamble.
Even the poorest of human examples
Will surely best the most distinguished ape.
Oh how you laugh with him,
How you direct your smile to his eye.
Your fingers locked as one,
Your remarks intended for private ears.
Your poisonous kiss,
Sickening embrace.
You know who he is,
You know what you find yourself
Tumbling emphatically towards.
And yet you fail to spot the trick,
To understand the things you do.
How I long to know what he knows,
To be where he is,
To have such vaunted attributes.
And despite hours of desperation,
Following weeks of prior preparation,
Overwhelmed by innate privilege and
Blind luck.
**** this.
It's the hand holding that gets me.
And the fact that I haven't spoke in ages,
But you both haven't noticed.
Perhaps I ought to cast it all aside,
Collect my fragile mind and consider
That life makes erratic progress
Toward an incandescent horizon.
One defined by sublime revelation, and
Glorious triumph. A decision
Of colour and love, so
Enchanted, so majestic, crowned
By everlasting wisdom; a moment
Of inexorable beauty, of
Magnificent grace.
Such a thing...

This stray amongst the lions, singing
Songs about the motions, while he
Shuffles on his feet, and dreams of
Birds and trains and oceans.
Inside a cage of pens and desks, his
Mind a whirlwind blowing, and his
Instinct rarely showing that there's
No real way of knowing. Be-
Neath the towering eyes of stone, he'll
Charge forth into worlds unknown. And
Maybe he'll make us all so very proud.

The jewel within the junkpile, reading
Classic works of old, and telling
Stories of a life she dreams on
Starry nights so cold. She
Takes a subtle gesture, turns it
To a work of art, and then she'll
Take a few steps backwards, turn, and
Then she shall depart. Be-
Tween two realms of parapets, she
Takes her time, but still forgets to
Return to the heavens she is from.

A seething mass of paper, screaming
Mindless riddling tricks, bent on
Giving you your fix, of heady
Sciences, for kicks. They share a
Bleak appraise of life, but still
Together it's alright, because
There's nothing they can't face, if they just
Shine a little light. Be-
Mused and disillusioned glances, and
Gaily executed dances. The
World just fades to white, and all is well.

A satin mix of music, and an
Air of discontent, disguising
All who can't repent and left to
Pick their cold descent. She
Strokes aside her hair and puts her
Hands around your waist, before you
Narrow up the space and dance to-
Gether, face to face.
Alone without a single care, the
World is left to stop and stare; and
Rain falls from the stars in darkest skies.

He stumbles round his words, and offers
Meaningless remarks, which don't il-
Luminate the dark as well as
How he set his mark. An
Awkward, crowded scene conspires to
Rid him of his dream, but still he
Doesn't let it seem as though his
Nature doesn't gleam. A-
Lone with just a pocketbook, he
Takes his turn, but doesn't look to
See if she has found her way back home.

He carries his emotions to a
Private place he knows, where the
Jokers never go, and all the
People walk below. She
Meets him at the bar, but doesn't
Take a seat beside, because she
Doesn't like this ride, and so her
Feelings are denied. He
Stares into her ashen eyes, that
Earthy depth that never lies; she
Sits and plays a tune for all to hear.

I believe we are of sound and worthy mind;
That we might cast our constant glare back,
Towards our own transgressions and
Pretensious claims to ascendance.
That we may reflect on our own fortune,
Alive and affluent, rich in life and
Experience ill afforded to our elders.
Perhaps then we might pretend,
If only for fleeting moments,
That we are as deserving as we commonly believe.
For we are nothing if not
The cynical generation, born into
A world so mature that we need be
Nothing but children within it.
We have no politics, no beliefs, no
Drive to propel us into an existence of
Grace and enlightenment. We scoff
At signs of sentiment, we laugh
At barefaced gesture and divulgence.
We indulge in ceaseless pleasures and
Live upon the surface of the shallows.
Yet we forfeit the beauty of feeling,
The release afforded by sublimity;
We are afraid of what is bigger than us,
And we respond with profane derision.
I tire of popularity competitions,
Of gossip and blunt innuendo, of
Social ladders and picking up.
I yearn, with nostalgia and music, for
A time foreign to this weary soul,
A time perhaps non-existent, when
Such games were not all there was.

