She is drinking free coffee
I am sitting across from her
Giggling I can get used to this
I feel so free. The sky is half dark
Walking across the street
I imagine the brush of a hand
But no, she’s taken. Life does these things.
At least she swings my way
From time to time, a lot of people don’t.
I am whispering to myself
I can get used to this. Her arm
Resting by her side is tempting mine
And I am whispering I can get used to this
Crossing the road leaving her behind
The faint smell of coffee
Imagined on her breath even though
She’s taken floating away
I am crossing the road
I can get used to this.

*******
*******
******* IDIOT
****
I must be silent
I must be silent
****
I am not silent
****
I must
****
I must be
Be silent
For to be
To be silent
****
To be silent
Is to be
To be wise
Wise
****
Must be
Wise ****
Wise I must be wise
And therefore be silent
I have eaten fast food
I am guilty
I must repent
I must I must I must be
Silent

The last time we spoke you told me
That you were reading a book called
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING
and you also told me that you missed
Digging your fingers into my bedsheets
Or the naked skin of my back

And I remembered this today in the bookshop
When staring at me from the shelf was
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING
in my right hand was selected poetry
By a filthy man called THE PLEASURES OF
THE ****** and I thought **** me
I haven’t thought of you in a while

Perhaps as a fleeting mention
Or the **** of a joke but Christ
Here I am thinking of you sitting on your bed
In the evenings, having come home
From studying books all day like
A smart ****** sitting on your bed and reading
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING

So I picked up a copy to go with
My Bukowski and walked to the counter
In a sombre mood, because I’d thought of you
The last thing you ever bought me
Was Bukowski, you bought me
LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL and I read it
During my last stay in your arms
Cradling caressing and ******* like lovers

I walked out the bookshop
With two new books and a feeling
You get when you recall a fleeting memory
Coupled with **** me this is what happens
To my poetry when I read Charles Bukowski.
I wonder how you are, if you finished it
What did you think? And staring at
Text thrown up onto a screen I think
This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever written.

Half asleep murmuring your name
Imagined in the corners of my mind
Something terribly romantic and
Suddenly a thought comes to my head
Dreamer called an artist buying a drink
Somewhere ambiguous their head
Softly hurting mind harshly hurtling
Towards something unrecognisable
They put words on a page like a virtuoso
Never stopping word after word on
Love and lust and random ****
Hanging around in cafes with girls
And talking to them about art and themselves
And nothing much else because
That’s their subject and them saying
You should have more self love
To the guy and him not listening
He don’t care he don’t care.
I was half asleep murmuring your name
In the corners of my mind yesterday
And I stared at the mirror thinking of you
And repulsively I turned away because
There wasn’t an artist and you
Also were never there. Softly murmuring
I turn away, I am lurking in a coffeeshop
Alone, nothing terribly romantic
No, I murmur french in a Spanish way
Turn to you, and you look away.

When your lips touched my cheek
I was cold but you didn’t seem to care
And you carried on kissing me,
Caressing my face. Your breath
Stank of coffee and cigarettes.

Six months before this that stench
Was something romantic and meaningful.
The symbol of autumn walks in late afternoon
Those orange red and yellow tinted walks
With talk of poetry art me and you

All those clichéd things half remembered
As you try to kiss me. Please stop
Your hair looks blue darling, dearest, ****
Just stop please, I feel we’re through
You’re kissing me and I cannot see your eyes

Your eyes that on our autumn walks
Cut into my soul are now no longer present
I instinctively turn away, subtly insinuate
Please don’t kiss me darling, dearest, ****
The sky is blue and mellow, your hair is
Blue like the sea, or your music, or your soul.

Your flesh is the colour of flesh,
I once wanted your body but now
My face tilts away from your rough lips
And you ask are you ok? Are you ok?
And nothing really matters.

Let go. Walk.
You were there today.
There, in a cafe next to the river.
Go, walk, fall.

Let go.

