My first love was real love —
absolute, pure bliss.
An innocent lie,
but what good love story isn't?

My second love was lust —
passionate, destructive lust.
A hedonistic trip,
but what great love story isn't?

My third love was safe —
conventional, traditional safety.
A step back for feminism,
but what ****** love story is not?

for all the turbulence i sought
and sought
i was pretty good
i was so good

i battled through all the chaos
my kite was finally flying

but i snorted so much ritalin
my pupils are tar pits
and she calls me a hedonist but
i don't know what that means

i do know that
i fear neither death
nor consequence
you can treat me like your last meal
always at my most decadent

i remember i need to eat
then delete the thought
the only thing that sustains me is the rushing

by now
you should know that

it's all about me
we did the maths remember?

As a young man in love,
I was selfish.
I walked with you,
I shared food,
I slept with you,
It was my insatiable thirst;
Desire, and
I needed to gulp it,
At any cost,
For survival.
Perhaps you felt likewise.
I didn't know.

Now, being older,
That
Which I do
Out of love,
I do for you.

Your lips are spun with gold, they touch me in the softest spot, I cannot speak, you thread me in your love.

My eyes are filled with tears, I cannot breathe, your face is light, the heavenly will scream to me, they miss you dear.

For every angel falls, it loses hope, it gains the world, and gods will pine away, they miss your scented skin.

And every man will crave the silver touch, the kind of silk between your thighs, you taste like home.

Heart inside my throat, I swallow hard, my mind is caught within the web, within the strands of shinning hair.

Choke me ‘till I die, I’m just like them, a climb to heaven, drop to hell, my angel I must go and leave you in the dust.

For man can become god, can climb the sky, can stand in stars, the moon his platter, sun you birth me in your perfect light.

Angel you have fallen, I have climbed, for heavens replace purity, they see the world as balanced in thine eyes.

In all my lives I live with you, I stand by you, I reach towards gods yet stood beside you in the past.

But now I see, the sky is clear, my path is here, a ladder of the galaxies, a chance to triumph, door to futures, key to worlds.

Man will fight and man will build, create a legacy, yes, rip apart the cry of femininity, he takes and builds his walls.

And I am he who sees his chance, who cries at last, my love, my angel, fragrant as you are, I leave your love behind.

I walk away, I climb the sky, I kiss your hair, your eyes, and see within your tears a world of emptiness and pain, but I am god.

What was it about omnipresence that appealed to me

so much that I destroyed myself -

one mountain at a time, one boundary at a time -

until the alarms stopped going off at breaches?

The magpies don't sing when they're sad, so what am I

when I laugh at myself for crying?

Who am I looking for when my pillows waft voiceless lullabies

from a bed half-empty? (half yours, half mine,

and I don't know which one's missing.)

What was it about hedonism that disgusted me

so much that my body rejected kindness -

every peace offering, every affectionate touch -

until it could no longer hold itself together?

Metaphors, like escaped prisoners, running for a life anywhere that isn't here,

anywhere that isn't me,

and I fold and break into myself

in muted, nondescript implosions.

In this town, the tower blocks stand above the clouds,
the street lights illuminate the granite pathways,
as you walk, you will kick a package of cigarettes
depicting a very sick woman -
they sell them in the corner shops.

In this town, I have seen the worst mind’s of my generation,
flourish in the un-fertile fields like
flowers that grow on a soil
of cigarette ends and syringes
chewing gum, coffee cups, oranges.
Condoms, crisp packets, needles,
Rare paintings that hang on the walls of the mind,
torn down by the authorities,
painted over with white.
Lost in a sea of machinery.
And bright light’s.

In this town, in the gutter of the pavements,
vile creatures will reach out there shaking hands.
Varicose veins, blackened nails, drooling mouths,
and beady wanting eyes begging you for pennies.
Dismissed by city boys suicidal from the stress.
Some look a mess, some feel a mess.
It’s all the same, the endless city strain.
In this town, when your eyes look up,
you see the birds flying in pain,
from these ******* factories filling
the air with smoke killing
the natural ecstasy of the sky,
and they fall from the sky and die.

And they wonder why kids
reach for the knives and the guns.
Wonder why they cut their arms.
Smoke and smoke and smoke to feel calm.
Wonder why they hang from structures.
Wonder why they paint obscenities on the walls of schools.
Wonder why they drawl
at the site of death
when it follows them everywhere
from podium’s in the wealthy churches.
To the cemetery gates,
To the news broadcasts.

Wonder why they disappear for weekends
Somewhere lost in a city of escapism
Wonder why they howl fowl verse
Strums on guitars,
hit at the drums.
Wonder why they linger in dark alleys. And dead ends.
With money, clutched by shaking fingers, seeking amends.

In this town, you wake to the marching boots;
The sound of the army that walk the city streets
In a uniform of suits, and guns in the shape of suitcases
All with similar faces, similar hats,
You will wake to the scream of the birds & the cats,
The scream of babies
The scream of love
They scream of could be, should be, would be and maybe’s
The hope.



Suffocated by the marching armies
By the dictators
that are the tower’s, the factories, the school’s
  that stand above the clouds,
   in these towns.