Desire Desolation

We grow darker by the day, up on the hills and all applause, mesmerising, masquerading, overlooked and overflowing, let us walk back down to where the floor meets the sea, swim out of here and gone forever.

Our skin is dead before now, shapeless and betrayed, needles dug in deep like a pick axe through the heart and flashed before our eyes. We are here but gone, away in a smokeless vacuum, worlds apart from the smothering of our dreams, forfeiture of afterthought, bewildering of bygone days.

This empire of anarchy, for all who remain, smouldering rubble of those who play pretence, god is always riddled with disease, angels are our torture personified so why give them courage? They kill you when you least expect it and smile cynically before the last blade savages the remains of the yearly weak.

All glory is sought by epitaphs and sent by shadows, all hope is gutted out by science, remorseless drilling of our minds until we succumb with pleasure, sickness of pacifists praying for a saviour a mile away, he never comes, we die on this hill or we die in the sea, desolate, alone and dead before annihilation swallows everything it sees.


The Coming of Age

I fell in under a skylight, one so pure, shimmering bright. My feet aching for the hundred miles I’d walked in wonder.

A pebble plums down on the pavement, my feet are humble, weak and worn, i bend down to reach what pebble’s holding in its sweet glory but they can carry me no further.

My body has begun to wilt, as always smile in suffering, tender as this love alive, tortured as with this soft divine. Let me touch the lips of strangers ambling by, dead scars ripped scabs, open wounds on fire.

Say hello, a thousand kisses for today, the one in ten, so remarkable and so nice, played a split piano past the corner, by the cafe at midnight, nothing soothes quite like jazz, so awful but serene, sleekness, deft and warm, a gesture fingertips feel the surface almost bled and stars reign down the street and on again.

These feet take time to find their soles, broken bruised, hundred mile runs, i run on home. Stone, sure and safer now, far away from a watching crowd. A pebble in my palm for play, a boy immense, now a man of age.

Everything Is Still But Time (In Memory of Scott Hutchinson)

I walk away with you, for now, every word spoken clearly in my mind and sang like deeply perfumed rain clouds drowning. The mess and toil, the waking sadness overflowed, the joy.

I turn and run back the other way, in case the past is catching up with every second wasted in the deep pits of my dreams. A place no one should ever run too, a hazard foiled, no escape from prison and no exacting shadows unfold.

A flower on the green in tears, a weeping blessed in courage still remains, poor life torn asunder by its death, brave and beauty rabid heavens set upon by doves.

Everything is still but time, i will walk back with you in silence. Everything is perfect in this place, except for all the voices in your head that sigh.

Soon when all your words become the lyrics that i loved, the simple melodies and torture falling softly up, i wish and wait for skies to wake me back away, to hear your footsteps tread gently one last time as you sing sweetly and wave goodbye.

RIP Scott, you were loved xxx

Tuesdays Are For Strangers

They came at night, they strode gently down the path and rinsed their hands on the gander of our foresight. Calmly, sweetly, briskly, move in with the dark and death and out to walkways ploughed by furrows for pleasure. Stars aligned and spoke in whispers “surely everything in its proper place” the hush of breathing, the moon reversed, savage spectacles built on gut instinct, mirrors over the sky, reflections teaching all the wrong verbs and verses, aloof and overpowering, reminders of paths and walkways trodded on so tragically. Tuesday of the night with strangers, souls stretching out in solidarity, remorse waking to decisions and regrets, days longing for a reason as weeks begging for their seasons to come home. Maybe everything is dreamt this way, maybe culture bled for liberties in sanctuary, cruel ways in which life breaks light like smaller stars rocketing into shooting stars and collapsing for pressure, wallowing to preserve, swallowing the vicious and the vigour, minds bland as chalk and chasing, random voices living out tomorrow’s heroes passion pacing, crowds of chaos elegantly drift into midweek hoping, behind them Tuesdays stayed for strangers, wild to the world with life’s gift left unwoven.

Untitled Ventures Volume 1

Alone outside at Christmas, the flowerpots are dangling from the arches, frequently the smoke from factories rises in the distance, and lays against the sky in breathless admiration.

A pale purple tilt comes sweetly as the taste of dew, wakes the wonder from the bore and passive place, taunting cavalries and blushing over mounds of mourning, safe from the horror of sad and swift returning

Awake from the amusement, portraits paintings, silver edge and sliding, in between the sky and sunrise, how death had lived and died by increasing rich designs against the backdrop of swell seasons.

I am against this torture, infinitely scream against the resting of tomorrow. Breathing backwards, full fever skin settled over wounds forever, drill deeper, cuts heal quicker when plasters cover all profusions. Pain, soft, scary and unsettling, Christmas in June, factory sickness by symmetry.

At Day’s Rest

How do i sleep at night when both my feet are walking in the ocean. The gentle waves are breaking to my toes, a moon is waving back at me and laughing.

If only silence guaranteed a win, against the grey clouds hopelessly fitting fear within, the water lips pursing tears and tragedy, a coma brings my thoughts to their near end knees.

I live in exile and become in wonder, what world’s elope has suffering been shamed, the rope that reached out over life’s new faces, did wrap its tail around the dark unsettling horizon.

All the places came to me at day’s rest, neatly swimming laps where waves had went, folding dreams to cure the night that ails and whisper to the sea, in lapse of sleep, awake.

Untitled Episodes Within A Dream

I hope to see you in my dreams, in death. Waving hopelessly at fading circles in the background. Clutching at the thinnest straw, upon which surity of life prevails. In its pure awoken state, remounting and saluting over everything.

I pray against the fever of my soul, blindly painting portraits and resumes that i hope will cast a shadow into view. Love lapping over arches, wild as reeds and ranches swear their dull faith vanity risking all youth for clear as constant remonstrations.

A life as like no other, the silken swim of north facing happiness in melody embrace. A deft climb to grief where passion showed itself and strong, the weaker playful voices drill out death on the outskirts of fantasy in reverse.

I hope to see you in my dreams, tonight. Awash in silver coloured button tops, resting on the loop above my bed for eternity. The stars have ached and begged to sparkle at foot of what love had surely fitted out, the distance ran inside itself into adjoining skies as sweetly tears turned rain away from roaring crowds.

Every deep and darkness is a thing, within which clouds become the real unmerciful envisioned. Resting faces against the glasshouse coveting the pain and suffering from adoring nature’s bite, hovering gently aside the vanished memory of all the soft sad songs when morning light becomes midnight.

As if for you, all my stories of what a future brings or brought, the eerie waking to a sound of silence and remorse, the day breaking before the night, has left its lessons still untaught, all episodes and dangers real or sought, i wake within a dream to a day now nearer lived than lost.