I am but an empty shell, slowly breaking into pieces, drifting to my painful death. Do not cry your dying tears, leave them all for me. They flow and fall for hours, each one sunken into complete and utter sadness.

I have nothing left only brutal and immediate hurt, a thorn pricked sharply on skin so weak and shallow. A thorn sharpened with a gutted blade, just to be absolute. The blood is wild and rushed and the pain secure.

Our torture is unavoidable, our demise is the script on which to pour over with our hearts and study deeply for clues, ideas, pathways, journeys and unfolding trails that lead us to escape before the story runs its way out.

The plan, the hope is to stop. Stop the rush, blame the bleeding on a surer sense of ourselves, myself i have found nothing to hold on to, no conscious grasp worth catching, infinity is largely borne of a birthright not to die but to exist in flux until all rights withheld are tossed aside tragically.

This world is unavoidable, in death it grants us sweet submission, gentle exaltation, beautiful emancipation and perfect execution. It folds the page on this chapter with a full stop and begins the next paragraph in song or silence, withered or wondered, imagined or felt. It takes us both inside its heart and reclaims our soul from the pain and torture, from the bleeding and betrayal.



So close. In an empty room the vacant walls brush against the souls of my endeavor. Like elevators going nowhere, standing still for timeless aching, better still the neglect in a wonderous masquerading space. I am not new but nothing of me seems real, not the boredom in my tragedy, not the working of my days into a pulsing place.

Clocks, voices, clicking screens, telephone imagery on the ceiling like romantic pictures placed into frames for the sight of a billion star struck eyes. Older and still full of life, bright through dawn and into the glow of a new day’s rise. Together as its shadow shaded through the door of mourning, passed into a fillet spiked savor and smart where all our hopes and dreams restart.

A message bottled so brief. The screams that thunder into a minds slow release. Cagey, wired to perfection but not blasted into every sky or fading light, nothing into the dark outside. A mirror underneath that burns every image into a soul impressed in the vacancy of clouds deceased. A torture but a quick and thankful race, a shocking moment captured in the lines on a swollen face.

Am I happy or am i sad? Am I more a kid and less a man? Becoming what I dreamed was what I planned, into a future of tragedy or pure romance? Waiting, still asleep for many moons or days and weeks repent, the room that holds the answer soundly remains my voice within. To a turning of despair into a light that’s edging there, through a morning of memories made, into my immortal soul inhaled.

Set To My Soul

Listening to the world, the sound of wishful, wilful deep expression roundly savaging the outer space of time and placid moving stars.

Crying tears of sinful joy, feelings of sunshine laboured over an oven open layered flat back sky devoured into the depths of Inbetween romance and prayer.

Layer upon layer of salted skin betraying darker thoughts and evil laughs and lustful, lullabies patiently cutting the inside soul of a body broken by its lonlieness.

The wistful wondering of mind, abides in the truth and distance and remorseless ache of further damaged passing posts of stolen life.

Light of days, brighter darkness light of mourning May. Awake and dreaming, conscience clearing in the mist of tattered, tragic and trapped feelings.

The music of a thousand shoals, set against my broken soul. For deeper, wild and tragic would much greater soft desires come.

Alone and lost, abandon must, my dreams showered into sweeping dust. Safe and sworn by night by lust,  lay wasting piled up rust by every pile of rotting rust.

Sorrow Sky

The glistening and misty 5.16am sheltered sky in morning time, awake, alive and betrayed by the mournful, dashing, cold and ache of many dreams in stillness shaped.

The Atlantic wild, the wistful wondering of night. Removed, replaced by breaking light upon the fields mere toiled in flight. Grown upon their swollen shore and swimming home, came back for more.

My sky, the fever damaged, filtered brave flirtatious thrive. Within my life this fevered sky, awaiting flight. Between my eyes, this treasured sky, succeeding slight. Every ache and every fight, my sky in flight, sorrowed sight.