She doesn’t understand the intensity of your love…
The intention behind finished coffee cups
You paid for.

She doesn’t understand the pain
She’s caused you in the way
She would not pick up her phone for days and days
After coffee.

Let go.
You will never see the gaze
Of her eyes again.

Happy days are over.
Your fault of course.

Coffees floating away…
Empty cups washed day after day…

Intensity of feeling thrown into space…
Deep talk descends into small talk
In a slow painful way

She doesn’t love you.
What a shame.

I was like that a while ago
Now I’m on a field reading a book
It’s a book of poems by Sylvia Plath
And the world looks terribly sad
On the horizon but here the grass is green.

Your face looks blue in this light
Words softly said… you’re wonderfully lyrical
When you’re sad. What a terrible thing to say
Suddenly exclaimed, a laugh, swift movement
And drag of a cigarette. You stare at me

And say: that’ll **** you you know
But you look so good when you do it
So does it matter really and I look at you
And laugh and feel alive for the first time
In years and years and whispering you say

Remember the time we had met
And you showed me the way you painted
So dreamlike, so expressionistic.
I stared into the canvas and was ******
Into your mind, you put me into a trance

As potent as the nicotine rush of a cigarette
Take a draw and I watch the smoke
Rise into the air and far away…
How much of this city’s air is tobacco
A quick query a weak laugh.

Golden hour and the green hills
Turn into sand dunes collapsing
In on themselves, things come and go
In that way, time passes in a blink of an eye
And suddenly there is a void.

Nothing remains unless you put it on a canvas.
My body tears itself apart every seven years
And one day I will stop with the blink of an eye
And I never would’ve been here. They’ll stay.
The sands of time may drag me away

The universe through my eyes
May implode and blink out
But regardless of what happens to me
They’ll stay. They’ll always stay.
Your eyes are drawn to a canvas

On which was painted dreams
A splash of red, figure shining gold
With grey above it being the smoke
From a half used cigarette.
Staring at it hours after it’s conception

You tell me it’s the best work
You’ve seen in a long time
And even though I can’t take compliments
I turn to you and say, name it for me.
You call it expression of sunlight.

Wind. Walk outside.
You went again today.
Wood. Familiar landscape.

Blue. You're infatuated by the colour
For some reason or other.
Sad really. Sometimes blue takes over

Your mind so much you can't sleep.
Not that you sleep anyway.
Hilarious really. Two in the morning.

Why are you this way nowadays?
Did something happen? Must have
Because that would explain it all.

Funny thing. How time slipped away
Feels like March slipped to May
Slipped to now. You're staring at a pen and

There's nothing else to do.
Why are you crying now?
Did something happen?

You've been so blue recently.
You're always so blue.
Why are you always blue?

Screaming
They do not hear this
Because they're too busy
Doing worthless ****
And pretending that they exist

For a moment you think
You ******* Elon Musk this is a simulation
And this is my realisation
Call me Nick Bostrom and my thought
Is Blood sweat and simulated tears
Because

I observe a figure walking down a street
And in my disorientation I stare at them
Unflinchingly and they stare back and laugh
Like they know me so I'm like what the ****
Who was that guy I'm so confused I swear

**** **** kick a brick that forms part of a wall
Ye Olde England see an Olde man screaming
Abandon hope! Sinner Jim Whitney
Call me Charles Mingus you are the Sinner Lady
And I play my saxophone for you

Sign this page and hand yourself to God
And through this holy book this ancient relic
I save you for you are a sinner
You Jim Whitney repent to rejoice in heaven
There you'll find Dante and Milton
Writing free verse poetry with Christ himself
Resurrected and now

Save the Children with Unicef
Or buy the Big Issue
Would you like a Burrito or a coffee
Or take this money which I loan thee
**** that I feel like you owe me
And I'll spit on your grave and tax your family
Call me Milton Friedman welcome to the economy

Or would you rather let it all go and find the Dharma
There's a Pure Land temple only a train journey away
Come I'll take you there find Abhidhamma
I know you're lost in this postmodern age

