She told me she loved me today
which can only mean our clock
is ticking.

To most that word marks a beginning
to a new and wonderful existence
full of meaning but to me it's
a single syllable that ushers in
a cascade of doubt, lies and
animosity that slams you into the
ground so hard the Devil thinks
you're knocking on his door.

To me it's the signal that I've
overstayed my welcome and if I want
any chance to spare myself from misery
I should just jump ship and take
my chances with the sharks below.

I'd rather be ripped to shreds by
ravenous beasts than get fooled into
thinking I truly matter to her.

The sound of her sweet sincerity
is drowned out by the echoing sentiments
of her predecessors, forever ringing
in my ears like a constant reminder
that all you have in this world
is your ***** and your word and
she has neither.

But the joke's on her this time.

I've found my way out.

Because I love her too.

Celluloid cells of candid smile fun
printed in race track, river-run stems,
the 120 down to the 35mm
fold it over to form the hem.

You can be my New York
that never sleeps
or that Venice Beach
with bright, chiselled high cheeks
or
the more probable
lesbian lover I’ll never get to meet;

meet properly for a drink.

I'm going home,
leaving the pack unknown and unsafe
and my eyes strafe, swoon and sigh at the holy display
of the pure 9-to-5,
walking away from her place of pay,  
to go home like me tonight.

A swift above carries on home,
food for its young carried between teeth and tongue.
A family walk from the local school,
with song being sung from the cooler two of the sons.
A car reverses nearly knocking and smudging the woman in blue;
a jacket atop a blouse, pristine shop-bought-new.

I remember her sunglasses.
I remember her eyes from behind her sunglasses.
I remember her staring me down through the lenses
melancholy and blue,
knowing that this was a passing
break-through affair.

your feet are falling apart again,
let me grab a new sole
for you, old soul,
sooth you down into your new low;
let me miss you and kiss you
in my head
because that’s what the books have led us to believe,
pity the painter who has to grieve.

you painted Death from the palette in your palm
as you looked up from your hospital bed calm
and delighted, but you’ve lost this fight tonight
darling.

She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.

Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.

Grey is not a colour, it is a state of being:
When arms cannot reach far enough
And cold is not dry enough;
When everything tightens around
But there is nothing left to hold you;
When you are left naked in the night alone
And the lights are dark as they pass you by
With a rhythmic hum that numbs you;
When sleep is all around but you cannot find it within.
Cold air blows in your face from nowhere
But it means nothing.
You stop somewhere to have a smoke
And can't be bothered to light it
Because you can't remember why you should.
Somewhere you think there was a reason
But you do not know what it was
Because it is numb and there is nothing left to say.

Biscuits baking in the oven,
Rain pours down outside -
My head is full of internal noise;
It hurts, but I am not unhappy.
I have learned to ignore those things
which stand in the way of life.
The bass player up stairs is trying,
he practices his riffs
but does not form a song.
A cat sleeps on curtains that have fallen
and no one seems concerned.
I have no thoughts, just feelings
ill formed and unclear yet there.
Stuffed with things I did not choose,
The smell of biscuits bring me back.
They are my anchor to here and now.

She looks like springtime
Fresh and new
She walks like the rain
Her breath is dew
Her voice is moonlight
On the sea
With sunlight's warmth
She touches me

Is she a dream
This lady fair
As soft as mist
As sweet as air
Or is she real
And will she stay
To help me chase
The gloom away

She is a song
In harmony
With the one
Sung within me
Just as the moon
Will move the tide
So with her mind
Does my heart ride

I want to scream until I reach absolute silence
I want to ruin everything with such violence
I want to cut these locks
I want to shed this skin
I want to bleed cold blood,
want to breathe destruction in.

I want my cynicism to rot
I want to be granted rebirth.
I want to see the sun, for once
I want to see my worth.

I want to feel alive
Want to feel reality.

I'm ready to be human
I've accepted mortality.

*-lf-