Wednesday, 27 November 2013

It's the cheekbones;
Hammocks for deep-set sunshine eyes
Glistening blue.
Playful breeze of hair across freckles,
Head down, gazing up.
Smiling, like a lazy bed.
I'm trying to write you out.
Not succeeding though.
They say catharsis is in the detail.
Not here.

How can I write you out?
I'm bleeding memories.
Every gelatinous image has a clear film.
Punctuating everything.

I toy with stopping.
But I can't.
This is a diary after all.
Nothing else here but pictures, songs, films, T.V programmes

All concerning you.
Simple reminders of shallow perfection.
Half want them to stop flashing.
Half don't.

Wednesday, 20 November 2013

i thought you found me
mildly amusing;
now the battle i rage with your heart
I'm losing.

Black Swan
Little Fockers
Scream 4
Source Code
New Years Eve
Hangover Part 2
Rise of the Planet of the Apes
The Change Up
Paranormal Activity 3
Tower Heist
Cabin in the Woods
Wrath of the Titans
Hall Pass
Star Wars Episode 1 3D
American Reunion
The Hunger Games
The Dark Knight Rises
The Bourne Legacy
Twilight - Breaking Dawn
Hangover 3
The Hobbit
Side Effects
The Host
Scary Movie 5
Iron Man 3


Sixty-four hours and thirty two minutes holding hands and whispering in the darkness.

Saturday, 16 November 2013

Ghost Walk

This flat held so much potential.
Now the space is deafening to sensitive ears
shouting tirades of death and mental illness
daily, hourly-weekly, hurriedly, incessantly.

Walking on the eggshells of that night,
one night, most nights in fact,

when I saw you green with dizziness,
without control,
my fear; your fear.
as if  spun in a washing machine.
One reliant upon the other.

I could not decipher the words oozing from your mouth,
I could not help you,
Could not see what you were showing me
or accept this apparition.
Mary Magdalene

a year to the day,
In every room,
I run my fingertips along
every step-by-step from bathroom wall to bedroom wall
every dog-scratched wall
every fingerprinted wall
every wall that holds this house together:

every dead wall breathes life into this unbearable loss.

Could not talk, speak, articulate, convey, illustrate.
Still can't.
just nonsense words and letters jumbled up on a non-concrete page.

To the bathroom then,
a wonky floorboard of immutable melancholy
squeaks harshly in the otherwise empty 3am.

Thursday, 7 November 2013


Its been long enough.
Though unnatural, dizzying ebb and flow remain.

And still, a swirling darkness 
sinks stone weight into my chest.
Hard to breathe,
A quiet craziness defines all life in light or shade.

All at sea,
every passing strobe of this lighthouse pulses pain,
Despairing in its blackness,
dissolving in its beam,
Between an ocean of mistakes
and our earth of haunted potential.

I can hear the surf against the rocks,
The taunting waves shaving a jagged, unstable shore:

'I'm Sorry.
        I need you.
 I'm Sorry.
        I love you.'

Other times,
Like ghosts,
We float with easy charm through corridors of memory,
Hands clasped together against the fog,

In scenes of PURE LOVE,
Where no one else exists,
Lost in our vaporized imaginations,
In time where none else can sail:

Just you and I,
The world atomised,
under our spell,
I strain my eyes to see in your perfect, Arctic starlight.

But always,
At morning, I wake,
And for one second,
I live:
For then we are still 'us'
And this ghost ship still sails North.


So with this ship,
I anchor myself,
though all at sea is lost.

For you are the Morning Star,
A direction home,
My only love.
Always in my sky,
Though much too far away.