Saturday, 4 July 2015


I wish that you would disappear...

Well, that's a god damn lie.

I wish that I could crawl through a wormhole into another dimension,
where I could remove every trace of you from my mind like a magician pulling colourful scarfs out from my mouth. Every shimmering shade, a different piece of you to forget.

I wander across the earth, yet there you are. I could find you in the blankest room, the blackest hole.
You're in me. that's the reason I know.
The wind howls.
Rain falls that could almost shatter glass.
Everything seems so violent.
So shiveringly beautiful.
And there you are.
In the midst of it all.
And it can only make sense.
For I find nothing more beautiful than you.


Sunday, 31 May 2015

As The Sky Turns From Constable To Turner.

...The magic word. Vulnerability. But I don't want to dwell upon it.

Is this the dreamers disease? The sky cracks open and I climb inside.
Into the flames that spill from a setting sun.
As were the first I'd ever seen.

Forgetting how the air feels without buildings rising up around our figures,
We dash through, Cradled in this coach. Protected still...but I dream.
Dream of how it would feel.
As the sun glows red across the fields.
I watch the sky turn from Constable to Turner.

Suddenly needing desperately - dewy grass beneath my naked feet.
When was the last time?

I don't know.

I return, days later...from the trip, to myself.
Bare feet in grass (not dewy but sun warm)
Trying to wrench out possibility.
Hah...I mind map...(desperately) key words that jump into my head.
Attempting to help them wander into something that could...
Lead to (fucking anything to be quite honest...) creation.
Does that sound wanky (in my head it sounds wanky)

"stick to's okay...."...
..."perhaps you're trying too hard to be more than you are...meant for?"...

Evil little motherfucker that lives inside my nervous system.
Needs to shut the fuck up.

But I cannot deny my lack of inspiration.
my lack of urge, need...want
Everything I need to say. I say.
I used to only see myself in drawings.
Like I was unreachable from myself any other way.
Now here I am, with only words.
Feeling somewhat like a flame, some kind of magic
Has gone out.
I'm left stabbing at its stone cold remnants,
I'm afraid, because I feel no heat.
See nothing to spark against.
Trying to bleed something out of every gallery visit.
Every beautiful walk.

But I've got nothing.

Do I need to content myself with that for now?
Do I need to fight, when I'm just so...
Goddamn tired of fighting.
For something I'm not convinced I'm meant for.

// I feel like calling this something melodramatic like
"death of an artist" :) //

" What if I never draw again?!!"

What if...( I already know the answer to this one. surprise surprise )
...what if, I am the only thing standing in my way?

Of course I fucking am.
Thank fuck I have a sense of humour for how much of a dick my wanky psyche /sub-conscious or what ever the fuck...can be.

But anyway.
Sun in my hair, toes in the grass.
Perhaps I should enjoy how empty I am.
Rest my poor little artless fingers...
For surely this will pass.
And if this is the worst...
How lucky I am.

I haven't a gut left to wrench.
Perhaps that's a lie.

..Perhaps that's the problem.

But lets not get started on my abject denial of vulnerability.

It would ruin the good mood.

Saturday, 23 May 2015

Answers I do not have.

...Every now and then, I search.
I type in your name to google and see what I can find.
See if I can find you. Any traces of your existence.

And today, there you are.
There is your face that I haven't seen in years.
How old were you then...the last time I saw you...

What can I say?
How do I begin?
Why should you want to know of me at all...
When you were probably too young to feel it as a loss of any kind.

My heart freezes.
I type no words, just in case they are the wrong ones.

I don't know what I can say

I don't know what I can say...


Thursday, 7 May 2015


Shall I begin?

"...My heart is a barren wasteland
Where things go to die... "

(7th March... A day of drama clearly... )

I pick up where I left off, almost...Almost a month later. My feelings...evolved?
Perhaps more set than ever. All the more terrifyingly certain.
I feel myself growing comfortable with it. This endless alone.
Those moments where it pricks at my eyes. It scrapes against my tenderness.
I like the way I hurt.
Hurt has worth. Hurt is safe. Just like old times.

