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29 Saints and I

I love the fact

That I was completely unaware

As if I just hooted past

Towards the torrential rain

Of his tears

Charlie's nightmare

And a half

Stuffed into briefs

And slammed on

The bathroom floor

Where so recently

I saved the dirt

From it's bubbled ash

All disturbed

And dejected

Chocking on red wine

After the last line

And as I jumbled up

My few words

You so sympathetically

Understood

Our hats gone

And your fur on

We stumbled on

To my paisley

Safe and sound

With the Conchords on

Sæglópur

And to think

I almost did.

Only to revisit

Whatever it was

That didn't exist.

Brought here by

The self-sufficient lie

Of whips and

A self-destructive

Goodbye.

Underwater

A fox in flight

No matter what is wrong,

What is right.

To have your wit,

And my room

Darkly lit,

To resemble

Our submarine home.

Of course,

You would not remember.

After all,

I am but a haiku

To your long lost

Love.

But for a night,

We could fight

For what our parents

Did not.

Chrystal Hairy

We speak of love

As the ambers

Of my cancer

Eat up your covers.

But she tricks you,

In your serotonin fuelled nightmare

To think of me too

Our precious Amanda.

My lists and notes,

On the only - I've ever known,

In hope of things

That our commodity inspired

Fuck ups fuck up.

Plain Sailing Weather and all,

I'll be stuck forever

Trying to appease what little

There's left.

After you ask me to leave

And the effects have worn off.

Hamsters in Space

I sometimes think

as I sink into

my tremors and shakes

if you awake

and whisper

"…no capes…"

Some other

lucky thing

that won't sing

or smother.

What with me wanting

nothing.

But these thoughts,

are passing,

wrought of nought

that I desire, lest

what I sought

in your entire

chest.

And in any case,

everything is relative,

leather, lace,

hamsters in space.

So I'll meander down

existen reality,

quite incredibly.

Sky Divider

If I craved

something more

than I deserved,

then

I am sorry.

But you can't ask

so much

of Amanda and I.

Curled in a ball

of love and confusion,

the glass door

open, an illusion.

Overtly so,

far from operating,

in any real sense,

of the world.

You talk of what is,

and what is not,

as if I occupy

some space continuum

that does not.

Perhaps I have -

found -

that which you,

and the rest of the washed,

cannot.

Or, rather I,

and the great o'common

sleep

in our restless escape,

scattered in capes

with ladders and snakes.

Higher and higher,

a sky divider,

without the same harder.

But perhaps there is none,

just hard.

Engla Land

Walking back,

Past the explosion

Of literally the incentive

Inception of Jude.

Possibly somewhere

Lost between the

Thin mucus layer

Of sheets upon sheets

And derogatory terms.

Of them born, between

Flaking out,

Towards the damp,

The misty,

And oozing

From the nether regions

Of Engla Land.

Coated in the distilled

Blood of the He art,

Touching by its fingertips

Allt er margt.

For we are

Englar.

In the same way

That the café with

The bar

Opened past

The little things.

For chance

Implements the lingering

Of the grandiose.

Those that wait,

Being the Sun,

Slowly the choice

Haunt behind the

Rage of the bum.

Who, behind the steering wheel

- Lucy and diamonds -

Hoping you don't crash

And down

Awash.

Up you float,

Bright and tær,

And like

Fé and fire.

We agree upon

The certain time

By which we can

Retire.

A

Dunk my head in the

Dirty water

Again

and Again.

Spit in my face

And pretend I don't exist.

Like a hyped up

A

You know what I want.

But I am fucked off

Of your tumultuous, tumerous ways.

And I've already drowned

Too often.

But then,

Your insulted 'Thanks'.

What with the complete

Disregard

For my mere existence

As anything else

Than a used up...

Go fuck yourself.

My Fault

Where I, for

Once

Creeped to the ledge

And jumped.

And not in the sense

I had tried before.

Because I needed no

Neurofen-inspired kidney disasters,

No anti-medication,

No one two three,

And no Lucy, you see?

