Sonnet for John Keats

Shadow stencilled the floodlit spillage
Laces the city's chromatic heart,
Tinctured by the silk of wind
That reddens the sinew crooked peaks
Hidden in the time-burnt bushes
And the wet banks of luxurient dirt.
Arterial branches stretch their blackened nerves
Against the palms of the blood-damp night.
Soothed in the rose-dark darkness,
Life mothers itself in the crippled woodland,
The ancient waters of silver freshness,
And the quiet tempests of the grasses.
A landscape of electromagnetics pulses
At the points of its aeriel spires and cathedrals.

Let's not give the bastards another chance

The best kind of lovers do not plan

Nor pre-empt every single warring kiss;

They relish the risks of being human

And gather strength from the threat of weakness.

Like the way the poet’s pain reshapes his heart

Sharpening the point of his bulleted words,

Or when our childish dreams are pierced, each hurt

Somehow leaves new visions to leap towards.

We know now how needs mask the face of love

While beauty hides from predators who feed

Themselves on that light lit but quickly snuffed

By careless hands, pride, neglect, or conceit.

But lets not give up passion for romance

And lets not give the bastards another chance.

A birthday poem

In those moments between the minutes

Of the day’s cluster-fucks, its intrusions,

When city wind boils in backward closes

And beauty breathes dangerously in the leaves;

You’re drawn to grand mythologies, unicorns,

To epic acts, and lover’s heroics;

And to God knows what other damned romances

Dancing precarious on your empty walls.

It drives you to spirit-music, cooked on fire,

To words that skirt on oil-black oceans

Where wounded silhouettes shark the light

Beneath brooding skin never broken.

The seasons themselves appear undecided,

Between storm, or the boldness of the sun.

South Kensington

You whose beauty pierces.

Whose glances spark with irritable purpose,

And thoughts, sword shards that jar

Under a skin of night red roses.

You who wears the hide of a wolf.

Whose looks access a lover's cowardice,

Who swallows her intelligences,

Issues her sex in warring confidence.

You whose eyes catch a stolen hope

Between the pincers of your perceptions,

Who freezes with green dilated ice,

The insolence of my trespasses.

You're gonna need my help some day

One thousand and one little heroisms.

To you just stepping stones, or pebbles.

One thousand and one little gallantries

To you testing patience, just pleasantries.

Under the sheet of drizzle, depression.

Under the pressure of doubt, indecision.

I am no saint. You make a good point.

But I fear no Satan. Being right's not always right. 

Cocaine.

Midnight on a river of piss.

Cocaine.

Jealousy in the eyes of tattooed ink.

Cocaine.

I forgot I was fat and looked a woman in the eye.

Cocaine.

Girls use gentleness as an assault weapon.

Cocaine.

Love in vain, on couches, couches, couches.

Cocaine.

Arid soul worrying about the next line, the end of the line

and where to draw the fucking line.

Cocaine.

6am planned closures on the Central Line.

Cocaine.

Three hours in the corner reading between the lines.

Cocaine.

It's true what they say about parallel lines.

Cocaine.

You can't do one line and think you're a rock star mate.

Cocaine.

Do you know who I am?

Cocaine.

I've got gasoline in my synapses.

Cocaine.

I crave intimacy but I avoid it.

Cocaine.

I long for touch but it petrifies me.

Cocaine.

I want to be held but I won't let anyone hold me back.

Cocaine.

I need validation but people's opinions disgust me.

Cocaine.

I want to be loved but it's too much pressure.

Cocaine.

My disappointment disappoints others.

Cocaine.

It is better to be one step ahead of loss.

Cocaine.

Bite the hand that feeds you

Because that hand that feeds you can also strangle you.

Cocaine.

People always tire of me.

Cocaine.

I feel like a cunt.

Cocaine.

There is nothing you can accuse me of

That I didn't accuse myself of before 9am this morning.

Cocaine.

I'm probably gay.

Cocaine.

I'm probably carrying around cancer of the bowls.

Cocaine.

That Camden Town whore probably gave me AIDS.

Cocaine.

My dreams have worn away from petroleum.

Cocaine.

Loneliness becomes sclerosis.

Cocaine.

I want to see the bitch swallow.

Cocaine.

The life of the party is dead inside.

Cocaine.