Against the backdrop
of whirring pub slot
machines, England woke
to a transforming
conversation (which,
despite its clearness
and such terrible
consequences, has
never aroused The
National Interest).

It was between a
drunk, riled father and
his daughter. She, as
calm as water, asked
for some change to buy
stationery for
the upcoming back-
-to-school period.
But the family
didn’t fuckin’ have
enoof’ money to
buy such expensive
shit, or so slurred the
former through his third
pint before noon. She
should be more bloody
grateful, he muttered,
sipping on through his
daughter’s cries. ‘Cos the
only thing he’d been
given by his Dad
was a clip ‘round t’ear.

Nevertheless, Sir,
one dares to humbly
wonder what she might
have composed with that
two pounds ninety nine
fountain pen that still
hangs, new and somewhat
dusty–but surely
not unwanted–in
perhaps she’d have been
the West Midlands’s own
Dickinson, or a
new Dorothy Day.
Would she have favoured
black ink, or blue ink?

Instead, she’ll spend the
rest of her life in
a smelly council
flat, smacking three kids
with one hand, swiping
an iPhone with the
other, ignoring
the surrounding walls,
unpainted, the smells
of neglect wrestling
with the Chanel scent
around her neck, and
chomping McDonald’s
in front of a screen,
sat in such a debt
she’ll never climb out.

Misery is a
vast river of tears
and beer, not ink, which
flows unnoticed through
generations in
the rumpled heart of
our country. One day
this lovely girl shall
have her own kids with
that same, annoying
yet to be trampled
upon by monstrous
adults. And I want
to believe that she’d
see the importance
of this chat, maybe
remember the hurt,
and say Yes–maybe
even encourage
her–but I’m crying
too now, so I’d just
take a little yes.

Tired in the bitter cold
with a million reasons
to be miserable,

a disabled boy smiles
at me and the world
and my mind is silent.

Wanderlust Nov 28

Love will never leave.
I’m trying to forget it,
But nothing will work

Can't fight the tears that aren't welling

Can't wallow in the past and keep dwelling

Maybe you'll find time, to wallow in rhyme

Cause Misery's the poetry I'm sellin

Tis the season to be jolly -  or is it?
Small Turtle Dec 1

It's good to be home
But what exactly is home?
Just a building?
                             Or is it love that makes it home?
Have I become homeless while having a house?
I always felt that my home was between her two arms
So fragile yet strong
I could crush them, yet she was the strong one
Now with all my love gone
I live in a homeless house
While neverending battle between death and life is fought in my weak head
Walls once filled with her paintings
are now screaming with emptiness
I walk through corridor, I see memories
Times when we were dancing, laughing, kissing
Planing our kids, our future, our life
How can I live with you gone, my love?

I wouldn't call it a poem, it's just a screaming of my heart, not too pretty yet filled with strong feelings

I found myself in Putney
after many stupid years.
It was a worthless day
before spring comes with all its biting powers.
There was nothing there in Putney
but that February hearse
and all the villainy of incredible memory
born out of pointless love and hope that blackmails.
There was traffic there, that endless vicious fume
of noise; and litter blowing pointlessly;
savage parents; hard and worried kids;
the thundering mess of London all around;
a hop of sparrows on that pointless ground.
I found myself in Putney
where I lost myself so many stupid years ago,
and by that withered house a withered love arose.
“Ah, love,” I whispered, “why have you arisen?”
“You acknowledge me?” she said.
“Of course,” I answered.
“Put your arm across my breast,” she said.
“Touch my still hair. Weep plentifully.
“Let your poor heart break. Strike here across my cheek
“To know what you have lost.”
“My love,” I whispered, “why have you arisen?”
(From the withered house the years were toppling.)
“Stupid questions from a stupid man.
“You loved me and you lost me.”
Then the roar of London hurt my head.
I saw a man go down a street
Where no street was, where no man was.

Penultimate in the collection after I had lost Kathy. I went to Putney and hallucinated without drugs except the drug of terrible pain...I had lost Katharine forever!
Small Turtle Nov 30

Old stronghold is burning down like dry lone flower
Making all gods disappear
Nothing in this world can make them come back
as fairy kingdom doesn't exist anymore
Dread and misery melt together
Spreading throughout the world
while lone flower's still burning
Everything has its end
Life. Love. Happiness. Sadness.
It's getting darker than ever
No light's left in this world
Nobody will ever forgive us
We'll forever stay humanless souls

Nathan A Nov 30

Her haunting presence lingers
Ethereal energy surrounds my tormented soul
Why can't she leave me alone
She follows me
I see her in everything
She's sadistic
Feeds on my misery


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