One day, I swear, you will regret this
She said in a contemptuous snarl,
Gnawing at my ego with a ******* zeal,
Clawing at my love-drunk smile.

One day, I smiled, drink in hand,
At the feral beast whom ravaged my smile,
For now its tame, and strives to play,
In the garden with my wife and child.

I do not regret a thing.

I flick my cigarette into the fuel,

Awe-struck as its embers glow --

Its pyrophilic fireflies occupy the darkness.

And summon from my chasmal abyss --

An inferno of  icy, cold-hearted abuse --*

And scorch you who have yet to hurt me.

But,  when you leave,

My tears will quell the flames --

For in truth, I only burnt this bridge,

*In the hope you would swim back to me.

When I gave you my heart in Pandora's box,*
locked and sealed, and safe from me,
You did not taint nor break my heart,
You simply lost the key--

*It is there where all my hatred starts...

.                                  Even if I compressed galaxies
                             Into a nebulous ink of stardust dew,
                             It would fail to, with words, describe,
                                  The beauty that's contained
                                                  In You.

I know that you look up to me;
For one, because I'm six feet tall,
But I think that I have done my best,
To keep you safe -- away from all,
The little things that ****** me up.

For you are young: with scathing tongue,
Opinions you cannot express,
A lack of words,
And fear of hurt,
And are yet to fully comprehend
The singing of your encaged thoughts.

But listen to me little sister,
I cannot be your wall forever,
For, one day, you will draw your sword
And embark upon your own endeavour,
To quell the beasts that hide within.

You will only ever need these words,
And the gumption to unleash their rage,
To part the seas of social norms,
To dispute the words on any page,
But I warn you; they bring trouble.

For one day, little sister, I
Will lie a living corpse in bed,
Encroached upon by inner beasts,
Of longing, love and loneliness,
But I assure you, you are safe.

For I was one who did not speak --
Until the world was tucked in bed;
So when the world lends you its ear,
Discard the lines that they want read --
And tell them what your brother said:

*******.

If I had to give my son advice,
To, on his little life, shed light:
I'd say don't do drugs, and if you do.
Do Class C in the mornings,
And Class A's at night.
If you're gonna do it, do it right.

If I had to give my son advice,
To save his little heart from pain:
I'd say never love at a distance;
Your heart will succumb to a lonely bind.
For words, are far too nervous,
and probably won't get there on time.

If I had to give my son advice,
So his smile remains a genuine jewel,
I'd say be sure to marry a writer.
Smile as much as you possibly can,
And if they feel it worth defending
They will rewrite, and edit out your problems,
And give you a happy ending.

Here lies my eighteenth birthday,
The days we've kissed, and said goodbye

And all the laughs and heart to hearts,
Our extinguished tears and fiery eyes,

And all our childish fantasies,
Dog breeds, houses, children's names,

And the blackened fragments of our lungs --
From which we laughed and gayly sung --

Now rest peacefully in the ashtray.

A writer asked me long ago,
For advice on getting better.
He runs through his works with a fine-tooth comb,
Sculpting each and every letter.

I said,firstly sheath your fine-tooth comb,
For blood-lust it will only bring,
And undress your cliche armour sir,
For it only numbs the sting.

And then I said, with cigarette lit,
Be not ashamed of all your vices,
You're allowed to care; and it's fine to swear --
It's allowed, if you can write it.

Don't do this **** for fortune,
For fame or to be credited,
And if you want advice on writing well --
Keep that **** unedited.

Wonderland has an alleyway you know,
said Alice to her grandson of three.
It's not all shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax,
unbirthdays and cups of tea.

Where the white rabbit is on time for once.
From South Africa he ran,
To be tried before the red queen -
for shooting Mary Ann.

It's where the buildings are not simply filled
with cakes and cups of tea;
They explode - not from happiness -
but planes and TNT.

Where we need not paint the roses red
nor support the white knights plight.
For recently he lost his head -
Now they're painting England white...

I met an artist yesterday,

sat in solitary silence,

In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.

And cloaked he was,

by babble of students,

Boasting of wealth and test results.



molested In the attire of a catholic school,

His cigarettes born from bible pages;

and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --

surrounded by empty glass apostles,

He paints the papers,

In a masterful stroke --

Of pointilistic precision --

In a viscous hash oil

That he had melted on a crucifix.



The artist drunk, and drunk

He drowned himself,

Deafened by his liver

Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --

It was a miracle that he could walk on it.



And began to rack

the coke he'd wrapped

in a losing lottery ticket --

In plain sight of those

'sophisticated' enough

To use a bathroom cubicle.

And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,

Through a rolled up scrap of paper --

A letter for an Oxford Interview

he could not afford to get to.

In the solace of his pillow,

In the darkness of the pillows case,

Seeps the dew of all -- and everything --

He'd sooner left unsaid.

He lays the damp side on it's back --

Baptised, and cleansed in stormy tears;

He finds the strength to raise his head,

And pretend theirs nothing else to fear.

But a storm is brewing up ahead...