"...My skin itches, my belly aches and grumbles.
I lie in bed too long. As though restrained.
I wait. Wait for the wonder to pass from me.
Staring out of the window. Passing clouds.
Turning a longing for air, Into...
Too late in the afternoon to leave.
To live."

A month ago. More than that...
Here I am sat in Foyles old Jazz café...
Having wondered (yes...wondered...) my way half way across the city.
In dreams. Dreams without sleep.
The best of dreams. I breathe real air. And my lungs...
Fill with love for all this existence. All this.
As though I had woken up somehow
from wherever it was I had been lost.

A Million Little Things, None Of Them You

Stop looking for him.
He does not exist.
He's gone.
And this love is just a scar to run your fingers across
Savouring pain where no sweetness can be.
He does not miss your bones as you miss his.
He lies awake at night thinking of a million things
And none of them are you.

Monday, 4 May 2015

Never Really There.

I take the train to the other side of London...
Some people go out running to decipher things
Their brains are unwilling to give up easily to them.
I sit in silence, I walk. I watch other people -
With awe and love and...understanding.
Finally I stumble upon forgiveness.
That was held out of reach because of the tangle of pain
In the way. Enough love will mend
The most broken of things.
The most wounded of hearts.

Maybe he knew that he was leaving.
Perhaps he was always leaving, or...
Perhaps he was never really there.
He didn't want us to hold on to him,
So tight. Maybe now I understand it.
How it's possible for someone to leave you,
Even though they love you.
How being responsible for another tiny being
Can scare you utterly shitless. By showing you yourself.
Somehow you think that by the time you have children,
You will not be vulnerable anymore.
How doing the best thing, can be the worst
Depending on perspective.

Long ago I learnt,
To be alone.
Even when I wasn't.
It was the only way to stop people leaving.
The only way not to be the one who left.

Never exist anywhere deeply enough to root.
Leave when it begins to feel,
That leaving will rip out your heart.
As punishment.
For trying to escape your ingrained solitude.
It's a learning curve.
The further I get from the lesson,
The harder I spring back.
People will devour you if you let them...
You devour yourself instead.

But however strongly I long to stay hidden
I long more to feel safe being found.


Friday, 27 March 2015


I've been in bed all day not feeling like facing the outside world. which admittedly looked rather dashing through my half drawn curtains...But ahhhhh, the effort in going out there. In looking acceptable. in putting one exhausted foot in front of the other. In worrying that it won't be cold enough to keep my hat on, for I haven't bothered to wash my hair. But now, it's grown dusky.
And I, have grown tetchy. As always occurs. I never learn from these episodes of cabin fever.
But I am about to embark on a journey,...
A mission. Of great psychological importance.
I need chocolate. Or I may have a breakdown.
Thusly I must away...

The air is fresh, could be described as pleasant even if it weren't for all this awkward repressed sadness. Tesco is too bright by comparison to the night I walk in from. The scientific term for how I feel is "icky" . There are however many other strange people here on a Friday night...umm, Thank goodness?...
I feel ashamed with my unhealthy intended purchases as I look up to see a tall handsome man, who looks like he's just spent the last few hours doing something unbelievably athletic and wholesome.
He smiles at me, but here I am - imagining it to be the same smile he would give to an elderly person, or perhaps a poor little limp puppy.
I see all these sad faces. And wonder what all this is for.
I pass people on their way home, laden with heavy bags. Misery written upon their tired faces.
There must be another way. A way off the grid set out for us.
I feel this intense need to do something important - to make some kind of dent.
I get home. I swiftly eat through half a tub of Ben & Jerry's, and wish I had bought something more lasting.
I could have left the house today, I could have seen things, gone places...
Not let these four walls draw in upon me with their melancholy and accusation.
But for this tiredness that still creeps all over my skin.
I do not forgive myself the cold that pricks the back of my throat with every swallow,
"Compassion" I promised I would have compassion for myself.
But I have forgotten it already?
Tomorrow will be different.
I'll forgive myself for all my weak humanity then.

