Even angels get lost.

Fallen angelic souls
wander infinite streets.
Eyes blinded
by opaque windows of time.

Lost in the frost
of morning light
searching for love.

They hide halos
in their back pockets
as their hearts weep bruised
underneath the devil's boots.


Blue fireflies
rise up
to the twilight.

Singing quietly
over docks, rivers,
towns and countries.

Lighting up
edges of the earth,
like a shield. 

Hush your gums.

Keep it quiet
keep it secret.
Never grant neighbors
to hear of it.

They already attempt to listen
through paper-thin walls as it is.
They're metal detectors
bewitched towards us
for gossip.

Expecting our lives
to be dramatic and exploited.
if not they’ll force
alienation upon us.

Only, I enjoy silence past midnight.
When they sleep I pirouette in the street.
Living marvelously without them
sticking their intrusive noses in. 

Director’s cut.

I feel like an actor receiving scripts for a drama.
I’m extremely fed up of that role.
Send me something different.
A heroic novel, comical sequel,
action or thriller,
a lad’s weekend away like an Inbetweener.

Something exciting not depressing full of inspiration without frustration,
I am not into SCI-FI because it’s too confusing.
Suspense...I can handle,
but living how I have been recently
no one deserves that kind of black comedy.

Place me in a romantic story.
I’ve lost my patience so don’t give me a mystery.
I need to get away from poverty seriously.
I’m drowning in a sea of reality TV and documentaries.

I don’t want war or anything X-rated.
I don’t want religion or anything outdated.
I much prefer Back To The Future,
changing the path that I have created.

I wanted to give love a go
but it died with chivalry long ago.
So I guess I am stuck in this ...
drama soap. 

Every night there is a cloud that sneakily breathes past my house.
It is the same one I promise I’m not going nuts,
my eyes never leave that spot.
Same time, Same place.
Like clockwork.

Love was once young.

Love notes loiter in the bottom draw of my chest.
The paint that spilt still stains my insides as a mistaken masterpiece.
It’s hung up by my ribcage watching over
as the protector of my heart. 


I memorize
these streets,
the stones on the roads.

For when I am lost inside
I can still find
my way home.

Subtitled lips.

I study her reserved lipstick-less lips.
Shame smothered so heavily and unavoidable
holding the room’s atmosphere ransom.

You can’t be proud;
my achievements barely fill this pint glass.
Guilt maliciously slides its frosty blade
twisting inside my skin.

Each day it bites penetrating closer
towards my last beating organ.
I apologize for my conditions
and how invisible things
physically hold me down.

I wish I were
a better son
a better friend.

But I’m not
so we all pretend
while we walk separately...

towards my bitter end. 

The Romantics.

The dying breed will soon be described as pity soldiers.
Pubs will be covered with veterans
leaving bloodstained coats on stalls higher than their esteem.
Every soldier has his or her story of the lost wars.
Although said slightly different each time, they sound so similar.

Is there ever a victory behind enemy lines of love?

My abyss.

My world unstructured,
what day is it
when it’s always night.

I sleep, wake for dinner,
aimlessly drink and stare
till I see nothing.

This isn’t a dungeon
but switches are off,
curtains are drawn.

Living in bed,
I cant remember
either dusk or dawn.

I hear bitches moan
and cars awfully cry.

I wish for silence,
maybe then
I could write.

I occasionally listen to rain,
other times I put everything on mute.
Life has become trite.

I don’t want to be disturbed
I thought you knew.
Go about your day

I don’t intrude,
so why should you?

I was God for a day.

Dust disturbingly floated across my room,
like microscopic planes with distinct destinations.

I felt
striking down at the altitude

changing direction by projecting wind from my arms.
Providing them with uncontrollable turbulence.
Or have I just been in this room for too long.


Earth wanders
in this desert universe
so I possess a curse of tolerating reality,
like watching paint dry.

Soulless men scream for prosperity
egocentric ladies groan for everything
while children squeal songs and tones.
They are the happiest of beings,
before realization sinks in.

I sit on a barbed wire fence
in the mouth of the devil.
For the oasis to dry.

Snakes and ladders.

"They were causing anarchy outside."
Now, I rest at my desk
trying to capture everything
through my keyboard or fountain pen.

They sang,
chanted and protested
when others stayed inside,
swallowing political lies
like sharpened knives
slicing fragile throats
disguised as good.

Hatred fueled democracy
Blood was spilt in name of religions, ethnicity,
sexual orientation, materials, power and greed.
History making referendums, Brexit, horrifying terrorism
and realistic threats of abolished United Kingdom.

I cannot fathom this regression.
We’ve taken one step forward
to stupidly dive five steps back. 

Unanswerable questions.

Would you love me again
if I set the world aflame?

Would you love me
if yellow flowers
could live forever behind windows
of flats above our heads?

Could you forgive like a righteous soul?
By giving a second chance to an arsehole.

Would you allow possible happiness
to accompany us in the same room?
I detest this awkwardness.

Eyes that say
“Come close”
But lips that say
“Please go”.

Would you hold my clammy hands again
to calm down the ride of my anxiety
that pushed us away in the first place?

