ii. 2/5/13

quiet now love, he whispers against
my hair. so tragically breathing
like we belong to one another. take my
heart and my hand; who needs chivalry
when you have fucking against cold
walls and solid unsteady promises.

you need to drink it all, you need to
take this in, before i take it all away.
who decides when the stars shine and
when the moon suggests that it’s night
now; who decides that god was a three
letter word for all mighty, and a synonym
for humanity living underneath a pedestal.

the wind is waging war on the leaves, 
singing the lyrics to destruction and the
man who pulls down the trees. you have to
be quiet whilst they take your words and
leave your lips quivering. i thought i saw
a man that had a heart of stone, feet of
grass and a face of a cliff edge. but he is
gone, whispering and waiting.


she smelt of disinfectant

burnt and bruised from
collapsing and crashing.
brushing her hands against
jails and cemeteries.

she laid down with the
dead and woke up with
the absent.

her hands were whittling
away, ribs so concave
with a heart so obscure.

once, she painted herself
in acrylic because she wanted
to start again. they wiped away
her skin to bring her back.

4-12-2012; iii

i wanted to be a disaster,

i thought he loved the
nights bruised, stars
unaligned whilst the tears

(whilst the blood fell
against porcelain frames
and hands shook)

i thought that was what
would make him stay until
the sun rose and lights
shone clinically against the
frozen background.

i thought he loved the
tragic failings of a damaged
gift, falling from the skies
and breathing shallow.

the bowl was full of lemons
and apples, whilst we stared
into nowhere, reading poetry
from the back of our hands
with our feet against the sky.

(i wanted to be everything,
that he adored and that
he held closer than warmth)

i wanted to be a disaster.

4-12-2012; ii

london looks beautiful,

when you have your
eyes closed; when you
can see nothing at all.

wander the streets,
come down into the
south east and taste

the freedom, (don’t
mention the crime) breathe
the myth, that ‘we’ are

so much more than you.

feel the allure of shoreditch,
camden or the bight lights
of piccadilly,

just don’t stay too long
or you’ll lose the high

and it’ll become another
grotty city with fucking
and overcrowded cemeteries.