She started screaming today.
She’s normally so
quiet and she
sits at the back but today she
made a run for it.
She burst the windows open and
grabbing at the ledge she
let me have it into my
bones with
a guttural
roar I felt in my own
throat as she
ran her nails in between my
and filled up my lungs
with the air she’d
been saving up all this time.

I didn’t know how fed up she was.
Being a possible
contingency dressed
as an ideal and kept
in the back pocket
in case what I say isn’t good enough.
But she really
wants out now.
She’s tired of
crying for two,
eating for none
of anyone’s goals and
praying for sun
that’s bad for our skin but
she doesn’t care.
We’ll get wrinkles
either way.

The bargaining is over now.
She’s better than me
and it’s fine.
Her gentle suggestions
have become golden rule,
she’s made for the world
that’s ahead
and I’m tired.
For sanity is saved
by raising an eye,
by looking around and
pulling up from
a sodden ground
and even one handed
to heave your whole weight
is better than
crawling any further.

Cost of Living

I feel my weight as I walk
I’ve noticed my neck
waits for my feet
my channels don’t surf
in my wate
lately I see that
I saw this coming.

My numbers don’t match with
my pages
right now and
I’ve heard it’s a mass
right now
no one is special but
not now
I should have known
not to complain.

I’m constantly looking
behind me back there
I’m drowning in
days to come up there
and I’ve committed to
seeing them through
this time but
living is fucking

Double Cleansing

It seems that I end each day as I start it.
In preparation.
In front of this mirror I
paint my face to prepare for whatever
war I trip into that day and
late at night I wash it all off
to allow it to
As if I’ve not taken a gasp all day
I wipe and
wash and
scrub to atone for suffocating myself for the sake
of going outside.
For vanity, maybe? Maybe but what is vanity
And what’s so bad about it?
If vanity lifts my chin and
chest and makes me
grin and
then I shamelessly paint with
each and every brush
so that I may
stand at my post for those hours.
I suppose we like knowing that we could, if we needed to
but we don’t, so we won’t.
That mirror holds a face hung
on a soul which eludes.
I beg for them to like me, to praise me and
love me, not in love’s own definition of love but in the
love you always wanted but knew
never existed.
Fake film love that emulsifies
soul intertwining and
sonnets in the rain with
groaning and writhing in
obsessive sweet pain.
The love where you love it just
and so it goes
to sit there, untouched and unaltered because
simply you love it as
it sits.
It need do nothing else than
Which I may only do
after washing
my face.

Bus Change

There’s comfort in knowing
that I know your words.
And I do hear you from
time to time but
now, now your voice is often
coming through my own
I suppose that’s what happens
when it’s been a little
I’ll go the
rest of my hopefully
longish or long
enough life
reciting your
gems and boasting your
wisdoms and
I’ll sound just like the others that
ramble on about someone
no one else
I can’t amble with those others
who lie to save my youth
when you talked the truth at
me. Whether I wanted it or
The chats about the days and the ways
that the days
don’t mean much
when you’re old.
Your walls were
worlds where
shame fell like
biscuit crumbs.
I miss the bus change
and Tesco shops.

Home Less

Not home,
it’s not home.
My home doesn’t exist but
even what
little part does
is not the
part I am in.
This is not it,
the arena is not
mine nor is this
as it is,
I’m less a home
and owed one
I think but
not sure from whom.
This scene
is seen
from a
dream that
I refuse to stop
I’ve never felt
more at
then looking
through that

My own doors are
and keys are
less that I
would beg for.
They are
enshrined in
ivy and
and surrounded by
riddle and I
don’t know
the answer.
a home and
more a house.
Dismissed at
first viewing,
not enough charm,
too much work.
I suppose I
should rebuild
my own.

I wish
I belonged
where I’ve been


I want more friends.
But I don’t want people.
People are tricky
and trickless am I
or at least
my bag isn’t as big as theirs.

I feel I should have
more friends
to say hello to.
To say hello back.
But I can only
care about so many
hellos and
I fear I’ll reach my limit.

I don’t want their
small talks and
their large lives
with their leashed up
husbands and
their caged up
I want frank
frank nights
with frankly
weak, pathetic
fights over
who paid

I want to
smack talk men
and call them prats
and dirty looks
like we sound like cats
of witches cackling
over a can or
but I’ll never
get that
if I don’t
say hello.

If I say hello,
then so will they and
I’m no good with after
(unless I’m paid)
I’ll overshare and
undersell and
come off like
stuck up
Like always.
I think it’s best
if I use this
time to
be with myself
in case I
can’t later on.

Phantom Pains

That used to be me down there.
Loud friends, loud stumbles,
loud lives, loud problems
but a soft understanding
it’s fine.
And we were fine.
Fine expires, you know.
This and that
and the friends move
on and
ontop of life is
no longer your normal,
normalizing problems is
your new crusade, not
crusading for the sake of it.

I suppose it’s a usual
thing to be stood here,
looking down, peering back
into a past, a grained
a hologram before me.
Makes me wonder if
that part of our lives was just
a simulation.
The places and
the faces that weave in and
around you have
unravelled and caught
the wind.

My mind is not that
same mind, my brain
a different one completely,
replaced in my sleep
It’s as if I never saw the scar or
felt the stitches,
it’s cruel.
The gods of age
sent their minions for my
puerile spirit and
they amputated it
from me.
I shall have to learn to live
with it’s
phantom pains.

Butter and Coffee

I’ve known sorrow
and pain.
and misfortune frequent
my already
darkened doorway.
I’ve lost my way and
eventually stumbled
half conscious onto a new path.
In my short(ish) time
on this plane
I’ve amassed a
colourful collection of
grievances but none
as steadfast in their
morose agony as
this fucking hangover.

No simple temple
nor shaky stomach
but an arranged marriage of
despondent medication and
a body that gave this life up
long before my
brain ever did.
I can take a lot
on any given day
that noise
that child
is drilling through me,
chipping at my
shell and

So hand me my sunglasses
on this
beamless day and
my quiet jazz on
the busiest road.
I need butter
and coffee
and I need the air of a
Sunday morning
amongst the buildings
of stone, glass
and age.
Allow me to sink
back into my day
a little more reserved
than the last with
a lesson that I
won’t care to keep.

Cheap Cheese

Why would I?
You keep asking like
it’s some sort of possibility
like this is,
and will be
a good idea
while it never used to be and
while I don’t regret that
that time,
that breath,
I do regret
whatever I did that left you with the
impression that this could be
something other than
what it was,
and hasn’t been
for years.

You could be looking at me
right now without knowing.
Some random woman
who was no woman
when you knew her,
Who are you to determine for me,
my being,
to assign me a self
reflection is what is needed.
For who continuously
tries to bed that which is
‘not yet’ a woman?
A nonce that’s who.
A nonce with no more maturity
than the cheap cheese
that sits in the fridge and is used
only for a cheeky toastie.
Your years are plentiful,
your tricks the same
yet you refuse to adapt
and walk in this
new world
a world where your voice is
no louder than mine.

I never asked what you thought
or wanted
from me
me-ing all the damn time.
I just acted for me,
for my own tomorrow.
If I’d been up shit creek
you’d have drowned
or doggy paddled away.
If I’d had brought your wants
into this for the briefest flash
we’d have
stayed together
for a few months more.
And I know for you,
this sacrifice is normal,
this grand altered
ritual but it’s not
about you and it’s not been
for some time.
I know you’re used to
grooming on your stage-
common with men of a
certain age
but times change
and you’ll never be
old enough
for me.