dear you

and we ate all the late night pizza that our teeth could swallow
and we watched all the late night shows that our eyes allowed
and we drank all the bottles that our wallets could afford (which wasn't very much back then)
and we held tight when everything so right seemed so far away.
and we ate noodles in the evening (and the morning and for lunch)
and we watched the same shows twice a day
and we laughed about the same jokes which really weren't that funny
and we stayed up later just to prove a mooted, muted point.
and we never thought to say goodbye
and we never thought to stay in touch because we always would be
and we never needed words to say just how we felt
and we never made the plans we'd planned to make
and we never took the steps they wanted us to take
and we always smiled and never growled
and we always argued, never shouted,
and we always danced to stupid songs
and we always slept in late and woke up later
and we always locked the front back door before the morning rose.
and we rarely tidied up
and we barely caught the sunrise
and we rarely took the rubbish out
and we never ever cleaned the kitchen floor.
but tonight i'm drinking bleach
and sucking tongues
and feeling young despite my age
and remembering the times when we were here together
and we ate all the late night pizza that our yellow teeth could swallow
with no thoughts of tomorrow or the next day or the last.

memories make movies

drunk in my room - and cold as well -
i hide from the moon that sits behind the curtains.
hero worship at this age was never my idea,
but still my shoulders shake - from temperature, in awe -
because you saw more than i could ever see, have ever seen, will ever be.
don't wake me up from this pathetic dream.
don't call me names that i'm unfit to be.
don't run away from everything that i failed more than you to see.
the vodka makes night darker,
makes teeth clatter in the inside breeze,
makes hidden thoughts reveal themselves too real - and then to reel.
memories make movies,
but the kind always forgotten,
like the morning after the night your parents die.
better off alone and sworn to secrecy.
cry yourself to sleep to childlike lullabies.

as empty as

on a dusty typewriter
devoid of ribbon
lacking in black
i type to write
but fail,
as much on paper as in mind.

nothing more to say
perhaps
or just no other way to say it.
see, we went through all the motions
all the trials and tribulations
of late night early morning phone calls
and an eternity of desperation -
pleading
crying
begging
faking
swearing
lying
hating
shouting
gently gently gently sobbing
into lonely palms no longer held by yours.

yet still, as centuries have passed
and generations died,
no change -
just left with nothing more
than daytime television,
memories and wine.

and so as
red and white denial breeds
red and white desire to
read and write words
that never will be seen

on a rusty typewriter
devoid of ribbon
yet never so black
i type to write
but fail,
my words as empty
as a starless winter sky
about to rain.

(2006)

dissolution

restless legs spite tired eyes.

3am and wide awake with thoughts

like crashing cars.

absence and regret collide inside

this acid stomach,

where all the words i swallowed

dissolve and turn to bile.

now forced past this bitter smile

every lie and love and decomposing line

is flushed away.

too early and too late to be awake.

too cold to be outside.

too old to be alive.

too young to be the bearer of bad tidings.

3.17am - i toss and turn and shake and hope

the nightmares are no worse when i'm asleep.

misread

you misread my words
and now there's nothing left to say.
try to speak my mind
but find that i'm too tongue tied.
thought we'd left the past behind
but it seems the future is the same -
it just has a different name.
yet i still see your eyes smile
as I close mine.
we never said
will never say
goodbye.

train home

pulled away into the night again
to head back into the past.
and this could be the last trip you ever make
if you would take the chance. you know i know you won't.
the city flickers like a candle in the windows,
orange winter streetlamp glow
until the bridges bend you into places you don't know.
a voice in your ears put thoughts in your head.
it feels like you haven't slept for years
and that christmas was last week, not next.
nobody to talk to but you don't want to listen anyway.
close your eyes and dream of new year's day.

november sunday, 3pm

cold, tired bones from open windows
give us headaches like the winter.
red wine stained and blood drained
on a sunday afternoon,
we pop paracetamol and aspirin
or whatever comes to hand
(all non-brand because it’s cheaper
and we can’t afford the names)
and count down the next four hours
as our teeth begin to ache.

the floor is stella-littered,
stale warmth in slightly dented cans.
and tonight could be our last night,
so we remember to each other
faces we’d forgotten and girls we thought we loved
to songs we fell asleep to so many years ago.
outside, alive, the sky dims like a slowly dying light
as we close our eyes to thoughts of staplers and spreadsheets
and the crazed and hazy line between what went wrong and right.