Tuesday, 4 September 2018

Why Wouldn't You Love Me?

Excuse me if I don't get it
Excuse me if I think you'll regret it
Excuse me if my face doesn't fit into your Instagram aesthetic
Excuse me if you find my writing increasingly bathetic
But my love could be perfect for you if you just let it

So let it
And yesterday?
Forget it

You've just got to keep moving
It doesn't matter if you're merely ageing or actually improving
Don't analyze it
You've just got to keep going
We know our end destination
But the roads we have to take along the way
We've no way of knowing

But please
Do us both a favour
And take them with me.

Sunday, 26 August 2018


Imagine being born to wealth and never needing a thing. 
What a marvelously horrid child must inevitably spring. 
What a way to live your life - devoid of all suffering, 
Devoid of the growth, the aspiration and the hope that it brings. 

So whenever you see a rich christian - my friend do not be stumped. 
We are all just rats, but some of us are born at the dump. 

A rat born at the dump doesn't know the torture, 
Of living life on constant edge from the impending threat of slaughter
It doesn't know what sacrifice is.
It doesn't know that bad choices have consequences. 
It doesn't know what it feels like to hunger,
To cry in the cold whilst the sky cracks with thunder
To want something desperately just to see it be plundered
Or to watch someone wealthy want for nothing in wonder

So pity it, as you see it cavorting upon a yacht off the coast of Spain
Pity it, as you nurse your nugget of existential pain
Pity it, as perfect as it seems -
Life is even more miserable with no sadness in between.

So whenever you see a rich conservative talking enthusiastically about Trump -
Remember we are all just rats, but some of us are born at the dump. 


I'm horrible. I'm starving.
I'm growing up as no one's darling -
I feed on dirt and crumbs
Decidedly dumb:
Living lonely takes one's tongue.
And I rub against the world until I'm done
Until my final song is sung.

Wednesday, 22 August 2018

Onslow Knows Now He's Kicked The Bucket

I miss the silence
The window box on my sill growing hyacinth and violets
The way the sun shone in and looked for me
Wondering warmly what I might like to be

Now it's dark and the noises in my mind
Ask me constant questions about the emptiness I hold inside
And the misery has eaten away at all my time
All that time wasted fighting my own mind

The sun no longer looks for me where I hide
And no one on earth would even notice if I died.

I Guess We'll Call Him Spike

Everyone has left you and so you desperately hope
That you will find yourself at the bottom of a bottle instead of at the end of a rope
And you would laugh at yourself but irony says that on the sounds you'll choke
And anyway, you're sick of everyone acting as if life is just a joke
So you lay on the floor wondering if the ceiling will give you what you crave
Collapse and send a beam of wood hurtling halfway through your brain

Thursday, 9 August 2018

Bless This Mess

It's a mess. Low down within her chest. It's a mess. It's butterflies churning and flying pests.
It's the world against her heart - her zest. It's twisting her up and causing her distress. It's a mess. She'll never think that she is blessed. She'll never allow herself to rest. She's pressed, some days she can barely bring herself to dress, she's stifled by the agitating stress, of wondering why everyone is so possessed, to achieve and accomplish such finesse. It's like they were all given answers but all she can ever do is guess.


I'm over it, I'm over you. I've finished feeling like we should be one not two. I've finished feeling - there's clots in my heart. I've finished feeling like we should never be apart. I've finished with lies and I'm finished with life. I've finished feeling like you should be my wife. I've finished with trying, doing, drudging, stalling. I'm finished with breathing, all I want to be is falling.