You seem to be labouring

Under the misapprehension 

That my list of concerns

Includes your opinion.

You seem to have possession

Of a rather false narrative

That places my being

Within your dominion.

Would you prefer my

Dress if that one wasn’t as short

Or that one low,

Or that one tight?

Would I be less offensive

If my breast or my ass

Didn’t jump from my waist

And fuel you your spite?

Do you think it’s my voice?

How it sounds a bit strange

But it’s one that they listened to.

And you’re scared of that change?

Do you oppose my mind

How it sits on its own

And it doesn’t chase after

Your faux sweet tone?

You seem to be ahold

Of an incorrect assumption

That my views and successes

Require some sort of gumption.

Your clutches are dug into

This vivid insanity

That’s a sepia stained scrap

In a dusty, rotted vanity.

Take your brittle boned ego

And your unstable perch

And your unsound mind

And your unloved church.

Take your box of old relics

That have long since decayed

And find somewhere else

Where those cards are still played.

Dairy Milk

All I wanted

Was to see you again,

And know that you were alright.

Not with my broken soul but with

A whole one. 

To embrace you again

And to feel no claws in me

Unable to let go.

To see your eyes,

The colour of dairy milk

Show me light. Tell me peace.

No, you left. And took that

Part of me with you.

Took our peace,

And never gave it back.

You used words to damn me to hell

and forced them

down my throat.

Ran off to the horizon before

I’d caught my breath.

You never gave me a moment

or perhaps I didn’t take it.

You broke me and my heart,

Which never break at once

But you found a way, you bastard 

Damn you.

You knew how I perched

On a fence and preened,

You wanted me in your garden

To lock me in your shed

And come to look at me whenever you fancied. 

To feed me scraps

And expect a full meal.

I’ll admit this thing which would turn you now

but you always knew,

I did love you.

Not the love you wanted, no.

The love you needed and never got.

The love that never gave a Windsor Knot

But instead would straighten it.

I still trip on your curses

They fuck up my verses

But my memories of our joy

However fleeting,

Will ground my clumsy feet.


Little Hills

Somewhere here my roots are buried,
I came to find them.
I’ve been told that roots run deep
And wind their way throughout
The earth. They entwine and
Disrupt foundations. 
They jut out of pavements, and when you walk 
They make you trip.
What was once fun to run over at speed on a bike
And bump
With a daredevils grin
Is now an uneasy offset for 
Fragile ankles.

Somewhere here my roots are buried.
Perhaps in the streets
Where it gets dark at night,
With exception of that orange light
That flickers and keeps you awake
And reminds you that the council lied.
They could be in the parks
Where they make excellent steps
For climbing little hills
And you’ll hop,
Until you reach the top.
Where some sort of tale
Awaits you in the clouds.

I was advised that roots are
Unreliable yet trustworthy. 
They might not show
Or barely grow
Where you need them to go
But they will be there
I’m not sure I know where they are
But I think I need them back.
For I am lost
And I think I need them back.
I know I said I’m fine
But I think I need them back.

Dragon Chase

The words were there,
So present, so loud
That even at a whisper
Or chuckle
They fly like roman candles.

The words made verse,
Verse that I’ve known.
Read, mulled over, read again and recited
But my own head and my own tenor
Had nothing on this.
My wildest imagination and
My most insane creation could not have prepared me
For these words. Like this.

These cannot be the same words.
Not the same letters that I know, 
They’ve never left me breathless
In my seat, still as a mirrored lake
Unable to breath for the ripple would be too much.
These cannot be mine, 
Because mine never harnessed my being
And strapped my body, locked forward in ties that stretched to that stage
Unable to move as the noise would be too much.
The words I’ve known didn’t melt me
If a glimpse should happen
Eye to eye.
Of course my eyes don’t matter, they’re not my eyes
But they’re eyes that happen to meet with those that just
Happen to be mine. 
He saw eyes and I’m sure they were mine.

