i can only love in splinters,
in tsunamis.

The door slammed shut so long ago,
your shadow in the breeze,
I find the pencil and the song you wrote
that brought me to my knees.

Christmas came on lower branches,
the cheap seats, the lonely guitar,
I sang to the person who you used to be
and smoked out who you are.

Even now I am still diseased,
still struggling to find a G-d.

Thought I found him in the autumn leaves,
before I was certain, he was gone.

The window shook on its hind legs
as the widow swallowed her sleep,
the spider came out from his abattoir,
all searching in darkness deep.

In a single bed, teeth grit shut,
twisting sheets in the street-light glow,
I hold my pillow like a brand-new woman,
exchanging heat for the money I owe.

Even now I am still fatigued,
indebted to G-d and home-grown guilt.

I have learned to grow and plant my seed
far from shadows that bring me to wilt.

I followed you out of the picture,
our subtle breakdowns, anti-matter,
too drunk to function, too vibrant to sleep.

The tables were numbered when we sat to eat,
uniform plates, revolving staff, doors open
to the public, red wine on tap.

I met you in the bathroom, venetian white,
***** on your sleeve, tears in your eyes,
love on your tongue – an emptied stomach.

I know I can poison you with words,
stop your taste for wine with a kiss.

I followed you to the open grounds,
pollen thick in my lungs, the wind ate sound,
removing all history: you and me, you and me.

The fountain turned copper with generosity,
faded queen, bottle-cap fraud; crowds took us
to alleyways, to your opened front door.

I met you in the kitchen, synthetic white,
heart on your sleeve, *** in your eyes,
tongue upon tongue – truth amongst lies.

I know I can save you from endless distraction,
this need for a fiction; this want for an action.

Distraction! The skirting board is alive.
Last year's grit at the back of a desk;
you have a story to write,
a good friend to deceive, phone calls
to make to indifferent ears.
Dirt accumulates, black algae
in the carpet, and nothing on your mind.

There is an ****** in the sidelines,
it will have to wait – a soap opera,
a bath of salt, a supply of coffee:
catalyst for the morning,
some razor blade, a brand new face.
“A necessity!”she drools, a fragrant potion,
whilst children cry and die in Gaza.

The cigarette falters in its promise,
the fantasist friend, last year's prophet;
you have a life to live
but that can wait another year.
Love sits in your mouth, fat accumulation;
tasteless reprieve from hunger, a motion-
anything to escape stillness, immediacy.

Men in drag lift their skirts to the screen,
the fool is on the hill, the billboard; a dream
of fame litters your focus, your self-hood.
There is a pyramid built for better people,
all these old institutions – indefatigable ladder!
The rings of tea caramelise on the table,
married to the places you have been before.

Elusive enterprise – unfulfilled spark,
you suffocate in oxygen, heat lost to air,
embrace yesterday's comfort, tomorrow's snare.
Take another day inside this indistinguishable prison.
The walls are glass. Eligible, you vote for Hope.
For the drug of the future, a disbursed present
for minimum wage, accepting slave; your eventual grave.

I can hardly remember your face,
left here in a chair,
room aglow with the muted television,
drunk as hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
***** stains on the sports sock,
a battleaxe hangover,
bills piled by the toaster
and **** over the kitchen sink.

The bailiffs came.
I cried like a child through the burglary,
drank the Ganges in stout when it was over.

I have been drinking ever since
the Christmas lights turned on,
the town bathed in absinthe, teenage smokers,
Lithuanian women;
no chance of collision with you.
Eternal ashtray, brick upon brick,
cylindrical beams - an empire of ash
and odour. I can't smell you anymore.
How senses die, yet you remain,

stubborn as a **** on a concrete street,
stubborn in your deceit,
my old crutch, my faded ***** in heat.

I am a mess of old exchanges
whilst ****-stars **** on screen.
Fantasy is dead
as my first dog, defunct,
birthing colonies beneath the ground,
frozen over in winter.
I feel nothing. No thing.
Urges clamour for attention to keep me alive,
vague hunger, the need to bleed.

The paramedics came.
I cried like a child through the gift-wrapping,
drank from a plastic cup as they covered your face.

I can hardly form a sentence
in this fast world
of slow days and long aches in silence:
this is hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
I see you in my ridiculous moments,
the insanity that stands in your place,
fractured light in the doorway-
my obsessive state, your forgotten face.

The notebook is full, tea turned cold.
State of satisfaction without completion,
no itch to scratch,
no craving to amuse on;
the binge has abated for now.

Fragmented selves have presented as me,
adjusting hair in the faces of strangers,
a drink in hand,
elephants in the room;
none of them relate to me.

Naturally gummed papers strew the desk,
audio jacks and water stained notes.
This is entropy,
this pile of laundry;
the European map, made in China.

Going crazy is an ongoing process, friend.
It takes a lifetime to master
the Bojangles walk,
the flat-capped freedom;
a filthy soldier's limp.

I am finding my place amongst the misfits.
The world behind a blast-screen,
no invested belief,
no disease left to treat,
staying in for the evening,

staying in for the week.