I am living as your echo.
Lung cancer victim,
Vague pilgrim of kindness,
Tainted by the everyday;
By our suicidal blindness.

Keep the noise low,
As you walk on past the room,
You might hear our quiet love;
Collecting forget-me-nots,
Memorising the feel
Of the hand beneath the glove.

I am living in displacement,
Neither north, nor south,
And soon landlocked in yesterday;
Too many miles from the coastline,
And with too many debts left to pay.

Keep your lips strange
And foreign, as if we’re falling
In love again. Don’t forget this youth
When we leave it,
But let this heartache turn to gains.

There are no decimals to love.
Binary code, you’re either in or you’re out;
You’re either kissing the toad,
Or questing for an actor
To tolerate you;
Without any essence of doubt.

I don’t know where I am, father.
I can’t see the floodlights
That used to beam over the allotments;
Polluting the stars. My bike is chained
In the garage, my legs are tired,
And Cawston Woods only brings me to despair.
I want to claim back my royalties,
I want my piece of the share.

We have all paid our dues now,
We have worked ourselves sore,
For this malnourished freedom;
Of which still lays a cure.

We must see politic as silence,
In its content and fact,
To see the newsreader’s babble,
As one orchestrated act.

We must love for the earthworm,
And for the life-giving bee;
For the nuclei of dead sunlight,
For our brief eternity.