I'm allergic to dust,
And I think there's something metophorically significant about that, because if you think about dust it's really just human rust.
And I'm okay with being allergic to rust.
Because the only cure for being allergic to human rust, is to sit down with someone and agree that everything seems okay to you.
That we don't need to change.
**** that.
Because if we were really on the right path than maybe we wouldn't continue to be the targets of our own wrath after all the polar ice caps have been knocking on our door for a while now,
Just asking if we'd turn the heat down.
See we're rusting because there's never in history been this much self destruction and it's getting disgusting.
I'm sorry, to everyone who comes after us because although it's not too late it will be.
Even as I write this we can still fight this but not for too much longer.
Quit living in the bubble they've put you in and stretch your gaze a little bit farther than the media maze and realize all of those people who aren't are real, or will be.
And with your own two hands you can build something better for them from your comparatively fortunate circumstance.

Well, what a week, full of revelation
Enough to stir this talk of revolution
Makes your hackles turn on end
Then send you round the bend
The southern gentry have found oil
Right beneath their derriere boil
Now most of us on this golden isle
Need not worry about this pile
Those who wear weekend country tweed,
Built their fortunes from housing greed
Have already decided
That it will be one sided
They’ll say it’s theirs, by rights
And if we argue, will read our last rites
The South will declare independence
In certainty of their full ascendance
Over the outer reaches of this nation
They pounded into servitude, by taxation
And if we have the nerve to debate, I’ll be bound
They’ll leave it horded in the ground,
Then blame the anti frackin’ hound
Now I may need a political re - education
In a 1984 establishment for rehabilitation
But I can see it coming a five-nation island
Southland, Wales, Scotland, N. Ireland,

And the Detritus

There, amongst the northern skies,
Tears driven by ghostly squalls to
Fall on the blackened, bleak rooftops
Of this northern town, forgotten.
Left to a grey Victorian rot
Decaying factory ceilings collapsing on,
Litter strewn floors, newspapers decompose
With triumphs from yester year
Industrial dust stained brickwork
Grimy reminder, of the grim past
Haunted dim gaslight probing the fog
Days, nights only separated by murky light
A ghostly silence, hangs like a grimy fog
Cloaking lost sounds of dull beating on metal,
Boots tramping over cobbled stones,
The sounds of clocking on, clocking off, no more

I envy the girls with small hands and small feet
Long hair and everything petite
I have large hands and large feet
Short hair and everything big about me
Some girls envy my height
Some girls envy my large hands cause they're good in a fight
I'm a writer, not a fighter
I'm not in a padded ring
I'm walking my way down blue lines of offering
The offering that takes me
It takes my writer's blood as offering
And it's never ending
I'm thankful for the pages that hold me
They're the reason I'm staying together
They are the reason I haven't fully fell a part yet

*And the ropes are slowly thinning away into nothing

Do you fear the night,
And not the rain?
Do you fear the flesh,
And not the pain?

You're not human,
Clattering like chattering teeth,
It's not you and I,
But I and it
When you're around.

What's the spell
To the faith?
What's the candle
To the wraith?

Don't fear the dark, my dear
For I am near
And you and it
Can't stand my leer.

When I was five I learnt that wide eyes weren't wise eyes

When I was seven I learnt that tears are just wasted water

When I was nine I learnt that love is as dead as life

When I was eleven I learnt that rings can be broken

When I was thirteen I learnt that friends can only speak for themselves

When I was fifteen I learnt that death is a holiday

When I was seventeen I learnt that people can be used like tools

Now I'm 19 I realise that nobody is alive like you.

It's easy to leave dead things behind.

All these odd numbers find me loving them, out of empathy, not patterns.

But the sun shines through.

When I was four I learnt that there is no warmth like two arms around you

When I was six I learnt that laughter is mighter than the lie

When I was eight I learnt that it's easy to ignore what hurts you

When I was ten I learnt that everyone wants to smile

When I was twelve I learnt that my solitude was strength

When I was fourteen I learnt that we all will forgive

When I was sixteen I learnt the flush of lipkissed smiles

When I was eighteen I learnt that scars give words more truth
And the dawn came

The sun is beautiful