I'm not the type to be

Bitter

Or to shit

In the litter box.

So,

I'm proud?

Hypocritical somehow?

No, no, no,

You've got it all wrong

You twist it with your tongue

And expect me

To swallow it all down.

Because it's my fault

That she's the one.

Because it worked out

So great

Last time.

0. The Fool

I swear I Could smell you Last night. At a bar On the face of another.

And I could. The distinct outlines Of the spectre of Him. I hate it when He’s drunk. Dancing like an idiot.

Made up in my Mind, filling In the grave I dug as I Mispronounced Her.

I think I should stop, It swallows. Choking, filling My lungs.

All regret, Home-made temptation, Dancing. Like a fool. On edge.

Make Haste

Wake me up as I choke

On fags and gin,

On last night's outs and ins,

Tripping in on your

Vain thing.

An outright manic panic.

You live where I

Mostly die.

Air to turn to breath,

And Carbon Dioxide,

Whilst submerged deep

Make haste,

Existential crisis of the heart,

Thou art not.

But.

Still.

The haunting remedies

Where the empty space

Fills my nerves and dies

In silk and lace,

Drenched to the bone.

But.

Even so.

Who am I but gone

Before I come?

High strung

And won-over

By the promise of nothing.

But so is the case;

In a hurry to nowhere,

Make haste.

Like a deer in headlights,

You remain, astonished.

As the room covers our bodies

In cancerous water,

Until

I gasp once more

For Dear Mrs. Life

Who has treated us so kind.

The Burden of the English

You revolted

At my repulsion

Of your misdirection

At my hyped up passion

For the cause of us

Starkly replied,

'So am I'

But then why

Do you so despise

The respite

Of those who suffer

I sat by the ledge

And thought of

Kidney failures

And neurofen

So slow

So fast

One by one

Down they go

Water spilling

Because waste am I

And so why?

'Why not?'

Lucy's reply

One two three

Eight nine ten

This was the end

But why should I

Let you Mrs Ken

Decide whether I

Live or die

He said

'Don't Die Before I'

But why should I

Burden the English

After all,

You feed me

You clothe me

I kill your soldiers

No?

5AM 101

Important people shout

And fucking moan,

Screaming for something

Less than redemption.

Not an attitude to understand,

Nor admire.

This has neither the

Honour nor Dignity

Of Sodom and Gomorrah,

But rather the 'me'

Of Irene and I.

Don't make eye-contact,

Don't shudder,

More than broken glass

Litters these streets,

Like the ever-glowing disgust

Of your cigarette burnt sheets.

White pimp suit, do I know you?

Did we play doctor and nurse?

Run up the mount and

Play at war?

The endless game

Of hide and fuck.

Ends to giggling nonsense,

Glowing between your forefinger and so,

Shouting, spewing

Your non-sensical sperm-infested words.

As if now,

Welcome to the Real World,

What we so negligently

Prepared you for.

Cupboard and 'Drobe

Strapped to the mast

And fastened as

The Seven are

To the Stars

Grasping, thunderous gasping,

The moth-eaten and dead

Sunk on silken see-bed

Taut linen skin.

Stripped from the Drunken Hallowed

Cupboard and 'Drobe

Skeletons unfounded in their

Polyester folds

Charlie and the Fucks

You can break eggs

And they’re twins.

So, when I drop you,

And I listen to you

In your intimate moments,

Who’s the one that dies?

The fingers stretch and sigh

And I retch and lie

To your shit-ridden bed

And your friends.

Who are my friends.

Means to ends.

Charlie and the Fucks.

My incest, your incense,

Your oils and her folds,

I have never loved you more.

And yet.

Hate me for who I am,

Not for who.

I think you know,

And yet.

Seem ignorant or so.

I wake up

In his submarine home.

With last nights dregs

And whines and moans.

Drowning.

I die and flow,

Nowhere to say,

Or. Gone.

Apartheid and illusion,

Childhood delusion.

The single, the double.

And yet.

Charlie and the fucks,

In their funeral amorous

Disability.

And yet.

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