Sickness disorientation your mind so blurry
This disorientation the unfocused intensity
Feeling like you don't exist and everything is
So horribly sick and

Walking down a street in all your disorientation
And you're half dead half asleep half existent
Wanting a ******* coffee but you have no money
So you settle for an energy drink that tastes like ****

But you need the caffeine so you can't complain
And your miserable face and ridiculous gait
Is the elephant in the room you ******* good for nothing
******* and why are you even here
Pseudo intellectual half wit

Stop reading Camus you miserable ****
Start watching Love island like any normal
******* miserable person that lives
On this sceptered isle to paraphrase
Shakespeare and revel in your heritage

Aren't you proud to be British
No what is worse what is worse
To be British or to be human
Why am I associated with that flag
That flies on the tower of the house of God
That I observe as I squint my eyes

The Sun is hot but I am cold
I'm very cold so I wear a coat
And a passerby says what the ****
And the wall is my glue yes the wall is my glue

**** look they opened the coffee shop
I want a coffee this energy drink
Tastes like ****
So throw it away
Like life and

Laugh at the pathetic little joke
From a pseudo intellectual
Pseudo poetic poet that cannot write
About this ache they feel…

All this disorientation…
None of it interpretable.
And this poem is never-ending
Unless it just ends.

I was tired and seated next to the window.
Things passed away. Images of Albion.
Ironically I was approaching the Hawthorns
As I sat next to this window, half asleep.

In my right ear a melody played about
Some form of unrequited love.
I was hurting. She’d left recently.
And just like that I was in the jewellery quarter.

Things move so very quickly
Things come and go and never stay
Things are born and die and all we can do
Is watch and watch and watch and watch.

I was tired and sat next to the window
Feeling lost, half asleep and lonely.
In front of me, a woman read a self help book
And I wanted to scream to her

ITS NOT REAL, ITS NOT REAL.
THE ONLY THING THAT THING
HAS OR WILL GIVE YOU IS
A DEBT OF SEVEN NINTY NINE.

As I thought this,
I glimpsed someone pass through the aisle
A blonde in a beret, and she looked
Terribly sad. Like something had happened.

Suddenly, I was in the hawthorns
And she’d left the carriage.
I’ll never see her again.

Longing.

As I move over a grey road the feeling reveals itself,
I feel a tear form in my eye as I move further and further from home.
And as I move away from this happy place
A song is being sung, and you are it's lyrics.
The lyrics are your poetry, your love it's melody,
And your heartbeat is my home.

Longing.

Underneath a fruitful tree I dream of you,
Your gaze fixated on mine, always and forever…
You're singing a song about our beautiful home,
And you paint my hands onto a canvas,
A rich and detailed canvas,
It imitates my every imperfection, but you move past them…
You love me.

Longing.

While you can paint an imitation of me…
I am no painter, I cannot draw,
So here is our love in poetry.
My imitation is one of my heart,
An expression, an inherent truth.
Guide me to your soul, my Poppy,
There we'll stay. There we'll stay.

Longing.

Here in this dream land once again,
A field of poppies, I take you there,
Sometime in time future.
There we'll kiss, there we'll exist.
We'll be present. You'll be in my arms.

You were here before…
Searching for something,
Your hands fumbling from spine to spine
Inferno, Paradise Lost, Michelle Obama,
Bertolt Brecht. Glance to see a figure serving coffee,
You will amount to nothing. You or I?

Life is a series of disoriented imitations…
Strange noises slip from your throat,
Strange because… you see…
You're intelligible. Bertolt Brecht.
Something more absurdist… but no…
Sisyphus. Observe him push a boulder
Over and over… Sartre…  ****.

Why do you believe a reference
Reflects intelligence? Stupid boy,
You're a pseudo-intellectual.
Why rage against the standardisation
Of mediocrity if you yourself are
Mediocre. Why use enjambment on
Lines previous for convenience?
See the banal intolerance of your poetry?

