i just missed themStars never shone as bright as they did tonight
collected in your glass, gin soaked limes that you chewed on
skin and all, skin and all.
you've yet to make something of it yet.
slurred on about my dress and the blue tights that clashed.
sighed when my phone rang, bitched on and on and on
drank more, vodka and a daiquiri and an ice tea.
came back from the toilet a little more enthusiastic
a little more enthusiastic.
got louder and more obnoxious, until no-one wanted you
and you refused to leave
sat obstinate in your seat
and everyone preferred you sober.
but you didn't listen
you sat there petty and unpretty
until we gave up and left you.
and still you bitched!
give it up, give it up, give it up
stay sober and fix your make up
get your image back, being sweet suited you
this bitch that took your place, well we don't want her.
we left and you stayed and now you're left behind
with nothing but a pitcher of tequila and some half eaten limes for company.
ch-ch-ch-changesThey tore down my grandfather's Avery, that used to swell and sing with a thousand canaries, coloured like oil through water, rainbows in puddles.
The roof caved in and sagged with the weight of Winters since he passed.
The wooden beams rotted with woodworm and rain and they creaked and bent.
Weeds grew freely, winding up the birdbath his father engraved to twine themselves around a withered
blossom, exposed to the elements like nature should be but somehow worse, a quiet, unsettling savagery.
Nature's unbridled anguish let loose on a frail garden without a keeper.
She gets older every day. She ages, decays with sagging skin lined with more and more cracks.
Forces crumpled notes into my hand and tells me to keep it a secret and not to spend it on vodka.
Her teeth stained nicotine yellow, a cigarette an extension of her arm.
She throws blankets over me, to keep out her own cold.
Woollen tartan, cotton green.
Feeds me up to make up for the fact she doesn't eat any more.
Stuffs food and h
winter makes it coldand as the sun set over my field i thought of you.
the cold winter evening slowly set in, the last few rays of sunlight weakly smiling down.
that red tree still on fire
my heart still on fire.
i know you could never be the one but every so often you come back.
a little relapse, if you like.
charm me all over again, only not so bad.
i never fall as hard as i did.
a little stumble, if you like.
huddled deep inside my hood i wish you were here, i can still smell you.
even though that was creepy and over the top.
you should be here, but i know i can't make you come.
in any sense of the word.
i'm not your most dialled number, i accept that.
maybe winter has its purpose.
for the next few months i'm frozen inside, but that isn't a bad thing.
for the next few months i won't feel a thing.
i can smile and talk and get on with life.
and when spring comes and i thaw out it won't hurt so bad.
maybe all i needed was winter.
a daydream spillsyou'd think it would get easier.
you'd think, with every passing day the usual sting would lessen, just a little bit.
muted, turned down like volume control.
and strangely enough it doesn't.
two years and that volume hasn't gone down one notch.
christmas rolls around again, birthdays.
and still it thuds away, a needle in the back of the brain.
nuclear family blew up
and we all flew through the air, in different directions.
our Chernobyl is alive with the glory of love.
this imitation of family values is too bright to be real.
too highly polished, too obvious
to put these cancer patients to sleep.
this doesn't need a titleso i wrote you down, filed you, put you in a folder in the back of the drawer.
i wrote down everything i knew about you, which is everything in essence.
i wrote you both down, you'll always be together now.
and then i set you on fire, paper you of course.
i struck a whole box of matches and watched you burn, curling up at the edges-trying to get away.
on the floor, paper you, twirling up at the edges.
as if praying to the stars to save you.
and then the rain came.
and put you out, so i guess that prayer worked.
even in the light and heat and raw anger of fire you survived.
and proved even Plato wrong.
so you turned to mush, sizzling paper and escaping ash, caught in tailspins on the wind.
floating away, the both of you out of reach.
and it didn't ache one bit.
in spite of languagewriters are just cowards.
what sort of man can't say what he means but can capture his thoughts so perfectly on paper?
those who can't do, teach.
those who can't speak, write.
what sort of person prefers a pen between his fingers over a woman in his bed?
writers will always be doomed never to live life, only to write about it.
they aren't participants, they are the commentators.
so you go off and youll fall in love
and Ill write my bitterness out on my paper and Ill talk about how you never wanted me
and my pages will be filled with every emotion I ever felt, the ones youll never see.
all these thoughts will come bubbling out to live on paper, for my eyes only.
Ill never let you see them, Id be letting you too far in.
I am too vulnerable, my writing is my protection - but paper just goes up in flames.