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Each night, whilst I sleep a man comes into my room.

He makes me a little bit taller

and a little bit stronger

and a little bit hairier

                                until
                                      one
                                            day:

“Actually, deep frying with extra virgin olive oil is really good for you.”

And I feel sick.

For You, My Darling Wife

I watch as the black and blue

of your make-up

becomes wet and reveals the

blue and black of your bruises.

I envy your pouting, painted lips.

I pray for your manicured nails

and £60 cut and colour.

I long to wear your short dress

and have a cunt as beautifully trim

as yours is.

Though I will sleep well tonight,

content and secure in the knowledge

that tomorrow you will not need

to be asked a third time.

The Masochist in the Mirror

I look into the mirror and see a weak copy

of a man that never exceeded mediocrity.

I raise the blade and know what must be done.

It will only get worse.

The longer I wait

the more pain I put myself through later.

The blade offers redemption to my flesh

and with one clean cut I can start afresh.

I know time, like everything else, is against me;

holding my hand steadies my trembling breath.

My fingers tense and I start to cu-

Knock

           Knock

                      Knock

             A short sigh fills the longs space between man and mirror.

You have ruined my moment.
 

I will have to shave tomorrow.

A Year, Four seasons

I.

When prying rays burn

during

long

and

tiresome

days,

I will hide

inside the shadows

of the tree that weeps

over a mercurial river.
 

At night, we emerge from hiding;

the cool evening is not enough

to satisfy our fickle bodies.

We ignite each other with

a sadistic fury.
 

II.

The last tears tears begin to fall

and our sanctuary has become

exposed.

Tired leaves curl away from the world;

pigments change and they drop

upon the cool earth,

breaking with a

crunch.

We are limp;

dark clouds obscure our love.

You roll out of bed

and I let your naked body

sink into the ash stained carpet.
 

III.

The river no longer basks lazily

in the sun. Its blood runs

cold and hungry.

I look to the sky for

powdered angels to come

and burn my face with

an icy kiss. My prayers are

unanswered.

The world is covered

in nothing.
 

Your body is stiff, frozen.

I offer my warmth under

the king size goose down duvet.

You shiver at the

distance of my touch.
 

IV.

The dead have faded

from memory and the willow

mourns the wild resurgence.

Bulbs alight with

white,

yellow,

orange,

but the world is more naïve than ever.

April fools wake us

from our nightmare.

We convulse in pleasure

and our limbs are a tangle

of untended branches.

I am soon discarded

amongst broken condoms and

the suffocating butts of a thousand cigarettes.

You lie with another and

forget you need my love.

Alcoholiday

I’m on a mini-bar-break;

a short booze cruise in a

Cosmopolitan setting.

I picked up a white Russian girl named Stella.

She was at a Hoegaarden recommended

to me by an Americano down by the port,

-he claimed to be the Kingfisher,

and then we got Whiskey on the rocks.

I Long Island Ice Tea bagged her, then said

I’d liquor until she Creme du Menthes

but we just had Sex on the Beach.

After our Sloe Comfortable Screw- once she’d

finished her Flaming Orgasm and I’d Rum ‘n’ Cider,

I threw her away with a Singapore Sling

and went to meet Margerita.

Once I’d Leffe the Old Fashioned

restaurant, just outside of Manhattan,

with my stomach feeling much Fuller’s,

I went back to the Coors of the city

because Amstel wide awake.

By this time I was a little older Budweiser.

I avoided the Quick Fuck with a

Red Headed Slut because I have a

Red Stripe on my Screwdriver.

I lied to Dr. Pepper and told him it

was a Snakebite, a Cobra I said.

He gave me the Bishop’s Finger

and told me to avoid Rusty Nails.

I’ll stay just one more night,

until the Tequila Sunrises

and then I’ll catch a B-52 outta here.

Summer

I long to see Summer, to

gaze into her glorious blues

and watch her gentle sway.

I want to rub at the mosquito bites

which develop so quickly

and feel soft new grass

on the tips of my fingers.

When the prying rays burn

during the

long

and

tiresome

days,

I will hide

in the shadows.

The nights are short.

Uncomfortable.

Hot.

The bed is sticky

with sweat and

broken dreams.

Stifled sighs.

It doesn’t last long.

Summer leaves

as quickly as she

comes.

I am alone.

Condemned

by the tears and

limpness of Autumn.

So, I had Fun Last Night

It had to be done.

I know

You know

But we did it.

You huffed

And you puffed

And I blew my-

Forget it.

Look,

I’m sorry.

I won’t ring

or e-mail

or swing by.

I won’t even text.

Why? Because I

am too busy.

am going away.

was just really drunk.

don’t care

am a dick.

am a practising homosexual.

Because I just got out of a serious relationship and can’t go through the pain again.

Listen, last night was great.

If I’m ever

If you’re ever

Cool.

Welcome to the Happy Place

Close your eyes and count to four.

1… (Breath in through your nose)

2… (And out through your mouth)

3… (And in)

4… (And back out again)

Now, go to your happy place.

The place where you don’t pretend,

you are happy.

You walk through some woods;

you feel calm and relaxed.

You are all alone.

The tall trees are not smeared thick

with missed opportunity.

The soft earth is not made from

the shit that you keep telling

yourself that you believe.

The air in your lungs doesn’t get

bottled up until you feel like

you could choke at any moment

No.

In this place she doesn’t exist.

And you are happy.

In this world you don’t love her.

And you are happy.

Here, she won’t be all you think about

for every single second. She won’t take up so much of your thoughts that you cannot think of anything or anyone else and how much it hurts to know that you can never tell her how you feelorthatyouthinkitwouldbebetterforyoutonotevenbefriendsanymorebecausethesightofhermakesyouwanttoholdherinyourarmsandkissherandtellherthatyoulovehersomuch.

And you are happy.

Because this is your happy place.

The place that she can never be.

I watch as the black and blue

Of your make-up

Becomes wet and reveals the

Blue and black of your bruises.

I envy your pouting, painted lips.

I pray for your manicured nails

And £60 cut and colour.

I long to wear your short dress

And have a cunt as beautifully trim

As yours is.

Though I will sleep well tonight,

Content and secure in the knowledge

That tomorrow you will not need

To be asked a third time.

Ignorance Is Bliss

If ignorance is bliss,

then what the fuck

is this?

The coin has flipped

and now your head

is in the dark,

in the dirt.

No, you don’t know

that I know.

I dare not speak,

I dare not utter the words

that course through

your arterial secret and

give it life.

I cannot un-see.

Your silent images

leave the back of my skull

with a simple

klick-klack delete.