The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.

Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.

If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:

Do you remember?

Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?

Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?

How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?

They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.

Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.

Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?

Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?

Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?

Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?

Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?

Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.

I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.

I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.

I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
To
This
Day.

But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.

In fact,

I thank you.

I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,

For it is proof that I am alive.

I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.

For what is light without darkness?

What is life without death, and love without loss?

So thank you.

I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,

But with gratitude.

Because even through tragedy

The heart survives.

Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.

The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!

The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.

So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.

A grey can under greyer skies
Who knew an inanimate object could cry
Huckey pucks and baseball bats dented
These miserable hurt feelings cemented
Deep inside something with barely a friend
A broken typewriter at its end
A radio that couldn't mend
Yet their love they still send
Even as the tires screech by weekly
Metal on metal screaming yet so weakly
As the object itself is garbage
Thrown across a forgotten bridge
A tin man broken
Over lost and loved tokens
They called it trash
But now his true heart's ash
Who knew an inanimate object could cry
A grey can under even greyer skies.

1
 
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
 
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
 
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled ******* the shore
 
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
 
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of  a brooding city
 
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your  head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
 
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond​
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
 
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
 
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and  later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness

NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.

Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.

Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.

I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.

Daisy Lowe‘s body positivity and refusal to bow to fashion industry pressures have cemented her place as one of Britain’s hottest exports.

From international catwalks to Pirelli calendars, the 27-year-old’s career in front of the camera has gone from strength to strength - all because she’s unapologetically herself.

To celebrate her latest endeavour - a partnership with lingerie brand Triumph UK - the model sat down with The Huffington Post UK to let us in on her secrets.

What does having a positive body image mean to you?

Being comfortable in your own skin, embracing all your flaws and accepting that you are who you are.

Being individual is a beautiful thing.

Where does your confidence come from?

It’s definitely something any person living in today’s society has to learn and grow up to achieve. I’m still working on it on a daily basis.

Everything that I put into my body makes a difference. How much I work out makes a difference. Surrounding myself with people I can laugh a lot with and around whom I can be 100% myself.

What advice would you give to those struggling with self-image?

Love the parts of you that you don’t enjoy so much and be kind to yourself - that’s something that I have to constantly remind myself to do. Go and do something that inspires you or makes you happy.

How do you banish self doubt on bad days?

Meditation and mindfulness helps. Having a check-in with yourself and trying really hard to be present.

We can look outside ourselves and think about what other people are doing, -especially with social media - but if you can try your best in the exact moment that’s all that matters, because that’s all that really exists.

What would you like to see change in the fashion industry?

There’s a lot more room for variation as far as models go - we should be promoting that all shapes, sizes and ethnicities are beautiful.

It would be lovely for plus size models not to be called ‘plus size’ - they’re being used for the same jobs. We’re all just models - wearing beautiful clothes that make people feel good about themselves and helping designers to sell their creations. I’d love to see more ‘in-between’ size models too.

How do you decide what to wear in the morning?

The darker and greyer the world is outside, the more I wear bright colours - as long as you’re sunny in yourself! I’m such a creature of comfort – I’m a huge fan of pulling on a pair of stretchy comfy jeans (Lowe swears by high-waisted styles by Paige, Frame and J Brand) and I love a bit of cashmere.

Jewellery wise, I always wear Crystal necklaces or chains by Loquet. I’m also a fan of a cute tea dress and ballet shoes. I love that Brigitte Bardot/Jane Birkin 60s/70s vibe mixed up with a bit of 90s grunge.

What are your favourite shopping spots?

Lark Vintage in Somerset is amazing, and in London I love Mairead Lewin Vintage. Those are top secret - I never usually tell anyone those.

Brand wise, I love James Perse, Cocoa Cashmere, Erdem, Simone Rocha and Ganni - I have a leather jacket from there I haven’t taken off for a year. I also have a troubling Saint Laurent addiction.

Talk me through your daily skincare routine.

I love the P50 W Lotion by Biologique Recherche, it’s done absolute wonders for my skin and makes it much more clear.

I also swear by the Crème de la Mer Genaissance de la Mer serum, moisturising soft cream and eye concentrate.

For my body, I use Aesop A Rose By Any Other Name cleanser and Balance Me for their luxurious moisturisers and body oils made with natural ingredients.

What are your makeup bag staples?

