The weeping willow offered a branch
for me to hang myself.
I tied a knot in boy scout memory,
always prepared and never without
The Lord. I smoked my last cigarette
and watched the town lights
swallow up the stars.

There is a receipt for a soft drink
in my pocket.
I don't know how long it has been there,
but father fell asleep so long ago
and I have had enough caffeine
to last me a life-time.
I watch the frogspawn ooze

in a brook full of ****-water and mayflies.
The moonlight bounces off the headstones
like a snooker room in the old men's club.
Life can find a way along every ill attraction,
through alcohol to poverty; to the way you
are never noticed, until you are already gone.

When I told the tree I couldn't do it,
the street-lights dimmed
and eyes stung from the brine in the sea.
I stole a chip from the Weeping Willow's
shoulder, hung the bark from my neck
as a necklace: a collarbone sign for peace
in a landlocked town full of drunks

and absent-minded teachers.
The Weeping Willow told me to get some sleep,
before handing me a self-help book
that promised change and new wisdom.
I read the first couple of pages
and realised that I was lacking in self.
Ever since I just use the willow
to **** my pain again.