Laying on the bed, reading your wedding invite.
I recall the day you went silent and I threw my crown.
Stepping down and lost myself.

Today I let you go, my love.
Not because I give up.
I believe you cared and you still do.

Your silence did cut through my flesh,
Your strangeness burnt my heart.
But here I stand today ready to let myself heal.

Years of gathering broken pieces of my heart.
My lost pieces of love, wailing to be found.
Stranded I searched, and I still do.

I held on to you, like a stubborn child.
Your memories engraved, your doings encircling my thoughts.
Strangely never remembering our fights, I was partial.  

My heart wanted more, my soul was thirsty.
I found pleasure in pain.
I kept you alive.

What a splendid journey, my love.
The impeccable high of your addiction.
As I drowned, I found myself.

One day I chose to revisit my past.
Regretting the time lost to stupid fights, blaming myself.
I never felt, keeping you alive.

Stupid were my acts, unreasonable was my anger.
Childish were my demands.
A sinner, at your altar I confess.

Sleepless nights, result of a restless brain.
Blaming you for the love I dreaded I deserved,
For making me feel worthwhile.

Keeping your memories alive,
Redoing my past, for an escape.
As the odds increased, so did my grief.  

For the broken promises, and the endless thoughts.
U left without a word, so did my Tears.
You coward, I pushed myself to oblivion.  

I saved our love when the world sympathised.
I held on to respect, for u and our love.
Wishing you the best, I kept u alive.

My futile attempts to blame you, was a curse.
A part of me found pleasure when they blamed you,
My stupid selfish heart.

But today I let you go my love, I allow myself to heal.
You meant so much, you still do.
But life is more than just you and me.


A part of my soul is still with you, it’s yours now.
Keep it safe my love.
I’ll nurture what is left of it.

As time flies by, I’ll heal.
For a better tomorrow, for a better me.
I’ll strive with a hollow heart and a partial soul.

Thank you love, for the heat.
For never cheating my heart.
For the never ending  euphoria.

I know u cared and you still do.
When you found me, I found myself.
For your breath of life, I’ll keep u alive.

You made me believe in good.
To Love someone more than my being.
Surprised I’m to know my strength.

Entwined souls, living in the moment.
We headed together, Insane and reckless.
Towards our predefined end.  

I’m glad it was you and no one else.
You were the one, my wildest decision.
Oh my wings, my strength.

But today love, I let you go.
I was your princess.
Now it's someone else.

It’s time to put back my crown to rule.
U won't be forgotten my love,
but like any life chapter ours has come to an end.

Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.

Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.

Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.

A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.

Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.

Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.

This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.

And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.

The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.

And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.

As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.

He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write

To forget.

The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.

Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong

Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”

So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.

“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”

So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.

“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”

Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.

When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”

“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”

“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.

She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll  give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”

Failing in love
is overrated;
over-hyped.
I write
Not because I am sad
Not because I failed
I wish to settle
my poisons.
I know my demons
better now.
I fell for no angel
Which I fantasized as a teen.
You are the black curves
of smokes from cigarette.
I try to inhale much of you
And you tease me more.

And after writing
all these
time
All I remember
is just two words
-Try Again.

I can ****
any woman I want
I will love you but
**** her
I will curse you and
**** another
I will hold onto you
and Play with some other ****.
I did not fail you
I just loved you.

All this time
My demons tried
to find halo
behind your horns
And secretly I Whisper
"Witch like she is all I need "

Do not Giggle at me.
For I write.
My demons,
They are so  over sympathised.

Plain n' simple true,
Dread is wholesome and
Speaks in quakes, here. For the
Monster fear looms ever near.

Slow it creeps, wagging tongue
Dripping lies like maggots
Spill from the bloated dead.
Vigor and lust are well eaten
And moths and dust are all
That remain of 'love-making'.

But tracing at first, golden
At the very last glimpse.
Wet eyes, hushed gripes at
nothing: Behold, I'll march.

I'll march well-receded upon
The dusk. I'll march well-seeded
Upon the morn'. I'll march well-sympathised
Upon the wine-smooth caresses of dawn.

For a ghost longing for death, I am
What is plain. What is simple. What is
True.

we met in aldi quite by chance, leaning slightly away

from the cold of the freezer cabinets.the pizza area.



i asked about bill,she said he was fine,and working.



i told her of the pain and she sympathised.



we talked about breathing and having babies.



it was quite a nice autumnal day.



sbm.

Incessant musings of you compel me
to cease attempts of drawing our bond
to a close inevitably only reminiscing
your coquettish simper, manic gaze, the depth

of your unhinged voice as you theatrically recited
a brilliant rendition of the divine, Comedy
captivating my awe and admiration, interludes
to endless rounds of battles unilaterally sparked,

by you out of the blue. Instantly silenced as I
never knew when you would start them nor how
to bring quarrels to an end, incapable of finding
rational meaning or a reason for there never were

any other than your debilitating insanity
of which you were tragically aware. Asking for
forgiveness wiping out my tears in those,
rare glimmers of lucidity short lived moments of delight.

I vividly remember myself laughing in your arms,
as you recounted ironic comic versions
of Bible anecdotes. Where Jesus was just another fellow
with whom you sympathised, rhapsodising over

your uncomprehended similarities. Gentle gestures
towards strangers, innate altruism, love
for Earth and Humanity as a whole.
With individuals you appeared to have a problem

as they recurrently rewarded you with a cross.