Tom Ford is a go-to. I use the Traceless Perfecting Foundation, which has SPF, and the concealing pen around my nose and eyes.

I like to keep my makeup really simple, so I’ll use the Laura Mercier Paint Wash liquid lip colour in petal pink on both my lips and cheeks.

For eyes, I swear by Tom Ford Waterproof Extreme Mascara and Kevin Aucoin eyelash curlers.

What’s the best tip you’ve picked up from a makeup artist?

My makeup artist would **** me if I ever slept in my makeup. Another great tip is to make sure you conceal around your nose. If your nose is red it makes your whole complexion look uneven.

Also, always apply lipstick all the way into the corners of your mouth to continue the line.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in the name of beauty?

When I was younger I used to make these weird DIY face masks with my friends. We made one with mashed banana, avocado, honey and peanut butter. Peanut butter on active teenage skin was not the best idea.

Any other beauty secrets you can let us in on?

My facialist Arezoo Kaviani is amazing. She’s a real healer at heart. She does a deep cleansing ****** with extraction and LED light therapy.

I also tried a collagen wave ****** recently, which was great.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ
The trees with magic. All the wood was still --

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth --
Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples
Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" --
I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled,
Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred
The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled
Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger!
And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.
His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.
And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly --
He swept his ****** in a rush of wings!
Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,
Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,
Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny,
He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon
Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini
They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips *******
A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted.

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,
From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster,
Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,
The music wailed unutterable disaster;
Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,
Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away
Upon one minor chord, and was resumed
In anguish; fell again to a low cry,
Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,
Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,
Hurling mad, broken legions down to die

Through everlasting hells -- The tears were salt
Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind
The fury of the player, all the trees
Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind,
Sweeping mad bows to music without fault,
Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune
Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust
Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim --
Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust --
Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim,
Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!

Just when you think
the road leads to nowhere
crops up the moss veiled house

its crumbling bricks make greyer
the sky with the hush of twilight
and you rue with melancholy
the night under its roof assigned for you

but the old man like a seasoned spider
lets you forget you're trapped for the night
to his web spun from timeworn earth
as you stare engrossed upon his face
outlined by glowworm sparks

he recounts it was all marshland
he grew into bowl of harvest
and how he was blessed with
the most beautiful woman on earth
then reaching the crescendo
his words thin into whispers
when he tells you his two poor eyes
were not enough to hold her beauty
so she putting a stone on her heart
spread wings on a night like this

the cornfield wilted
he wizened into an endless wait
with gracious death saving his bones
to lighten his heart to a stranger
who comes alone.

Walking along an
Autumn afternoon
in New York
where in New York
somewhere upstate
somewhere downstate
somewhere leaves fall
in front of where
I approach
but land as a crash
like a stray piece
from construction
high above.

An afternoon
where dreams
of new
where visions
of more
than just a few
begin to fade
to black
as the sun’s
signature upon my
eyes
recluses from
the greyer skies.

Now lost in New York
I attempt to recover
and sojourn forth
from where I had
been to somewhere
somewhere different
somewhere inspiring
somewhere that brings
out the best
of not just a few
but all the rest
who wish
who dream
who ignite
like fire
as the presence
of Autumn’s
dimming light
truly and finally
does expire.

~Miguel

i.

light in lazy pools
patches of shadow
like closing doors.

ii.

i float
like a ghost
open the sky
like a love letter.

iii.

a bird hovers,
shudders to
a sky that
unwraps its
dreams like
inky pools.

iv.

greyer than ghosts
that kiss for my
lips,
that trembling
of my heart
just for you.

Once, Curiosity was a beast in me.

writ in deep lines and stark highlights
it carved itself upon my face. telling a story in the curves and hills and valleys
of expression.

the passion for life not so much extinguished as a half faded memory
this is writ large too, in the bruise colored tired eyes of fatigue.
but it is not dead - never that.
it howls for the great hunt of life

curiosity, passion, ambition and love. still a beast in me.
tired, weathered,
greyer than ever before,
but a tired wolf can still bite.

