Wilting.

My lungs crushed in your palm
like wilting daisy chains,
Your moving your lips
but you don’t ever say my name.
I am so dependent on the love you offer me,
don’t take it away.
Don’t take it away from me.
I am empty if you’re not looking at me.
Bring back the light,
take me off pause, come back to me.
I cannot go back to being
On my own, this is it for me.
Love me, but you must appear
to do it willingly.

Children of Today.

I will write for a generation
of melting snowflakes.
Make banners that look pretty
and drink down glitter
to make the feelings go away.
What happened to capsules
hidden in bathroom cabinets?

Not for the children of today.
We surrender to our pain
and become glamorous in its wake.
We don’t have any pride,
walking the narrow lines but in technicolour.
Doing exactly what we think we should do,
Rebellion signed off by the government.

Our words are gutter bound
before they have even been uttered.
Nothing lasts for long.
Nothing lasts very long at all,
We know that
so we just wait
for another dose of disappointment.
But we can pretend its all part of the plan.
Who needs to get anything out of this life anyway?

Not for the children of today,
we’ll settle for railcard till were 35.
Shared flats till we die.
Dickensian boarding houses
but kitsch by design.
Trying to hard at just getting by.

Flames.

There is a small fire beginning
somewhere in the city,
it is cultivated and pretty.
The hands who built it will rip it down
when they see the flames rise to high
and the flames will not know why.
They will soar and reach upwards
only to be dashed at their peak.

There is so much history in the roots that burn
and flames are the ghosts.
Human eyes are too absent minded
to see those, bound skywards.
Water will dash there hopes,
dash all dreams of stars
and release from infernal damages.
Those dreams will never be so.

Rage.

Rage coming in
and water will fall
into mouth, heart, lungs.
Soft bleeding flower will
contaminate
the flow of streams.
Tears running into rivers
we drink from.
Rage running through veins,
blood will be spit by flowers
blooming on the bank.
Their roots are deep set in the soil
taking the water in.

Scraps.

Cut from scraps,
a fragmented mind will let
the colour go.
We are called to our own great space.
The heart will hurt
as the clutter sets in.
Full of noise the mind is terrifying.

I have come to know all of the precious
gaps and lines,
in a body of work which is not mine.
Work comes and goes, creatures die.
I create great nothings
out of all the blurred images
that move before me.

I am not recognised by anybody.
I will only be held to account
when the world falls down
and the images cease to move.

Wrong off the tongue.

Coffee spills out of eyes
and wakes me up.
Bitter syrup with a note of the sickly sweet.
Burnt up at the edges
we have called out names,
that roll wrong off the tongue.

It is sunday morning
where we linger and the soft haze
brings delight to mind.
I despise.
I am cold to it.
But I cannot deny that it is there.

Wishing
on and on that you were here
in its place.
Moved to tears by being left.
Hurt by ideas of your return,
it burns in the back of my mind.

Off into the distance.

Staring off in to the distance,
all of the world blurs into one.
There wasn’t any need for the trees
to shelter me.
The sun disappeared entirely.

I watched the bats flee
to warmer land. I will not wait for their return,
because the grass is so much greener
on the side where they land.

All I can hope is to find
that there is gold beneath the ground where I stand.
I shall wrap myself in it,
then I will not need to fly
and I will not need the sun.

Your eyes.

I will not say goodbye,
only wish you good luck.
There is no saving you
in my mind.
You are fucked by design.
Go, go be alone where your vision will die.
Stand on the street shouting
at passers by.
Live by no rules
Never looking inward to see the rot.
You will always be alright
in your own eyes,
the only eyes you’ve got.

Reality.

You paint me with stark reality
an image that fills me with dread.
You knew me better
than you said.
I don’t know that I can cope
being carved so close to the bone.
I would cast you in a golden light
if I knew your truth about me would be gone.

This is it.

The island was empty
and free from life.
You will not ruin it all.
If, if, if
I can be more than the space I inhabit
then I can see you.
I can be with you always,
burning in the soft haven of your eyes.
The space we are in is not owned.
Forget the love anyone has felt before.
This is it, this is all there is.