As I cleaned my room,
I gathered up your forgotten trinkets
and runaway accessories,
and set them down atop the ledger,
open at the page – a conscious choice –
that notes the 10yr plan you suggested I explore;
each artifact displayed beside the dreams I’ll build with you.



It is not a “given thing”;
these words shall not be owned.
Your past may prove it tameable,
but love shall not be loaned,
or whored out for the price you paid
for failing to address
that value in your words ain’t made
by how they can undress.

My Intended Artistry

It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much staring at you
as bathing,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your colour,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.

I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.


If I could scream
for twenty minutes straight,
I’d still have so much left inside.
I long for love to tear me open,
rip and split the shell that hides
and strangles me till I can’t see.
It burns to even fucking breathe,
cos every word has brakes applied
and sings like stings in both my eyes,
and punches me from inside out,
a hammerfist fights through my chest;
it thumps and roars against the cage,
throws itself against the bars, and whimpers through its rage.
Witness here the ugly side to passionate enaction;
the equal, opposing forcefulness of raw and fierce reaction.

Let it breathe

Easy tiger
let it breathe, like wine;
the nose, I’m told, is key,
before your lips and teeth and claws,
before your heart and mind implore
that you embed and bury deep
and sink in deeply fruited sleep
– far down, far down, drink up or drown
or swim the viscous, ruby death,
and with your final, burning breath,
remember this: demise is sweet,
but death by love is still defeat.
Resist the urge, and take your time
to drink your love like fine red wine.


Don’t hold me back, or dare to slow;
why should I walk when all I want
is to be free of chains, and throw
each part of me at walls to see
if something sticks, and patterns show,
depicting just how fast to go,
or bleed in streaks – the colours speak
to what I must already know;
I cannot tell what love I seek,
but I shan’t enter soft nor weak.