I would trade a dollar fifty just to have a moments peace
And it may not seem much, but in truth, it's all I have
The winding of the clock on my wrist seems to never ever cease
And all my friends try to reassure me it's not that bad
But each ticking, talking second speaks to me in a impish voice
Waving goodbye as they jump out my window pane
Too much work, so much trouble, popping bubbles called my dreams
As the ticking, talking rings around my brain
So let's trade

There is nothing that comes free in this world of hollow shells
And the only thing more hollow are the victories
For as time rolls by the lines in my face become more evident
And my eyes squint as I try to look for grasses green
Every noise that enters my ear, every person who beckons me
Is a clamp upon my chest leading to a heart attack
So many things that I've done in the past and presently
That I find the hardest thing's not looking back
So here's my dollar fifty

I know you read, hear this, know this entire rhyme to be as true
As the blue we try to paint on greyer skies
I would beg you take my money now, because the clock is ticking down
With this poem alone at least half an hour's gone by
So I get on my knees and pray for one minute and thirteen seconds
To the one who outlasts space and all time
I would be lying if I said I didn't feel my age counting down the hours
So all I can do is pray for peace of mind
And offer my dollar fifty

Misty little corner
In a blue Room
Calls out to the mourner
Immersed in doom.

Grey furniture makes
Greyer memories
Faults, taunts and insipid
Fallacies.

Blue is the colour of the eye
It's inside is filled with a neon so fly.
The pink tree of life ******
Venus flytrap dissolves in juices.

The eye looks, the eye appalls.
The eye resigns, the eye dissolves.

The pink trap reopens again.
Lust curls into the corner in vain.
The misty blue corner like a white canvas,
Fills with all its colours again.

Pink is the monster,
Blue is the perpetrator,
Green is the debilitator.

And I, the wild colourless mind,
Sits by the wall and conjures this mishap.
All dreams are flies,
And I, the Venus flytrap.

From the softness of her wrist
Bleeds vibrant shades of red
But all she sees is black and white
A beating heart but dead
As tears cascade across her cheek
From kaleidoscopic eyes
Feels not but the paralysis
Sees only greyer skies
So blind to her own beauty
She breathes her final breath
Gone are the watercolours
Now shadowed by her death

Autumn frost seeps in through the cracks
In my bedroom window.
It follows the footprints left behind
By summer, still blooming
Vivid green and burning orange
On my fingertips.
I open my eyes again
But it's all just grey.
Grey.
Grey.
Grey rain and grey hands,
Grey fog dripping from my frozen throat.
Grey.
It's a depression that's cured
By the singing sun;
My skin hasn't seen the light
In decades. Blue broken skin
Burnt by ice and bruised
By the desperate hands of winter,
Trying to grasp me
With all of the gentle laughter
That comes with summer's warmth
And instead leaving thick, black
Marks upon my skin,
Marks which are fading to
Grey.
I held hands with the sun once,
Felt her power and grace,
Her hair swept across valleys
And wove itself with golden leaves
But now it's matted
And falling out at the roots.
Her skin is pale and thin
And she's plucking the eyes from her head
As my limbs are encapsulated in ice
And I'm greyer and greyer...
And I'm gone. All gone.

to do the maths
or tell the tale
Growing up in harbour city
Brown flats greyer clouds
Behind every
my family
Dad x nan for character
Mum for books x music
Freedom to be me
Long legs in the evening sun
Playing with the shades
on the pavement
Looking for the likes
the place to float
the moment to run
be less conscious
thoughtful insecure
Looking at the sun
turn your face towards
to avoid the shade
Blue sea greyer skies
Not to compare
Still and all to love
Steel x ships on a river
My river.

I miss you like a burning ache in the back of my mind
And a constant crushing weight on my chest
And every time I try to take a breath, it aches and I struggle to inhale
Knowing that I will never again breathe into your mouth
Even though "that's really ******* hot please do that again."
And I've used my inhaler 68 times since you started to disappear
I know because there is a small black dial on the side that counts how many puffs I have left
The number keeps creeping closer and closer to zero.
And I am struck with the need to see it hit zero and the fear of what will happen when it does.
Already I am turning greyer and greyer everyday
My eyes and hair dripping off the brown they've worn all my life
And I remember how you turned grey and then white and then suddenly you were gone
And I wonder if the same will happen to me
In reality, my inhaler is all I can grip to
Artificial air.
You stole the real air right out of my lungs when you left me on the cold ground that night.
And I remember that your hands disappeared first, shedding the light shade of white your body had recently adopted.
And I remember crying because my hands loved the way they felt wrapped in yours.
And days go by that feel like hours, the clock melting off the wall.
But with you 5pm was suddenly midnight in a matter of a few needy kisses and deep conversations.
And maybe that's why it hurts so bad.
"Because it was real"
Which is from the movie we saw
The night I first noticed your colors were dimming.

