this beautiful world
If the beautiful things in the world got lost
where would we be?
In some fictitious landscape
surrounded by people and trees,
a smile from a face would be lost
gone
without a trace.
Joy is missed
like a first kiss
or a summer’s day,
and the only thing left in the air
is anger
depression
and despair.
a hanging heart
You’ve got a lecherous interest
in my hanging heart.
I’ve got threadbare feelings,
but enough that I’m there.
Your wiry body
your pencil-thin legs,
wrapped around
my alcohol-hazed head.
My dispassionate haze
doesn’t drive you away.
Stringing along
the not so strong
is a game I’ve played
for far too long.
I’ve never before believed
that sex without love is ill conceived.
That ends here.
After tonight
the next time will be
with someone who’s right.
excavation games
Excavate your way
to the centre of my heart.
Crawl through the rubble,
the dirt,
the dust,
past all the slimy insects
that inhabit my body.
Be wary of my mouth,
my beguiling words,
for they seem to slip out
and strangulate
even the hardest
(of women).
My bones – fossils now –
will educate,
revealing stories,
divulging secrets,
and admitting to failures
that in life
were too shameful to concede.
Swim through my blood,
keeping your head raised;
use a fast front crawl
to avoid being sucked in
by the swirling current
of my dishonesty.
There’s an abscess swelling
on the surface of my gut,
walk tentatively,
making sure not to burst it
and allow the poison to spill out
and ruin it all.
And if... if you locate my heart,
please bring it back to being,
but be prepared to accept
my finite displays
of emotion
and interest.
pure-o
Scanning her memory,
she tries to pinpoint
where these thoughts came from.
There must be a remnant,
some sort of line to trace.
Visions so disgusting
so sick and abhorrent,
can’t simply just appear
from nowhere to here.
Expressions speaking of violence, murder, lust,
flash across the familiar faces
of the people she trusts.
Her misfiring brain keeps firing
as the visions are accompanied
by their own theme song,
a cackling cacophony
that drags her down.
Underneath she contemplates ending it all,
despite her grasp on reality depreciating daily.
Her mouth now controls her mind;
blasphemous thoughts transform into screams and shouts.
Now and again the disturbance will disappear,
her thoughts become true and clear.
Then a synapse misfires
and it starts again:
the fear of dying,
the fear of killing,
the fear of harming,
the fear of living.
She’s haunted by it all,
the horrific visions
pursuing her
day and night.
She feels repelled by herself,
by the fact her brain can act this way,
but it’s not her fault, and she cannot stop
the self-lacerating scenarios
that play on and on.
Perhaps, eventually, they will disappear,
her pure-o will be banished
her ghosts exorcised.
punching for the feeling
Punching walls
just to pass the time.
Blood on my knuckles,
it trickles and shines.
Cracking and crunching,
my bones are brittle,
fingers twisting.
My life is in trouble.
I need to feel something,
anything, other than pain.
I need to find love
or I’ll lash out again.
Someone find me
before it's too late.
If I could be loved
I know I’d be great.
fireworks
i could be the fire
i could be the flame
i could conquer your imagination
lose myself in your brain
we could be lovers
for more than one night
we could start fireworks
we could bring the light.
moths
the moths are attracted
to your eyes
big and bright
like lamps
or stars
celestially glowing
drawing them in
with your orange-blue stare.
mountains
Her cheeks are delicately moulded—
curving her face; blushed red and warm.
They’re mountain contours I desperately want to scale,
to kiss and touch and lick
and slide back down.
Gallant lips; plump and inviting
on a girl so nervous, who is visibly quaking
when she speaks. It’s an innocent tone,
a mellifluous voice that comforts my fall.
the island
Gazing out through my window
into the cloud-covered sky,
beams of sunlight break through
and gladden my eye.
I picture an island,
out of reach yet still near.
I walk to the shore
and begin to walk there.
On the beach I feel
the wet sand shift beneath
rubbish and chaos where
there never used to be any.
I will go to the island
and live there alone.
I will go to the island
and claim back my throne.
our rocks
The rocks we used to sit on
they seem like they’ve shrunk.
Remember, in the winter,
we’d build snowmen beside them,
and then sled down the hill.
And the trees on the border
of the ‘no ball games’ field
they’re still just as slanted.
When it was dry, we’d take turns,
running up the trunks,
and nest on the branches.
We’d still play football
in spite of the signs,
and kick balls into gardens,
and get told off
time after time
after time again.
Those rocks are yours.
Those rocks are mine.
Those rocks are ours.
We are brothers.
the river runs
Down from the esplanade
the river runs steady.
Boats bob abandoned
on the swell of the sea.
Ducklings, swans and gannets
call and dive and feed,
and squirrels sprint headlong
over ground and trees.
A shower of rain falls
and drips from the leaves.
People relinquish their walks
and run for shelter.
And through it all
the river still runs,
steady and strong,
to its eternal union
with the sea.