Of course there are hundreds of others.
Eyes all fixated in the same direction
All feeling the same thing.
I’m not special no, 
But what that evening did,
Those words did,
That was special. 
As I sat in silence, in shock even
This person, this mirage of an idol
Walked steps that I heard, as if to be a real live human.
Not much taller than myself, funny that.
But real. Not on a screen of all sorts of size
And not in an article but flesh and blood.

My words will never do this to me,
Nor anyone else
No matter who recites.
I’m content in that, I’m not responsible for that happening
To anyone. 
My words would never sew this seed in someone
And lead them on a dragon chase
Down each path to a dead end and a mirror.
With the word ‘ha’ written in the steam. 
But his words would.
And they did.
And while the drama of it all mocks me now I will happily
Swim in the indentations that it left.
Quench in its memory. 
Drown in the knowledge
That it won’t happen again.

Blankets and Cowboys

The clouds are different here.
They lay low,
Blanket the land in woolen softness like a bed
That makes itself.

They invite a lie down
A cup of tea
A rest.
A quick little, harmless moment of peace
Before you sink to life below.

They’re not grand
Like back west where others of their kind
Climb mountains and challenge them their height.
Then make their own mountains of 
Vexation and wrath.

They comb low fields and hang in valleys
Concealing nature as she changes.
They threaten, a lot
Like a gang that rolls into town and
Stares you down as you feel 
The hot
Breath of theirs on your neck.

No, here they sprawl
And spread
Like a stretching cat on a radiator.
Like an old lumpy blanket
That won’t get thrown away.
They groan with a familiar complaint
But a comfortable one
‘It’s rather grey today’.
They hug you to protect
That fair fair skin from the sun;
It’s too harsh for you.
They deliver a watering to your allotment 
And hang droplets in the air to remind you 
Maybe you need watering too.

Yes the clouds are very different here.
They tuck the cities into bed
And hide their jewels from the eyes above. 
“If you must see them,
You must come down”.
They’re painted on the horizon
A folly to hide the tube.
“If you must see this
You must accept it all”
The coziest shade of grey
Is the one on the ceiling.

The Rest is Nothing

It’s the art of moving on
I suppose.
An art it truly is,
Equal parts calculation, meditation
And luck
Wrapped up in a dance on the edge of Beachy Head.

When I leap, do I leap too high? Too far?
Not enough. 
Am I moving in its rhythm or simply performing in a chorus that 
Everyone wants to hear.
There are many who would kill to dance this dance.

The joy of moving, and trusting your shift,
Enjoying your pride and beaming as your past watches on,
Its daggers far out of reach now. 
Out of sight.

Something is heard and my old self
It wails and cries and it leaves, looking back
Begging me to run.
Danger, again, please let’s run.
Those beats in my ears filling with 
White noise. 
Something is heard and I hold my own hand.
No one else can.

Mine and mine alone, come my friend.
I’m not all knowing,
Nor any wiser than you
But if we must trust anything
Trust that the few extra sleeps have given us more time.
More time to feel,
And know
Simply that we don’t.

Knowing is not comfort
For in knowledge there is fact
And one never lay their head on a plush bed of fact. 
Never slept a wink on that cement.
Comfort is hope
And it’s intention.
Intention from your soul and its soul.

The soul can’t see the way forward 
It doesn’t know those facts your eyes brag about
It doesn’t claim to understand the words your brain feeds your lips.
If we must not know then let us be comfortable
With the blank page. 
If we were to fill these lines with ink
With our energy
Then there is no room for anything else
No room for your bed.

This day is not graded and there’s no failing.
When the day ends no one asks
No one cares.
It is our battle and our war for our sanity
Our growth
And our spirit.
What we have done is plenty.
We are alive, the rest is nothing.
We awoke and we tried in some form
And each day a different form takes.
That’s enough?

I’ll hold my own hand,
Come with me.
I am not all knowing
We will never know.
Leave the map and book with promise and theory
Leave the should, the would and the must.
Sleep within the journey, or waste on the dreary
Take a feeling soul and trust.