It's raining and it's freezing
And the wind sounds like it's weeping
And I'm all alone here hearing it pour.

The trees are tired, the world is weary,
Even the black clouds sound a tad bit teary,
And if they didn't let it out they might explode.

And I'm curled up and my nails are bleeding,
Because a biter can never quit cold turkey,
And I'm cold and feeling fat and so alone.

And babe, I've got these thoughts spinning in my brain,
Like the hail and the rain on my window pane,
And I'm wondering what anyone thinks that I'm around for.

And I'm talking to your friend, who's a sympathetic ear,
And I tell him I'm not sure what's going on around here,
And I'm confused and doubting what I mean to you.

If you love me, shut up and show me,
Knowing my family doesn't mean you know me,
And it's raining in this town tonight,

And in my room, and in my heart a little bit,
And I sit here alone watching Frozen while it pours
And the tears not shed feel solid and I
Feel
Cold.

Sometimes he let his eyes rest on hers, it needn't have been painful,
but it strangely was.
He broke a lifetime of avoiding eye contact to show her.
She was worth overcoming obstacles for.

Beams of heat burned through your tights
so the sun blushed your legs. No guard
under your dress, striped navy and white.
You were sat on the hill, like a postcard

of the countryside. That day,
you plucked the stem, the longest one.
Then tossed the flower away,
like Miss Polly’s dolly. Nearly done,

you finished the chain. Pick, tear,
snap them out the grass.
Your hippy-self, wore it in your hair.
“Why not?” Those few weeks were our last.

You left it, dried, brittle, dead.
Remind yourself I’m here - wear it on your head.

I want you to remember
That to write
Is to express yourself,
The flicks on your n's
And the loops on your f's
Show me the inner workings of your mind.
When she sent that letter,
There should have been tears on the page,
You should have been able to see
The corners had been folded and torn,
And the paper was *****, crumpled,
And covered in coffee stains.
You couldn't see any of that, though,
Because she chose to send it to you
In the form of a small series of lights,
Accumulated on a screen
To mimic a cold,
Soulless version of herself.
Maybe it's because she didn't want you to know
What was actually going on.

pretty is so played out
so used
like a childhood toy
when youre in your 20s
its manipulative
and tired
pretty gets you places
like a strangers bed
or stuck in someones
head
pretty gets you
fooled
into thinking
thats the only thing
good about you

There is not much
I can provide you with
other than short poems
& flowers that wither

But when I see the sun rays
crash against the back of your head
carefully tracing your silhouette
I know I never want you to leave my bed

I used to take the back off
the telephone and stuff it with rags
and when somebody knocked
I wouldn't answer and if they persisted
I'd tell them in terms ******
to vanish.

just another old crank
with wings of gold
flabby white belly
plus
eyes to knock out
the sun.

Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.

The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

YOU WILL NOT FALL IN LOVE IN A HOSPITAL, YOUR SKIN WILL SMELL LIKE THE DYING AND YOUR LIPS WILL CRACK AND YOU WILL NOT FIND BEAUTY

I USED TO THINK I WOULD FIND SOLACE IN THOSE SANITIZED WHITE HALLS BUT ALL I EVER FOUND WAS MY OWN EMPTY EYES STARING BACK AT ME FROM THE UNBREAKABLE SUICIDE-PROOF MIRROR AND THERE WAS NO COMFORT IN MY BRUISED TENDER FACE

HOSPITALS ARE NO PLACE FOR YOUNG GIRLS WHO HAVE NOT YET TURNED AWAY FROM LIFE AND THEY ARE NO PLACE FOR KISSING YET YOU READ ABOUT MOUTHS FINDING EACHOTHER IN THE DARKEST HOUR AND YOU THINK OF CEMENT HOSPITAL WALLS; THERE IS NO DARKNESS IN HOSPITALS, JUST PURPLE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS THAT MAKE YOU LOOK SO PALE YOU MIGHT JUST REALIZE THE IMMINENCE OF YOUR OWN DEATH.

YOU WILL NOT FALL IN LOVE IN A HOSPITAL.