Crisp the evening lies,
with the songs of flight long fallen,
and around the masses hushed,
to the bell which has stopped a-callin'.

Darkness breathes the ice,
as crescent silver lights stone,
vagabond in vain searching hope,
nightime cries red alone.

Shards cold of glass crash,
to doorstep but no bed,
figure hunched like tired oak,
lay he there already dead ?

Soon black will yield to morn,
the grass fresh will shine with dew,
yet the oak still moves not,
but it's better him than you ?

When was the last time I wrote something meaningful?
My life has become nothing more than shifting from one
house to another, encompassed by drug taking and a sense
of nothingness. I have become a working class flea, but with enough money
to feign royalty, structure is a distant memory, no longer tangible.
Living in total squalor with no desire to change, a perverse lusting
to continue down this dusty trail of over indulgence and self-deprecating
destruction. I need to get out of this ******* mess, yet at the same time
a sick voice within tells me to stay, so perhaps I will, perhaps I will crash
further into the aphotic world of the people I loath, the people who I despise. But I am not like them. I am different, right? For the moment, my blade has been sharpened enough to slash through the inevitable wrath of unfortunate circumstance, I am still in control, unlike the others - dying in their own self-encompassing shadows of subjugation.

Carving my thoughts into
your flesh, with my tongue,
tracing hideous metaphors
all over you – tonight.
The porcelain touch of
your freckled breast, a play
dough mound is my reminiscent
toy – tonight.
Violent lights flicker at our
bedside, casting dying angels
on the wall, sinking into a dark
irrelevance – tonight.

Sniff, wince,
adjust the black hat
sticking to your damp head.
Where the **** am I?

You know, so the conversation
continues, cracking white
in a manic laughter.

Crane your head to somewhere
else, ******* aliens wrapped
in an unnervy heat,
watching you.
Where the **** am I?

Long inhale, lion’s sleepy breath
amongst the din of unfamiliar
noises - unsure if you’re fond
of the narcissist’s choice.
Who is he anyway?

Looking right to the mirror,
or an old bus window,
startled by its revelation
you crash back into the room.
What the **** was that?

Voices tickle you, unwanted
intruders wrapped in bright
blue dots, “it’ll make it better
for you guys” she says before
falling behind closed eyelids.

Step out into the street with me,
and see with your eyes what it
is which entices mine.

We are not alone, and though
I long for your presence, here
beside me now. We are together.

Smell the air which I taste,
everyday and night, fresh
yet dank with the vibrancy of death.

Feel the squelch of the wet
pebbles beneath your feet,
like an orchestra of crushing bones.

And hear the Arabian Accordion
in the street, amongst the pitter-patter
of busy but pointless people.

Though I may not be there,
I see you all, in the white-washed
stone walls, laughing with me.

Young flag-bearers march backwards,
as stone walls crack shame,
and hysteria burning red tonight,
ignorance carrying archaic flame.

As shadows stretch to smother,
yesterday's scarlet blood,
the bell rings to beckon,
as tripped civility throws mud.

Figures cheating deserved fate,
spider-web lost, idiocy breathing,
**** fed from fools distant old,
backwards ticking, clock is freezing.

Lunatic mass gathered in the square,
Inerudite tongues lick His spit,
as spire stabs prevailing wind,
kid's jigsaw, this piece doesn't fit.

The sun is waning, 
the earth getting cold,
the rivers are slowing,
as night's hand takes hold.
 
The bottles are empty,
the bread's gone stale,
the table deserted,
flesh is turning pale.
 
The leaves have fallen,
the paths are lost,
the birdsong over,
floor's hard with frost.
 
The door is shut,
the house it is dark,
the souls stuck outside,
are naked and stark.
 
The laughter has ceased,
the smiles are broken,
the memories are ashes,
all final words are spoken.

There's a magician in the corner,
and he's showing you his tricks,
while you thumb through old photo-
graphs in a vain attempt to grasp
something meaningful from your past.

That trip to Cornwall, when those
gypsies stole your bodyboard, well at
least it made sense to blame them – at the time.
Foot pierced from beneath, blood along
the sandy beach, a trail to your then
present discomfort.

Back in the jingle-jangle room, the magician has
revealed your card – it was the four of hearts, yeah ?
Artificial applause echoes around you and
the photos, you've creased without
even realising.

Familiar faces shift with expressions,
like Freud in motion, acrylic, synthetic
and somewhat flamboyant people. This room
is where it's at, so you keep telling yourself,
character's from Kerouac laughing at the magician
who's dropped his cards, accidental confetti.

As the smoke thickens, your
grip loosens on what church-folk
call reality and perhaps even, dignity.
You return the photos to the mantel-
piece, amongst plastic teeth, tobacco
and important papers.

As your friend interviews himself
in the mirror, and somebody
licks the inside of a plastic bag,
because he's efficient, after all,
you crane your neck upwards and
hysterically laugh at the crazy patterns
in the ceiling.

The car whose paintwork
claims that the end is near, trundles
past my window as I look across
the ebbing amber of civilisation
before me, which I have become
perversely accustomed to.

The Arabian accordion has
ceased to play, in the streets
where the masses move as one,
buttoned up to their necks in
a futile attempt to escape the
inevitable wrath of circumstance.

The dusty silhouettes across
the bar have all finished their
drinks, clasping onto glass hollow
like the minds of which the
harsh winter rendered strongly,
to be alone is to feel nothing.

The air hangs thick amongst
the stone walls of the houses
of the slowly suffocating people,
the ones with the stained ribbons
in the hair from almost six years
ago, clutching on to particular thoughts.

And the oriental lady plays
with tins outside my door,
while I peel back my nails in
search of ink, all the time thinking
the sleeve made wet by nostalgia
is nearly rolled up, all the way back home

Nightmares linger, it is a fact,
clinging to memory like an acrid disease.
When I was younger, I dreamt I saw a witch in
a local church, now whenever I pass this church,
I am stabbed with the feeling of total fear and
isolation, just for a split moment though.
Like when a mother loses her child in the dairy aisle,
only to find him almost immediately
– a brief sense of horror.

In a sick and perhaps perverse way, I long for this feeling
of total fear, yet wish to rid myself of it at the same time.
Teetering on the edge of a knife, wanting to touch death,
but not allowing it to touch me.
Wanting to squeeze blood from the tormented tears of my youth,
whilst wanting to smother my childish screams once and
for all.

Perhaps one day I shall enter the church,
though I very much doubt it,
for I'd be disappointed to see no witch there,
grimacing at me, like she did that one
dark, lonely and vulnerable night.