You were here before,
Stroking spines… whatever that means…
This was about a feeling…
But even that is null.
Bertolt Brecht rots and laughs…
A small child picks fruit.

I


time end
beginning
past
good bad
was
now you see
say
this be nature

things inevitable
in the grand scheme
this be nature
so

call absurdity to
old man on side of street
who with sign calls god
god god god see

for god
say he

so he point
mouth and brain
say very
primitive you be
see
this be nature

this this
be nature
see?













II

remember
time was
two
were you
three i
recall
not
mind
disorientation
as grow old

there be
distant memory
be you kind to me
distant memory.
time be conceptual
conceptual be time.















III

feet press
shingle beach
cut through
soul
wherever

snap
like
in form of
imitation of heart

associate















IV

all this

                                                           ­                           drifting

            swimmer



     ­                                                                 ­                                  exist






                   ­                                boulder



take
                                                                ­                    all
                                         ­                                                                 ­                              
                  end all






               ****

remember
time was
two
were you
three i
recall
not
mind
disorientation
as grow old

there be
distant memory
be you kind to me
distant memory.
time be conceptual
conceptual be time.

time end
beginning
past
good bad
was
now you see
say
this be nature

things inevitable
in the grand scheme
this be nature
so

call absurdity to
old man on side of street
who with sign calls god
god god god see

for god
say he

so he point
mouth and brain
say very
primitive you be
see
this be nature

this this
be nature
see?

In your half remembered dreams
That you call memories that seemed
So strange and far away as we drift
Further and further from time, I was there.
And there we were, our tongues one
In a beautiful way. My mouth smelt of coffee.

There you are, sitting with your hand
Clasped by mine in the vast sky
Of our collective memory. Sitting there
Felt like such a significant moment...
The sort that occur once an eternity.
My subconscious implants a desire
To run with you through fields of poppies,

I pluck a single flower, place it in your hair.
And we kiss in these fields of old memory.
Collective memory. I exist within you.
Vice versa you say and we kiss, my breath
Still marked with the stench of coffee.
I mark your neck with a strong kiss.

I feel overbearing happiness in this field
Of our collective memory. And so a tear
(As it does) drops from my face.
And you wipe it away and kiss my cheek...
This vision implants itself in me.

In my half remembered dreams
That I call memories, they are pervaded
By the image of your face...
I pluck a poppy from it. An exchange of
I love you. Coffee shops and public
Displays of affection. That's right.
We share a long kiss.

The feel of the soft sand
On your feet replaced with pebbles.
Uncomfortable, probably therapeutic.
Read me poetry. Recite it from memory
If you like. I'll be your Juliet. Say it's
Our wedding night. That'd be laugh.

There's a town behind us.
Invisible hand. Economics.
It probably matters to some people
But I don't regard money, I'm a poet
Juliet. I look at the sea. I don't
Understand money. All Greek to me.

Socrates. Democracy. Will you ever
Slow down? Ever understand that
The grey sea is not a metaphor for
Your state of mind, it's a trick of the
Light. Calm down Romeo. You're
Not a poet. You're a wreck.

Kiss me Juliet. Whoever you may be.
Dance a slow dance, against pebbles
Instead of sand. I, your Romeo
Will write you a poem against
The grey sea, sky, state of mind.
It's a shame you're so far away.

Will I ever see your face?
You're so far away. Not
Across the sea. Behind
Me. Three hundred kilometres
Away. Makes me want to
Fall asleep. Fall asleep.

Send me a text Juliet.
Answer me. I'm looking
Out to sea. Good 4g.
Town behind me,
I'm not there.

I'm nowhere. Come to me.
End this sick ballad
Before I fall asleep.
Grey sea. All around me.
**** society. Don't let me
Fall asleep. I don't want to fall asleep.
Don't want to see you drift
Into sea like the old Juliets did.
Sick production. Sick. Sick.
The work of a Philistine. The kiss was forced,
Felt like his Juliet was in
Liverpool. Disgusting place
Until you were born Juliet.
Come to me. Recite poetry
By the sea. This is a sad
Ballad, so much self pity.
Let me be with you Juliet.
Let's run far away before
I fall asleep. Oh life without you,
Makes me want to fall asleep.