A line can be drawn,
Of best fit, closest conformity,
Tracing both forwards and back
To when you were younger,
Your smile more bright, your
Eyes open wide to a
World all your own.

To see your features weep and sigh
Beneath the weight of passing time
Is naught but devastation.
I invest ungodly hours in
Charting your decline; I
Both wallow in despair and
Cling to hopes of latter-day grandeur.

I dare not look beneath the surface,
Or cast mine eye to past events,
Lest I see further evidence of
Decay and regress.
I fear I could not survive it.
I fear you would be lost,
To me, to this world which
You once so vividly called your own.

Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.

You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.

Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.

Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.

The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.

Herein lies a plan for a quiet life,
Of restrained passion and stolen smiles,
Drenched in moments of still solitude;
Plentiful contemplation,
Abject contentedness.
I do not promise happiness, nor
Do I profess that such a thing can be granted
With nary a twitch towards
Narcotic impulse or deluded blessing.
I do, however, guarantee a life
Well lived, and a handful of
Fragile years on this bitter, dusty Earth
Resplendent, shining,
If you allow the light of the world
Into yourself and become free,
To be who you truly are.

I put up with a lot, I confess;
I weather your obscure temperament,
Play host to ill humour.
I contend with mild distress and
Acclimatise to vagrant glance and
Occasional digression.
But I hate how this turned out,
I hate that he's a fool, a
Common antidote to your exotic
Poisons.
That he bears no ill will, that he
Treats me as nothing more than
A footnote in your powdery tome.
And I hate how he is right to do so.

Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.

Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.

Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.

Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.

Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.

Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.

My phone has been hacked,
I feel gladdened to know, that
Someone's interested,
In what paltry things I say,
To my mother.

Who are we? What are we but
Small men? How can we lay claim
To the grace of God, above
All other things? I am no greater
Than the least of you, nor am I
More enchanted by the ways of
Life and love itself.
But I am humble in my humility,
Strong in my weakness,
Open and able, ready to
Take my place in the ways
Of all there is.
Who are you to choose otherwise?
Who are you to walk a new path?
Where were you when these
Words were spoken, these ideas
Spilt forth like blood on the sands?
Carry your impotent pride, your
Detestable nature, lay it at the
Feet of your blind idols,
Protest the truth and
Attest the falsehoods you so eagerly embrace.
I am not here to wait for you,
I am not here to show you the way;
You move your own feet, you
Level your own ground. You
Lay your own roots, and you
Lay them deep.
We are not men of aid or compassion,
We are not men of guilt or regret;
Strive to move forward, rid yourself of
Chains and shackles.
Come forth and bask
In the light of the sun,
Like small men.

He thinks himself a learned man,
And through vain accounts, he is right.
Though his youthful grin may betray
A naive grasp of a wider world,
He leaps forth from bounds of youth
With utmost vigour.
He is a captain among boys,
A soldier among men,
An armchair general in ambition, but
Not without dirt on his sleeves.

It is harder to remember you now,
Not your face, nor your name;
Such things are on record, made permanent
By words and lines on faded page,
But who you were, why we were,
Where the journey ended and
What became of the little pleasure we had.

You were as wind to sail,
Music to rhyme,
Effervescent, a talisman against a
Black world. I am bereft, shallow,
Alone, brought to my broken knees
With the knowledge, the taste of
A life to be lived absent you.

Oh! a cry so plain it
Scarcely leaves our lips.
We begin plotting lines
To sad refrain. Excise
All rights to light and life,
Still,
Quietly laying bare our
Failed plans, our lost paths;
Our mortal enemy, our
Only friend. She who
Dances outside the realm
Of our gaze, who plays
Silent melodies on broken
Keys, songs we know but are
Disallowed to sing.
She cares not
For lament or plea, she
Who fuels our fire;
She, misery.

Tell me all about your silent questions,
The images of life you fail to lose.
Talk about the long and rambling lessons,
The heartless anguish placed in front of you.
I've been down to beggar's end within a
Minute of exertion; I've been
Stripped apart by vagabonds with
Gloves made out of gold. I have
Walked across the valley with a
Donkey on my back, and I can
Tell a thousand stories that should
Never have been told.