Tear the clothes
Rip off my skin
Had enough
Had enough

I see you looking at me
But not really just pretending
To avoid
Your heart is a black void
Empty.

Red hair, brown coat, blue jeans
All these colours and you're greyer
It seems
So real but not really.
Nope.

All the colour from my hair
Seems to fade away
The roots begin to show
Don't look back.

I hope the next redhead isn't as awful as you are.

Of all the stories we tell ourselves
late at night
before bed, before sleep
speaking solemnly into the dark
There were gales
the night you were born
the family folklore
unpacked, gently handled
exclaimed over again and again
every retelling a buff to bring out the shine-

Yes there are some stories we tell
and others we keep
the deep
hints and murmurs of
What Really Happened.
The indelicate hows and whys
of your sixteen year old self giving birth
on the bathroom floor.
There are more
than two sides to this tale.
More corners, more edges: a prism
reflecting light at any angle.
But all of this was your own making.

Those years were carefully picked over,
censored, books with whole chapters
black struck through.
No, these are not
the halcyon echoes of your childhood-
no gold topped milk, no
reading by the light in the hall.
No cast iron, no Christmas mornings.
No hedgerows, no collecting the hens at dusk.

These are the bitter pips,
the hanging nails and paper cuts.
The inedible core of the matter:
What was said to you was said.
What was done to you was done.

And you
you were always too clever by half
for the skimmed, six-of-one versions
of events,
played out like lazy Sunday morning television.
The truth
is always smaller
and greyer than we imagine. We think
of memories as ribbons tying the past together,
but for you
they are stones filling up your pockets
and every year
the river runs a little higher.

Years have run and passed too fast
holding on to anything to last
the long-livity of our friendship
with adoration and loyalty in our relationship

But then you realise the time has come
where you keep living missing the sun
the days get colder and greyer
making you feel like a sad player

You're holding on to a lost cause
but in your heart you need a pause
from all the sadness and hurting
as you can't handle the burning

No more energy to face the madness
when the heart's filled with so much sadness
my love will never die
but it's time to let it fly
and eventually
one day it will come back to me

Mornings with you
Are sad mornings too
They’re the saddest hellos
And the bestest goodbyes
They’re the greyer mellows
And the forsaken sighs
All fill the air with hardened conversations;
With lines of monotonous emotions
And gasps of bored, strained laughter
So regret comes thereafter
This remorse is not for the hidden indifference
But for spewing lackluster exuberance
(fake, all is fake)
Such a waste
It goes on and on with distaste
Neither one willing to shed the mask
Making this a pretender’s task
This masquerade will carry on
Spiraling us into decadence
The chance of us seems forlorn
I might never ever get to say “Good riddance!”

There are days where we meet up
To walk under cool crisp skies
Made up of indigoes, lilacs and light crimsons
Sunnier afternoons. Skimming to and fro
The slates of English Street. The plains of Sprucefield
Sprawling in front of us. Boulevards of Cookstown
That stretch far and wide, skirted with shops
Owned by unloved mannequins. We journey further
In our red Nissan Silvia, with the roll-down windows
With a pile of yellowed copies of the Beano in the back.
Mine, of course. I like to read. You taught me to.
Blur upon blur, we share whispers with each other
The alphabet, songs. I can count to ten, on my own. I did it once
In Marks & Spencer. Everyone was proud.
Taking our bag of tricks with us, we sup from place to place
Chicken nugget Happy Meals. Crumbs of a german biscuit.
Half of a sausage roll at the Trian. Twilight falls, the blurs
Become darker, curiouser. Soon I am home. The day is done.

There are other days where we meet up
Under a slightly greyer tinge. I laugh
I can’t change that, I tell you. The weather sometimes.
Less skimming, less journeying. Sometimes I’ll say
Remember that red Silvia? All the places we used to go?
But there’s no answer. The whispers have gone.