All irrelevant in the end,
Love, life, ******.
All there is, is the prospect
Of emptiness.

"I doubt I'll ever love again."
That's what I told her that night
When she showed me out of her
House after meaningless pleasure.

...

When we said goodbye,
You smiled falsely and quickly
Showed me out. I never understood
Why we were so unhappy that night.

When we ******, I felt mediocre.
I presume that you felt similar.
The posture of your body said it all,
You were acting. No genuine emotion.

When we kissed, I felt nothing.
You felt nothing. It was meaningless,
Pleasure without substance.
Ecstasy without catharsis.

When you ripped your dress off,
A moonlight sonata played
From an old radio. You stared.
I stared. I didn't see you at all.

We ran up the stairs,
Almost kissing,
Not quite. You turned
And smiled.

Your house was large,
Almost baroque in style,
Old, neat, precise.
Artificial beauty.

We got out of the car,
We felt a giddy excitement,
Lovers. Eager to
Share a thousand moments.

The journey was almost unbearable,
Longing looks into each others eyes.
Is this love? You said. And I kissed you.
Whispered confirmation. Smiled.

You walked out of the bar
Holding my hand, you called a taxi,
We'd drank too much. You wobbled.
Are you ok? I said. You nodded.

I saw you sitting alone.
I sat next to you. Asked to buy
You a drink. You agreed. You were beautiful.
We talked for a long while afterwards

I was lost in a crowd of people.
Almost suffocating in the reality
Of others. I looked around the room,
Searching for a similar reality.

You seem so sad when you laugh.
I still don't understand why.
I can see mourning in your dance,
When I catch a glimpse of your eye

You look at me in a state
Of desperate pleading
And your closed lips whisper
"Unwanted Euphoria" at every breath.

New order ask you how you feel
Over the speaker in the corner.
You want to answer but can't.
Mouth the words instead.

Adolescent night life
Is so false. You say
Outside. Smoking the **** end
Of a cigarette.

How does it feel to abandon old friends?
To love? To cry? Live a bittersweet lie.
Why did you love her that way?
What did she say

As you stared into her eyes
That night. A long long time
Ago. Did she smile in the way
Lovers do in hollywood?

When we talk you challenge me
In ways I never expected.
You reach into my soul
Like Princess Psyche.

I thought we were all young
And sadly dumb
In the modern age.
You tease. You anomaly.

And yet you still stare at me now
Dancing across the room to
The melancholy synth of new order,
Screaming unwanted euphoria.

Take me outside poet.
You say in unwanted bliss,
Make me draw a pretty picture,
Turn off Blue Monday.

The riverbank in July
Is always a pretty sight.
There's something about
The way the light
Dances with the water.

And there was an electricity
In the air. You could smell
It from two metres away.
Like a virus. I felt a tension
When you smiled.

And then you took your shirt off.
Still don't know why,
Maybe you just wanted
Your skin to feel the symphony
Of the electric sunlight.

That added more complexity
To the smile that crossed your lips.
Fine wine. Onions. Layers.
I had only known you for a week,
Maybe that added to it

When I saw your stomach,
My face dropped, the old
Electric stars in my eyes
Died. Replaced with
Unmissiable scars.

I wanted to say something.
Anything. Even if it was
An "always here"
Borderline cliche,
But at least you would know I cared.

I wanted to scream "**** IT!"
Why are we this way?
How can we allow souls
Like yours to go to that
Place? I felt an ache.

And there is an old
Cliche. That scratching
Scars onto a page
Makes the feeling of
Failure go away.

I finished and said **** it again.
I started at it for a while.
Your stomach filled with scars,
And I almost forgot
That electric smile.