I've moved home. Come have a cup of tea and visit me here
x

My mouth tastes of pennies today and I swallow hard, try to swallow it all down.
But the pennies keep growing until they stick in my throat and the sunset I thought so beautiful a few days ago, just seems to predict doom now. My teeth clatter on the metal and I'm afraid to open my mouth. It's keeping me locked up in my lonely cavern once more until I can chew through it or spit it out.

champagne in a paper cup

It's a January of overseas friends and long lost common cackles, piercing sun rays, flowers picked at 8am, lavender rubbed between fingertips, projects of whimsy to unwhimsical deadlines, heartbeats that race, magic that appears in photographs, beer filled afternoons and not a moment to stop and breathe. I run down a pier and take the biggest jump, free falling and delve into a cool embrace. Breathing is easier down here.
x

shanty

her sea pirate balances
on the edge of their rowboat,
that she’s a row, row, rowing
the long way back to shore
he’s rocking it
for her amusement,
her clutch and sigh
he’s jumping and twisting
he’s one triumphant joker
he’s wide eyed
abandonment
he does not see
the sea spilling in
her water eyes stung
by the salty high waves
as she rows faster
and faster
with aching arms
he does not see
her hic-up laugh
is one of panic

take flight, little ones

I’ve been
picking up
sparrows
since
I was child.
I plucked them
from the snow
the cold
and warmed them
in mittens
coat pockets,
wrapped in cotton.
Now
I collect birds
from the streets,
the wind,
in bars,
under the sun,
on the run.
Broken winged swallows,
broken hearted eagles
that lost their way
to the hills.
I even
stop for the pigeons,
the dirty little rats,
hit
by kicking feet
and a life
of city dust
weighing
on their tails.
Their beaks
have grown bigger
over the years.
I can feel them
as they
peck away
at my heart.
Some of them
have mutated
pointy tip
teeth that rip
right into
that juicy throb.
It drip
drops
all over them,
speckling
their coats
in sweet
red honey.
Some of them
gave up
on themselves.
Some have flown
and soared
higher
than before.
Some still come
to sing to me
once in a while.
I’ve never regretted.
Their feathers
were all beautiful
up close,
even though
I may have choked
on a few,
or coughed
some up,
nuzzling warmth back
into them.
And my heart,
rather than
shriveling up
under another attack,
a beak
so ridiculously sharp,
it pierced
right through
the middle,
has grown
stronger,
rather like
hands
after honest days
of working the fields.
And I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to rip it out
of my chest
with my own claws
lay it
under a fallen doves
weary head
for the softest
dream filled
sleep.
It may get cold
and dark
inside
and I
can get
so hopelessly lost,
following
flight patterns,
connecting arteries
back to muscle,
preempting falls,
wiping blood
out of my eyes.
But I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to love.

I got drunk on ridiculously expensive wine last night. I stole Beef Carpaccio from my neighbours plate. I told the waiters they were beautiful, then made out in the toilets. I feel wildly dark in my mind. Hopelessly wild in my heart. Darkly hopeless in my soul. And lost. Darkly hopeless and lost.

The coin is spinning...
Where do I land?
This one has many faces.
There's the side of sleep forever and wake only to read books, write, take photographs of the abyss you fumble through, eat homecooked stews and skittles and never talk to anyone ever again.
Or get out and fuck through a myriad of boys-men while getting trashed at the bar on anything they wish to offer your thirsty throat.
You could pull your trembling chin up for gods sakes and get behind the wheel. Buy a van and deck it out with comic books and soft things in the back to fall asleep in each time it rains.
Or churn on the money machine and get the fuck out of here to immerse yourself in a world where humans can feel of interest to you again.
It spins and spins.
I'm tempted to slap it down flat with my hand.
But where will it land?