As time goes by
We grow older, wiser
Greyer
Learning from mistakes past
Time never slowing
Clock always turning
Seasons ever changing
I think of my life
Have I lived up to my potential
Accomplished all I wanted
I have not
There has been no love of my life
This lonely life i've lived
Let down so many times
Was blessed to have kids
A pain in my side
Although I wouldn't change it for the world
Had fun at times, I did
But to no avail
Is there still time to change this life I live
Only time will tell

greyer than the day
than the clouds that hung
like dung
on a horse
that cannot run

greyer than his hair
what’s left of it
up there
even greyer than the news
and that’s grey as
donkey’s hooves

2 years ago
i was sitting on an old, ***** love seat
in a musky garage
that belonged to your mother
taking hit after hit
from a pipe made of tin foil
holding hands with you
on that love seat that had me
laughing 'till i didn't know
if i actually existed
and other times, it had me
wishing i didn't exist at all
but that first time you
pressed your lips softly into mine
it didn't feel like a kiss at all,
but more like a trigger being pulled.
for the last 2 years,
i have been stuck on that love seat
not knowing how to exist
in any other way besides
trying to find you on it but
you left a long time ago
and i don't know if i've finally
found my way home
or if i am just disappearing
as the months pass and i
forget more and more what
it felt like to have bullets
for a tongue, sitting next to you
on that old, ***** love seat

and what's worse is that
i couldn't go back if i wanted
and it may be that my life
is getting duller and greyer
every second that i
am forgetting how
to miss you.

A large rectangular marble

table, networking veins

of greyer and greyer areas.

Coursing through a concessional

white, interspersed by dappled

glimmers of light fixtures above.

The cafe's window showcasing

a slushier version of said table,

an oddly persistent optical illusion

of non ****** snow.

The skies were never greyer
Than Macy Heighs’ midnight craze,
That brought the monsters to her bed.
That called to her from forests black
And screamed when she turned her back.

She never could escape that darkness,
It followed her long
Into the blue mist. She ran from it there
But it found her once more.
And she never did miss
A single moment of that thick blur.

That fog, it entrapped her
It engulfed her soul.
And broke down her will
And didn’t stop until it won.
She could not stop it, it overtook
Everything that was ever good.

the river longs for the sea,
stars like blue arcs,
ghostly voices
hum on the breeze,
the flowers of
the night
blossom in the starlight,
the air seems to soften
and clouds drift and drift,
puddles of grey inks with
even greyer moods.

i.

thoughts of brother-

     a panther
half biting your arm
while you sleep.

ii.

     deliberate man, your father.
his early morning, his garden of bookmarks.
smoke from the ash tray, from the picture
     of him on the tractor.

iii.

on the news, they are talking to your mother.
she tells them her son
your brother

walked into a crowd
once before
but did not
explode.

iv.

she looks good on camera.

     greyer.

Ripped, torn. My trust was yours and you slashed it apart.

Bleeding, unborn, broken, I wandered in sea of lost

Colors, never. They faded like black blood.

Greyer days i’d never seen, like grey and silken mud.

Sunken, food was never tasted, so I rejected it.

Skinny, crude, lazy, Wallowing in pain
of loosing
you.

My future was a pinprick of light and a hell hole of darkness between me and ending.

But in the darkest place of my longest night. When my bones showed through this endless fight.

I lit a flame and color formed. I burned my shame and cut the chord.

I sent you love and felt more whole. Not healed not better, but for my soul,

It meant something.
And now i see, i planted a seed but not a tree…

But now so long now has time come through.

The light is bright and colored too!

The glowing gold of sun and sky shine through the green of leaves that i,

cultivated and let be fed, with glories of this world, undead…

Reborn and breathing in the sight. Of all the beauties, and all the right….

My wounds i stiched with a single thread, a needle *****, but no blood bled.

The glowing hues of days to lead, began to water and warm my seed.

Now every ******* day it grows.
Even the nights, a blue black rose.
And my love is back.
The world wants me,
and the odds are stacked.

I’m here you see!

existing, thriving, held, a dove.

My branches lifting, flying, above.

I see you now, not far away.

Living on as we do every day.

I love you still, but not like before.
I can see your body and not need more.

Because i light the fire inside myself.

I don’t need another to put me on a shelf.

I am whole as I am, in breaking and birth.

This tree that is me will increase in girth.

And the colors get brighter, because the heart is sewed tight.

My tree exhales wonder,
rainbows in sight.

Where is my life headed?
To a greener field or a greyer dread?
What are driving my thoughts?
A killer behind or a murderous rage ahead?

Is my desire for peace a mirage?
Are the shadows crossing my heart soothing not?
Is my dream of satisfaction a farce?
Or a pursuit of happiness, the harbinger of gloom?