Images and photographs of madness,
Lines of black and white, depicting grey.
What your eyes have seen, no-one could fathom,
What you can recall, no-one could say. I have
Seen a row of palisades de-
Fending empty spaces; I have
Witnessed refugees campaign for
Rights they've always had. I have
Seen the towns of concrete turn in-
To a sea of snow, and I have
Seen into the blackened souls of
All the nation's glad.

Resonate with life's emphatic madness,
The tinkering of bells and measured weights.
The litany of lives you have encountered,
Obituary passages await.
I'll recite the speeches made from mounts of
Manufactured diamonds, I'll re-
Late the frenzied feeding of a
Thousand hungry birds. I can
Tell a story resolute and
Free from tailors' hands, but they run
Few and far between, and they have
Apathetic words.

What about the men who walked beside you,
The ones you passed on roads of blackened glass.
The faces you have coloured in your libraries,
The memories of people that don't last? I have
Met a thousand socialites with
Blood upon their dresses, I have
Knelt with sullen faces in the
Shadow of the flag. I have
Studied with a poet, but I
Never saw his face, and I have
Met a thousand children living
Out of plastic bags.

Tell me where your path leads from this moment;
The journey that awaits beyond my door.
Imagine all the roads you may encounter,
The choices you can make, or else ignore. I will
See the face of tyranny with
Holes within its pockets, I will
Cast my piece of gravel with the
Millions I can't see. I will
Watch as boundaries fall, and new ones
Spring up in their wake, and I will
Reminisce on times I never
Witnessed, when we're free.

I will
Stand without a hesitation,
Free from selfish doubts, and I will
Point my finger proudly at the
Ones we've singled out. I will
Ride the waves of emerald wastes, be-
Reft of shallow waters, and I
Challenge all who hear me to ex-
Plain what it's about.

Was out past Southend,
about eleven thirty five,
Saw a whole troop of girls,
dancing very much alive;
I struggled to my feet,
slapped a smile across my face,
Turned my sallow gaze
toward their alcoholic grace.
I said "evening ladies," and
I just tipped my hat, but
Hell, no sorry luck for this
shabby-legged cat. They ascer-
Tained a certain thought and
laughed into the night,
Quite the effervescent attitude
for the solemn moonlight. So with no
Pennies in my cap despite my
earnest little ditty, I just got
Right back on the train and rode it
straight into the city.
The conductor with his cyanide in
silver coated capsules, takes a
Tricolor mandolin and
plays it to relax you. A
Beggar on the chairs emitting
insight by the glass, and a
Banker saying prayers for our
little midnight mass. Be-
Spoke attire from far away to
dress your tired frame, and a
Medal and a badge with which to
decorate your name.
Tracks of steel and sterling pounds to
take you where you please, with
Speed unwavered, flying through with
masochistic ease. I got my
Map and made it through, to
Angel up on high,
Got off the train in pouring rain,
with nurses passing by.

Look at us all,
Writing poetry.
This is what we do.
I'd like to explain,
But,
I really mustn't.

Good day, constant friend, you
Please me great;
Belie your subtle pleasantries,
Free yourself from blithe
Mannerisms and speak freely.
We are not amongst company, we
Share no ill will nor rogue
Dissent. You are a brother and a
Sister to me, as I am to you, and
We will not allow sallow weather to
Defuse our brogue discourse.
You are amongst friends.

She is as lines to Bauhaus, oblique
In category yet commanding in form;
Her mind a pool of wealth and Grace,
Allusions to illusions, omega to
Alpha’s strongest gaze. I stand
Failed, distraught, lacking the
Dexterity of voice to call her name,
The temerity of will to regain her fair
Charms and affirmed charisma.
Lost I am within a cascade of
Superlatives and tribulation.
Were only she to have conquered
My mind, I would be of sound spirit to
Elicit some tempered comprehension;
Yet alas, I have been taken in soul
And I can do naught but wait
To see if she will one day return.