Running Wild As A Man Of Youth

I have often wondered if it is my egregious manner that has disallowed me the virtues of friendship. I have been so ordinary since birth, only on the inside do I feel somewhat extraordinary. On the outside it never shows, no matter how implicit in the extolling of extrovert, there is just nothing there. I must confess to feeling confused, somewhat dimmed, emotionally distracted and wholly unfulfilled by this occurance. I think about it, I watch TV, I listen to music, I think about it again, I sleep, I wake and think about it upon waking. This is my life now, this is a mind of torture, swept into its own roaring fire, Awoken into life by light and the burning of Its dreams. Soot into dust and swept into the sky forever. Gone without grace or a moment’s peace.

Sometimes I wonder if my life is all for nothing. If I never woke up, what become of the rest? Where will the best parts of my body ride to safety? To a gentle resting place between curtains of finer silk and fabric so woven into majesty, it feels impossible to know anything less then the comforts of seven heavens. Softly as it springs, to gently morning, to such binary things. I do spend life, real and living life, preoccupied with dying, in the irony of all ironies. Foreshadowing what comes next, driving my conscious to the edge of a cliff for a thrill. And never quite beyond the cliff. Just far enough to taste the sea, just wait long enough to become set free.

I would sell my soul to be special. Hell I would sell half my soul for this. The unbroken half, the part of my soul still prospected into infancy and innocent from the horror of hate. The one fifty of me that I want frozen when I die so that I shall live on and give to the world something which a treasure, perhaps to be known as more than the sum of its parts. To die without this would be to leave before the party started. Before the kissing and the drunken foul play became surreal to the point of laughter and wonderment. Before the people cheered and asked for more, “Give us more of your wine, sir” how could I deny the sheer excitement of everything after midnight. In the darkness and in memory, it all reverts to infant states of vacancy.

The Incessant Howling Of Children

Clear blue skies, clouds non existent as the pathways and walkways and stoned streets become alive with the sound of fevered noise. The running of feet, into each other and clatters so loud, you can hear the scraping off a shinbone and wailing cries of infinitely proud and prospered children. Their voices so crystal, terrific in how loud they yell for attention. Their lips pursed so vainly by the constant knowing that today is every day, tomorrow is nothing they ever live for or ever dream of living for. They shout and bay for blood, they run and walk and scramble about in their own underused sense of righteous. They have no demons, their torture is the 5pm drag on Winter nights, lulls of insecurity and playful days lost to the aching of time as it disintegrates into the far reaches of living light.

Right now it means little, they will not spend minutes contemplating the painful passing of sun and hope and joy and a worthwhile passions sullying. Their effervescent is caught in the light, fuelled in June of every year on a pathway and walkway, on streets that tell their own stories of glories past, of a time and place where they grew up to find themselves. Often in fury, rich in laughter, forever in perfection. Their games become their victory, to challenge the world to dare, who blinks first? Who becomes the captain of all things, who owns these streets for all eternity and who stands meekly by the wayside wondering. Who has everything and who gets nothing?

The lesser kids, the ones too proud to associate with hooded corners, walk aimlessly home, hands by their sides and faces melted into the roaring sun. Mishapen, mistaken, mistook for chatter and street talk veiled in a threat of yesterday. Old news, the day before’s news, cast out adrift to a tidal wave of gleeful ignoring and graceful anger. “Not one of us” “You are not one of us” Retreat to the shadows, exist in isolation. Breathe in air so heavy, damp and toxic, it fills their lungs with a death soon forthcoming. They see no sunlight, only despair, they breathe no life only death, they stare at their feet and feel only suffering.

The other kids, the kids in light and joy and happiness, start again. They shout and scream and plead and play and becomes as one in every day. The scorched sidewalk, burned bright with a thousand feet, a hundred thousand steps of Summer. It welcomes every one, it holds their love and soulful joy in its entirety. This is home, this is the last place where such passion is felt so pure, this is where remaining freedom is left to linger without examination, without contamination, without a sense of moralising the masses or passing judgement for judgement’s sake. The incessant howling, of laughter and tears and screams so loud they crack the semi pavement and break its heart. The reaching of their eyes into the sunlight, its staring back at them and daring a further dream, its captured them in its grasp and tilted them away to a better place. There is only beauty here, there is only light. There is only children to disappear when Winter’s night.