If only we could have loved each other like we never had our hearts broken.

Start again.

You can do it friend.
That spark you once had
in your chest
in your head
hasn’t gone yet.

Don’t let age wither your motivation.
Refuse negativity to surround and pin you down
against your seat.
Rip yourself up,
even if you bleed.

what’s the point?
You’ll regret it if you don’t,

just like me. 

Guiding stars.

During that day
the thought of you
gave me strength.

Let me come home
to you some time,
to cuddle up and unwind.

Pull the blinds together
and shut the world out.
We only need each other for now.

I’ll sketch your name with stars,
so endless nights can show how you caught my eye,
like a lighthouse in the sky.

Visiting hours.

Let’s drink
to chase the sun.
Recollect old thoughts.

Tear down walls.
Lock doors of no purpose
that are hard to close when sober.

Speak freely from god-like heights,
smiting and defining
all our sins.

Underneath the skin and bone
of a mere human being.
The once pure soul is left damaged and stranded.

I find it fascinating
that cemeteries dance
when everybody’s asleep

Access denied.

When I come face to face
with bouncers of heaven.
I’ll be wearing ripped trainers
and out of style jogging bottoms.

For I know already
I’ll never meet expectations
on rules for entry.

I’ll whimsically watch
people sneak in wearing sheep masks
and not be envious.

I’ll cotch for the next departing bus
to deliver me down
where rejected angels reside.


I still have overbearing nightmares
about what happened as a defenceless child.

I should have forgotten about it by now
like the old police document, brushed away and filed.

But for many years I've felt like an actor.
Not quite Hollywood just some terrible BBC soap opera.

Changing my name and place
but still tolerating the same old face

I miss how it all once was…

Broken heart.

Broken heart after broken heart
where is this thing called love?
I’ve looked under beds and behind sofas
there’s still no sign of her.

She vanished
like an enthusiastic magician;
everyone can see
the performance but me.

I idiotically believe every trick I see.
I'm stunned alone
after the rest of the audience
has already gone home.

Broken heart after broken heart
where is this thing called love?
I've looked in many different forms;
it's just my luck, that I am never enough.

I try and try
until my skin draws blood.
Through thick and thin
just to be loved.

I am a runaway clown
in this circus left dazed,
percussing my head.

All efforts are becoming
demolished and irretrievable.
Why mend something that’s going to get broke again?


I’ve become
difficult to love.

Like a cushion
losing it’s comfort.

I’ve become a street rat
among household pets.

She now breathes me in
instead of cigarettes. 

Oh you.

“I hear you write poetry”
Grinning intently.
“I’ve got a poem for you”

They often recite
a meaningless piece
barely strung together
for a smutty joke.

I smile with hatred
for the thousands of poets
that has to deal
with the same Neanderthals. 


I was foolish chasing it;
in a moment of weakness
I dived into a fervid pit of chance.

I hunted a slippery myth
like gold at the end of a rainbow.
I now watch others in the same race.

I wish I could collapse wisdom
I’ve learnt from my own retirement
but I know they won’t listen.

They are hungry for it, as was I.
Maybe I’ll meet them at a bar in a few years’ time,
to share stories and wounds

of both our committed crimes. 

A traveller's guide.

Those dreams can’t chase themselves.
Pack your bag
go further than the end of your road.
Do exactly what others wont.
Don’t just exist.

Winter blues.

Hibernation’s the only logical escape.
Winter is coming
and I am feeling gloomier than yesterday.

I watch our sun long jump
across our wide sky,
to win an Olympic gold.

I smell delicious dinners and perfumes
clogging up our filthy complacent streets.
Children apparently live here but it’s deadly quiet.

The new age of technology
is a silent killer of
creative joy.


Interrogate and survey
hands that feed.
Do you already know
you don’t require
what they display to offer?
do you lay down
numbingly welcoming
force-fed garbage,
trusting that you can’t cope
without their flavored splendor?

Forever young.

I’ve now got to be intelligent about situations.
Act my age
like I know what the hell I am doing.

I think once upon a time I had everything under control.
I was a responsibility-free toddler living in Rookery close.
I didn’t know it back then but that was the best I’ll ever have it.

These days I latch onto sweet memories
as if they currently owe me something.
I miss out on what’s presently around.

I am petrified to take on our phenomenal unknown.
Because my heart is confused
and believes it’s still so young.

Pottery class.

Her absence was unconsciously desired.
He knew she wasn’t exactly
what he required
so he kept himself distant
on autopilot.

Drifting for days
forcing all kinds of mileage.
Breaking down at pivotal moments
till he decided.

To neither be obliged
nor ponder to be blind or whipped
like a common criminal or slave.

But to be liberated besotted,
chase butterflies and creepy crawlies.
Not to settle with insecurities
or fragile human pottery.

But own strong colorful stones
and golden bricks
like royalty. 


What’s wonderful is she dances to my sadness.
Without a single brush from skin
I feel her in my corner
ready to confront anything.

Love once felt like a touch of gold
heavy lifeless and cold.
She turned it lukewarm,
making this our song.