What dreams am I running after?
Is an afterlife of glory worth sacrifices of now?
Are vices of today, just tools of mirthless laughter?
Controlling those, who are too bored of freedom?

Is my desire for peace a mirage?
Are the shadows crossing my heart soothing not?
Is my dream of satisfaction a farce?
Or a pursuit of happiness, the harbinger of gloom?

Is a tired poet with a broken guitar
Just a delusional disappointment waiting to happen?
And his empty song books, his empty lifestyle moves
A naked body in the line of a barrage?
Is my desire for peace a mirage?

Life is a curious thing;
as fragile as glass,
as precious as gold.

Spun slowly from a thousand strands of silver
spider web.
Sewn and patched together from
old clothes,
by the sorrow-sweet whistling
of the wind.

Made in
a shell
that a child has placed against his ear
to hear the sea.
Made with
Sea foam
and Mermaids’ songs
and Rocky cliffs
and Storm and Lightening
and Laughter.

Nothing more than
a fluffy white cloud
which gradually turns greyer
the further Time carries her lantern
across the sky.

Beautiful,
delicate,
Unique,
perfect,
simple,
present,

so
­amazingly
solidly
Dreamlike.

We travel back in time
To where it all began.

At first glance a diamond in the rough.
Covered with the muck and dirt
Of her youth service.
What drew me in was the light in her eyes
And her beautiful smile,
Though it contrasted greatly with her alabaster skin.

Upon getting to know her
I realised that this was no ordinary diamond
But my own beautiful jewel
Carved specifically for me by
The Master himself.

After winning the war for her heart
I gained the greatest gift a man could ever receive
More than a wife, more than a mother
But a help mate, my other half.

Now we return to present day
After a journey of 17 years
2 children along the way

Her hair greyer,
More wrinkles on her face
Yet an ethereal beauty
That can never fade

Regardless of situation
For better or for worse
Whether we languish in luxury
Or face lack of wealth
I know that i'll cherish you
Through sickness and in health

Until The Lord calls us home
You will always have my heart with you
Wherever you choose to roam
Know this, that I love you.

I can’t help thinking
Of a man
That I pass

He sits
Growing iller
Each day that goes by

His skin grows more mottled
His hair
Turning Greyer

And yet
He still greets me
Each time I walk past

What is his goal?
What it his mission?
And what of mine?
What of mine?

He is homeless
I am a worker
He sits quietly
As I rush on past

Perhaps we are brothers
Eternally connected?
Yet he grows cold
As I fill my belly

I can’t help but question
This world that we share
My smile is empty
His is warm

He touches more people
Than I do most likely
And bids them good morning
As they walk on by

What is the answer
To such a strange riddle?
Who is the fool
In this game of life?

What if we swapped
If just for a second
Would his smile
Turn as empty as mine?

Would he be happy
To feel warm
And be comfortable?

Would I be lost
Watching people
Go by?

Where the air flows fresh and crisp
And life radiates shades of green
And orange and red and colors
That run deeper than the scars
Of the Earth;
Where the grasp of man halts,
Giving way to nature,
Where the footprints of history
Still belong to the mother,
Where the sky weeps
In sheets of life
For the fate of the idyllic land
Because it knows what is inescapable,
That is where I send my sorrow.

In time, the green
Will turn to grey.
In time it won’t matter
How tall the trees grew
Or how fit the animals were.
In time the Earth will choke on concrete
And all we will know is grey and greyer.
In time the Earth will pass away
But in less time than we realize.
For this world is not doomed
To ice or fire
This world is doomed to humans.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.

My sky
turned greyer
as he held the
cover of our chapter
and slowly closed it
shadowing  
the sunlight
that burned its pages
with love stories
every day
together
and
a    
        p      
                          a    
                                   r            t

I think **** it, I am a repetition of my
last life I ***** a reproduction of
what my last lingering inefficient thoughts
expelled on last breaths that contaminated
me on to my new existence of caporal energy.

**** this existence of what lingered in-between
every reproduction of my life, rinse repeat.
what's the continued use of what was played out
and repeated on a new field of conciseness this time.
I am a greyer version of what I was before.

Then I become aware of what lingers beyond the womb
a repetition of other moments. I take my existence
in my hands and coil the giver of life, suffocating
my pain before it lingers on for a life time and stale
mate my existence, **** repetition I'm dead by my hand.