I like secrets, because they keep me in line

What does a sail do when it is stuck at sea

At the mercy of those in his seat

What does a duckling do

When his mother is swept away

The tides of yesterday.

When I yearn for a connection

A true, genuine scrap of something

A finger, a hand, a cuddle

I can’t think of a single soul

A single soul

Who could comfort these dark monsters within the cradle of my centre.

I miss splendour, I miss thousands of genitals

I wish I could look into someone’s eyes

And see millions of moments, billions of words

All said, all touched, completely on exhibition for me, for us,

Mango leaves, dried trees

A true, genuine scrap of something

Love is an optical illusion

I find love at the bottom of my glass,

I find fear in an empty bed.

Worried sick

Horror lulled me into laze

Dazes, fades to grey

Ashes do not exist

Ashes do not exist

I am the ash of my own fingertips

I am the cigarette-kissed burns on my guns and roses.

Flesh, oh flesh

That is all that it is.

A first kiss.