I hate this love
That's locked away
It's staring at me
Right now
In this very second
It's spitting on me
I can feel it
All around me
It's in my bubble
It's breaking my space
Crossing my line
And I can see it
In my mind
One hundred
And fifty one times
Flashing
This red color
Of love
That'***** me
One to many times
I still taste
The busted blood
On my lips
I can feel the lumps
In my throat
And on the back of my head
Oh and ****
I taste whiskey
The cheap ancient
Whiskey
On my breath
And when we kiss
I see the explosions
Of a **** show
The blood
The cheats
The puke
The violence
This is love
For me
That's how
It will
Always be
From now
Until
I die

The out line
Of my fingers
Crept together
In the light
That tip toed
Through the darkness
No condolences
We're offered
Except for mine
And from that sympathy
Came something
I cannot explain
I still can't
Speak your name
This game
Is slowly ending
But it winds
And turns me
In your corner
You aren't
My owner
Never will
Be
It's safe to say
I love you
Or loved
Because the meaning
Of that thing
Has slowly dissipated
With all my emotion
Corrosion
I can feel it
In my face
I still love
I still hate
Just please
Get out
Of my head
It's ruining
Everything I've said
This beginning
When I wake up
And even though
I miss the ruins
That I lived in
All my life
I finally see
They aren't for me
I love your ruining
But I'm through
Running
From what's
Meant to be

Contradictory

messages erased. Right now

we look for the truth.

The artist only used black,
he wouldn't say why his mum named him after a King

in palaces where feral children investigate
the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle from their sofa where

they translated “idiot savant” as
stupid servant was written on permanent files

somewhere hidden alongside
DVDs that were posted on line showing monkeys in boxes
throwing themselves to death against perspex walls

splattering Rorschach patterns of childish nightmares,
the boogeyman.

A butterfly.

Red post boxes stand on street corners like aged prostitutes
rusted and flaking
and they are going the way of phone boxes and TV aerial?

Are there still milkman?

Who writes letters?

Postcards from men
working down a pit?

Stuck in the trench
I killed time by attening seminars about powerful words,
the history of things,  
body language as legitimate currency
exposing the micro.

A craven emptiness screaming extinction.