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.


Atmosphere.

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I don’t want religion or anything outdated.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. 

Clockwork.

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. 

Home.

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. 

Outside, 
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 
Godlike, 
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.


Oasis.

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. 
Watching. 
Waiting... 
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. 

Otherwise, 
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.

Confession.

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?

Airborne.  

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. 


Retirement.

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. 
Live.


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.

Quagmire. 
 
Interrogate and survey 
hands that feed. 
Do you already know 
you don’t require 
what they display to offer? 
Or 
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. 


Ingot 

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.