Friday, 16 January 2015

These Dark Places.

The thing about trying to protect yourself from other people is...that it simply leaves you more time to attack yourself. You would never distance yourself without reason.
Someone somewhere has been an arsehole. Most likely several people. Maybe even yourself...
And of all people. You are best for the job. You know just where it hurts.
What will break you. No...once you get as far as pulling away from others for any extended period of time.
You're fucked. Unless you labour against it...
The battle to love enough the shittiness of other order to love your own.
That's the aim. In my heart I keep on smashing.
Some days,...such as this one. I want to tear away the sinew, the marrow...the flesh, to try and rid myself of where the demons in me hide. But they are me. So I languish here, allowing feverish loneliness to stroke my cheek with lies. Telling me of the horrors that lie outside of my bed. Or this bathtub I sit in as I try and sweat it out.
Don't let it crush you. Don't embrace it. It wants you for a prize. To devour.
But the artistic masochist in me...knows how easy it is to create in the depths of my own destruction.
The dangerous precipices between catharsis, self knowledge, and total catatonia.
The line between so close I terrify myself. I can take myself there, but will I always bring myself back?
The child in me pushes. To find that boundary. To seek my limitations.
The stronger I build myself with each fall, the further I can take myself down the next time.
Like deep sea divers who wish to break records. I see how much I can break myself.
It's an addiction.
For what I discover in the depths has me mesmerised.
Like a lover who knows all the secrets you keep, and tells you how beautiful you are for all your darkness. Your god damned mystery.
The more you need people, the deeper into the shadows you must creep.
There is need to be lonely. It is good and pure with the gifts it bestows. For a time.
But make it a confidant, and it will eat your soul whole. Telling you all the while
"it's okay, it's don't belong out there, stay here. I'll keep you safe"
 It's a dick. It's all lies.
And you are not a coward, stop letting yourself be one. Romancing the night.
Playing a game with your own sanity.
This is not talent, which I find
In these dark places.
It's only all the ways a soul can break.
Borrowing beauty from the night.


Thursday, 15 January 2015

The Paradoxical.

I forget sometimes, what love can be. I remember now
And everything since has been ridiculous. Disrespectful of love. Cruel sometimes.
To honour him, he whose heart I shattered with my inability to let myself love and be loved.
I wait. For something as grand and beautiful as what he offered.
As what we had. Once upon a time. Until I killed it.
How could something with such depth be real, my frightened heart beat into me.
I felt unsafe for all its security. Everything ends. Everyone goes.
The grief at its death still lives inside my flesh.
(But then, how could it not, when I was its death?)
Seeping out into the hollows that form, when I allow those more shallow
To pierce through my naïve soul. To see what they do not deserve to see
Of my supposed imperfections. My heart should be kept,
Box within box within box...
To save it from it's own clumsy falls.
It loves too easy, falls too hard.
And I do not believe there is a human alive who would not
Disappoint it somehow. I disappoint it myself.
For I love too much, to be loved enough.
And so I love everything.
Every damn thing.
To save myself from the fear,
That to love this way
Ironically, means
I will be alone.
Allowing only myself,
To be the danger
To my own damned heart.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

He Moves The Waves. He Sets The Tide.

I would swim out to meet you in the depths of a storm.
Never thinking to question, whether I'll return to the shore.
Did you know that I drown in your voice?
In your eloquent grandiosity.
One word, any word. My flesh quivers.
My heart skips.
On a whim?
For nostalgia?
You pulled me back to you.
Though I held pretence to the contrary,
I could not...persuade myself
Into letting you go.
After all that time.
All that nothingness.
The cycle begins again.
And I falter. because you are gone once more.
Maybe not even knowing your power.
"you have to stop loving him"
But I can't.
I crawl back to myself,
But part of me is left at the bottom of the sea.
Lost to me. I will never retrieve it.
I do not want to.