in this heart

there are tears here
and laughter that still hurts my sides.
there is my daughter's voice
and my son's infectious laugh.
there's a first love,
found in a school disco;
as blondie talked about hearts of glass.
in the shadows there are goodbyes,
some final,
all painful.
but there are fresh first kisses here too
and stale drunken promises
that were broken before they were spoken.
I have a thousand and one faces
from twenty thousand days.
there are places torn from context
and buried in the amber of time.
half forgotten jokes
and fragments of memories,
that twist themselves
into my dreams like knives.
but this heart knows me
better than I know myself.
for when I am weighed down
by doubt or loneliness.
it reminds me that there is still space to fill
and the time to fill it.

my lament

she was my mother.
as a child I recall
her dressing me
and brushing my hair before school.
she even flattened a cowlick once
with the quick lick of her thumb.
there was always food on my plate
and a warm bed.
christmas was pillow cases full of toys
and easter was a wall of chocolcate eggs.
I used to sneak into their bedroom some nights
and sleep between them.
my mum.
my dad.
he is gone now.
reduced to ashes in a box.
whilst she just sits there.
her mind wiped of memories.
her stare empty of recognition.
one is dead.
one is missing.
but both are gone.

what they changed in me

for one I became a vegetarian
for one I prostituted my soul
for one I abandoned mozart
for one I moved over to the right side of the bed
for one I lost weight
for one I started learning a new language
for one I started watching soaps
for one I become a catholic
but I am fucked if I know
what they changed for me.

when I am gone

I am a shadow now,
a faded signature in a
birthday card I gave you
when you were eight.
my voice is thrown into your past,
faintly heard but indistinguishable.
yet one day
memories will surface,
triggered by deadpool
or brides with samurai swords.
then you'll hear me again
and as you tell these old stories
to a generation I will never know,
that aspect of your eye
that holds our history
will hold us both again.
I will watch you as you talk about me
and smile as you paint my flesh to bones.
then when these tales are told
and you start to pack them away,
I will step closer and remind you
of what binds you to me
and me to you.

everything in life dissolves, Frances.

everything but love.



(For my Niece)

dust

end this
before fire consumes
my world.
end this
before time unravels
within my empty spaces.
end this
before my mind
unfolds logic
within the infinity
of a single choice.

end this.
end it now.

and let the dust of time
hide it from us both.

the black queen

there's a ghost
in this bed,
half lost in shadows
and encroaching night.
I think I know her
and sometimes
I even feel her name upon my lips.
but I am too scared to speak
for fear she will leave me.
within the outline of a gentle smile
and with eyes that are pure darkness
she forms besides me.
in silence her arms welcome me
with a touch that is both
cold and alluring
and some nights I lay
as still as death itself,
as she wraps herself
around me
and squeezes out the
last light in my eyes.
as sleep slowly engulfs me,
I yield to this black queen.
then,
only then,
do I finally hear her voice
"fall into me, my love" she whispers
and I do

who am I (part 2)

constructed from
worn out plastic parts.
tap dancing
to a cello
on quicksand.
or riding blind 
on an emotional unicycle.

immorally centered 
and walking alone within a crowd.

fuelled by an empty meth tank,

whilst sexually garaged in my guilt.
wheel-less and perched on bricks,
whilst philosophically awaiting for a bus
that doesn't stop.

that's me.

basically fucked.

but always fervently optimistic.

those who held the brushes

I always wanted to be an artist. At a very early age I was left in awe of the great works of art, hanging in the London galleries. As I got older I realised that the imagery in these paintings was not the only reason for my desire to paint. It was the years that this paint had aged in its pigment. Looking at paintings for me was about context and history. These were relics from our past. Crude snapshots of moments we can only imagine.

Today we drown in selfies and short videos. Painting is more abstract as modern technology can capture reality more clearly than the human eye can perceive it. How we record time now is also clinical and devoid of passion. The galleries have emptied now and although a rare Picasso will cause a stir. We do not yearn for old warships caught in sunsets or ballerinas practising on dusty wooden floors. We prefer instead to mentally ingest half naked celebrities trapped within pouty lipped selfies. We add likes and hearts. We pile upon these shallow few the gratitude of our ignorance; for art is truly dead.

I still visit these galleries and I still stand there, mostly alone. Then before these great masters I offer my heart and my humble gratitude. For these artists who held a brush and whose eye was the conduit for their emotions and the beauty they witnessed, were in truth the purest souls in our world. Not knowing that they were also the harbingers of our digital doom.

where do I go wrong?

1. narcissist
2. selfish
3. cold
4. cruel
5. insensitive
 

for some 

these are traits to avoid,

for me

they appear to be

a fucking shopping list

(I had a moment. A very lucid moment about a woman who was just one in a long line of women. I stood back. I pulled them all out of the darkness and looked at them. My conclusion was clear. I am a fucking idiot.... no more. )

my logic

Me: "Should I give up on her, God? Just give me a sign. Any sign. I'll be waiting."

God: Chernobyl forest fires, Krakatoa erupts, Global Pandemic.

Me: *calls her*