Watching through an empty window,
He broke his pain on the tears that fell
From his face

Like glass, they hit the ground and shattered
And his groans went unheard by the people
Who passed outside

It was not normal, this obsession, he thought,
Pulling another cigarette from his case, and
Setting it alight.

He watched it burn: burn long and strong,
The ash gathered grey on the end of the smouldering stick
Then fell to join the water
On the floor.

Who am I, he thought again, what do I do?
There were no answers to these questions.
He was in this empty house, overlooking the lawns,
Breaking the dawn with a glass of whisky
And a bottle of wine.

There was nothing left for him here.

i haven't washed myself
in days

there's no point
because

it can't be washed away
anyway.

Two runners meet;
The lonesome path
On which they both do tread
Is shadowed by the maple trees
Which guide them in their stead.

my drama teacher told me when i was fifteen
you say ‘you’ when you mean ‘i’ if you know what i mean
she was right, she was right
what she said wasn’t a lie
she said stand up on the table
over there and close your eyes
and lean back, lean back
into their waiting hands
just do it, just do it girl, you’ve got to understand
this is life, this is drama, it’s a trust exercise
i refused, i refused to comply.

A Volkswagen sinks in tainted ink
The purple bunny’s been painted pink
The hare is teetering on the brink
Of broken limelight square.

He rings the thing; it starts to sing
A duckling, suckling ****, goes ping!
A nettle stings the bunny’s wing;
The duckling gets no share.

A shard apart that scarred the heart
Ripped out the one who passed the start
And darting past her cart, remarked
Upon her vacant stare.

A stare so vast that sticks and lasts;
She’s passed the post, she’s missed the mast,
What matters most: what’s passed is past,
Surrendered into air.

i like honey
it is nice
and sweet
it soothes my throat
keeps my voice
for singing.

it’s delicate and gentle
but thick and determined
it goes well with ginger
or lemon
or just hot water in a cup.

but the trouble with honey
is that it gets everywhere
i keep finding bits of it
when i pick things up or put things down

on the handle of the kettle
in the corner of the sink
under the cupboard door
- how the hell did it get there? -
behind the toaster.

i like honey
(and sweetness and light)
in moderation
but the trouble with honey
(and comfort and love)

is that when i have a lot of it
i start to hate it
see it as an infection
like maybe it’s not so sweet
after all.

i think really
that the trouble with honey
isn’t.

it’s the trouble with me.

The road is bare
The path is steep
The wood is thick and vast

The midnight air
Which haunts your sleep;
The moon is rising fast.

All through the night
Strange creatures dance
And cast in you their spell

In their dark light
You lie entranced
In woods you once knew well.

You visit her
You know she's wise,
You know she'll set you free.

And undeterred
Beneath her eyes
Regard: her pain you see.

She reaches out
Her hand takes yours
Her head turns to the north

From round about
Voices implore
They plead, they babble forth.

You're scared, and yet
You know her way
In harshness she is kind

You don't regret
The light of day
That you have left behind.

You join her in
Her secret place
She loves you, yet says no

You can't begin
You cannot trace
The path no man can go.

For in her den
Such secrets lie
That she just has to keep

For all such men
Who come to try
This river runs too deep.

And so she hides
Herself away
From you and from the world

Does not confide,
For there's no way
To own this gypsy girl.