I have not been well recently.
I have been waking from dreams of falling bombs,
lighting up the sky like a mourning sun.
Each time this happens,
I predict the comfort of a dark black void,
and in waiting for this moment to arrive,
oh brother, have you ever felt more alive?

They say the North-East is in ruins
without my careful footsteps over the ground,
without my drunken tears and absent sounds.
Everywhere I land
has become nothing more than a sea-foam scar,
a painless reminder of all I once had,
now lungs of tar, the birth of a deadbeat dad.

I have not been well recently.
I have been waiting for more persistent ***,
with opened legs and sunscreen on her chest.
The scars may return
in the false new light of a British summer,
I will endeavour to do better this year.

I will smile through the stoning,
and I will celebrate my fear.