Each moment to myself,
I find that I am writing.
I am writing nonsense,
a stream of consciousness
to make my squalor appear
as a palace. To enforce beauty
out of a blind state of mind,
as those purple curtains
block out approaching daylight,
but retain the glean of the disco ball.

I talk to makeshift friends over
and over again in my head,
as I walk past the field of irises,
feeling them watch me
under the jittery yellow street-lights.
There are far too many poems
to be thrown out to strangers,
like lonely sambuca kisses
placed beneath the dripping raindrops,
falling from the alleyway stairs.

I know that poetry must be controlled,
to flourish only the best to others.
It is hard to leave words undisclosed,
when you can go weeks without a friend.
This is not a *******,
nor a target for pity in privation.
I have a degree in human minds,
I have a ***** and white skin
to get me through interviews,
and a tone of voice to escape all arguments.

Fix me with a stare
and I'll fix you up a drink,
no questions asked. We could be
ice bucket lovers, turning the tide
with pens and straws to mix the cola.
You'll reach out and kiss me on the cheek
to afford me lipstick sensation,
as I stumble without any cause
through this temporal employment;
this hiatus of youth.

One day I shall grow up.
One day, there will be no more poems,
and what is left will be the ghosts
to lay alongside old lighters and photographs.
I will forsake these pointless notebooks,
this obsession with laying experience
into metre, rhyme, and verse.
Soon, I will exchange my pen
for the television remote.
I will flick the channels,
I will smile at my life.