losing my religion

i don't know how to tell you, so i suppose i'll say it here,
then at least i'm saying something...
even if its to no-one, in nothingness

i can't recall feeling this before, torn limb from limb
not in this way, not for someone, not ever
i was so used to being alone, my almost lover

but you left, and i am here; stagnant, stuck, collapsing
all the while wondering, how did this happen?
so how did it? really i've no idea

everything is falling now, and i am not brave, i am not strong
what will i do have, and to whom do i turn?
this hole is growing deeper and vaster still... burn, let it burn  

spaces in between

walking on strange shores, between unpleasant dreams
i sense you calling -  
softly, ever so softly
what do you whisper? i cannot make it out,
you're far, so very far now, perhaps you ought to shout?
are you a spectre? did i conjure you from vague recollection
half-memories and rust?

but waking will not banish you, i've half-remembered you before
never, ever, catching up - 
i feel your spirit, nothing more
do you understand, my phantom? why we cannot touch, nor speak
even in our waking lives, i am bound and mute 
in all those spaces in between

silence is my slow disease

was that supposed to be a compliment?

the master now, of retrospect, I wish to give my explanation
but silence is my slow disease, and ever my damnation. 
why did you play at make believe, when our paths first inter-crossed?  
do I bear a chain around my neck, my own white albatross? 
i'm running through the darkness and cannot find the way
the wind is howling bitterly, and we're caught up in the frey
... i do not have a game to play, i never mastered slight of hand... 
but, somehow, you seem to think that this is what I planned

we fought united, but we fought alone.

In the small hours, I’m the only one alive,
A clarity in loneliness and meaning to derive.
But the world wakens, I shrink, I shrink again,
No clarity, no joy, only vacancy and pain.

Veiled in the mirror, a soul I cannot see,
Just tired grey eyes which may belong to me.
I’m not cast from metal, nor hewn from stone,
I don’t want to be a loner, but I’m always alone.

call me cum-dumpster, call me a cunt.

i am the colourless sunrise.
i am the empty vessel.
i am the highway.

i am the nightshade
i am the wilting flower
i am the storm

i am the wind whispering
i am the earth turning
i am the bloodless smile

i am everything
i am nothing

I wrote on of these for my nephew. now i can write one for my niece.

on the day that you were born (forgive the terrible rhyme my little Amelia)

i had seen your big brother, all legs and arms and smiles, and i had spoken to your grandma, she'd been worried for a while. i was out and about, as busy as can be, but you were long away, and seemed very far to me. in a sudden rush, you came into this world, and a new hope, a new life, was unfurled. then i got to hold you, so small in my arms, i looked upon your face and was instantly charmed. my beautiful amelia, i'm so glad that you're here, the night is long away and there's nothing yet to fear.  

An Idea. A Darft.

I think I've been up for a while, I can no longer sleep at well night. For that matter, I can no longer sleep well in a bed, mine has been made-up with fresh linen for well over a week now, pristine as they day I made it. I've taken to napping in my favourite armchair, I can breathe more easily sitting upright. The armchair also has the advantage of prime locality, being close to the bathroom, which age has forced me to visit with alarming frequency, the kitchen and the only outfacing window in my apartment. As I have taken to spending long periods of the day staring out at the sky, and sleeping in the afternoon sun, the window has become increasingly important. It also comforts me to know that should I expire in my armchair, someone will probably notice... sooner or later.

  

I like this time of morning, still dark and soothingly quiet. Soon the neighbours will begin to wake, and with consciousness will come the muddled sound of dozens of televisions, and kettles, and microwaves - not to mention the first conversations and arguments of the day. I don't think the walls between the apartments here were bricked, like everything else in this place, inexpensive and easily replaced. In any case, the lives of the people who share this block of units, are relentlessly noisy. But for a short while, every morning, I am the only person alive in the world. The only sound comes from the whirring of the old, indomitable Kelvinator, and steady tick of the of the Bakelite clock, as noisy as it ever was.