The sirens sound across the street.
It sounds like tinnitus in my ear.
Down in reality where lovers meet,
In the open air so fresh and clear.

So, I find myself in the glow
Of the dulled screen and its bleached-white page.
Oh, I hope to god my desires show,
In the eyes of a more studious age.

Longing. Longing, the word defined,
By my non-action; an artists’ life.
So I must sit and read, my words refined.
The husband of art, lustre; my wife.

This wine tastes like young vinegar,
The tobacco like dirt. They will these
Rushed little sentences together
Like mixed fibres in your polyester shirt.

Another poem for the ghosts.
And another for those in between
The place where desolation meets the coasts,
And the places it’s already been.