A crease in the socket of emotion
proposed a silent watery rhyme,
swam under the surface of your
thoughts, so as not to disturb
patterns forming, digits and dots
tapping at your side in vain edits

Caught, locked in tights cells of you,
I wound up the cotton reel, mending
the holes of doubt, and arching my
back, I purred along the wall, side stepping
sharp sabotage, where blood spurts,
cuts split their sides, dropping droplets

reddened and dark, stains of a thousand
prints, their script to prevent access.
I borrowed a moment from the street
sellers cart, persisted that I would not
sell him out, that the ground was solid
under my feet, bolt upright, proof

I sang my belief, like a bold penance,
scenes where money would cross palms
of one asking for more, a bowl held high,
armed with charming smiles. their half
beliefs studying my every transparency,
the guttural deluge swiftly passing me to

sewered excellence, tugging my heels,
entwining shoe laced lies. And how I
would fail, unable to shift the showcase
of my life. But, suckered under
the slip stream, I gargled the depths
while you made space for my spewing

Will the world look so beautiful again
as sunset through a broken window?

With greasy hands I try
to capture youth as
a leech with a camera.

Will the light fall on her face, like it did
in the festival - like it did
when her eyes caught the sun.

I don’t like myself when I’m awake.

I, in the absence of dreams where the coaster spins
and the smell of sugared doughnuts lingers,
was the sweaty hands in hers.
Wet knees, wet boxers, wet grass
Backs to the sunset and skyline high on
plasterboard roofs, spotted chimneys. The fire and
the smell, the screech of the tubetrain -
the squirm from the darkness.
Gravel tracks, picking away the small stones
from pinkish tramlines on her thighs.
The tightness of her skirt on her knees, glitter eyed,
blush eyes, fosters cans stamped in the bush,
Bad ****, every bad smell-
the light we see is
plugholed but free from the sewer.
Sewered but free in the ocean.

Love bottler, the skinny fingered
Love bottler. I stamped on the cans.

I don’t like myself when I’m awake.
Dreaming the sickness of my thoughts.
Memory-sick, it hurts til it doesn’t.

A thousand washed out hallelujahs drown the sewered streets
as the homeless are arrested for their burdens,
dying in their cardboard graves.
A generation sings,
sings of their lust for an un-abandoned indignity.
Hollowed protest carried only by listless tweets
and insatiable delusions of grandeur are used to spike their drinks.
they’re spiraling forward with catalytic fury saving only ashes from the hell fires started by their own torch.
They stand before you screaming-
LOOK AT MY NAKED BONES.
You open your eyes and there’s a band on their chest who’s songs they don’t even know.
With eyeliner so think you can’t see their iris to know if its blue or gold.
You wouldn’t know naked if it peeled your skin down to your bone.