Wednesday, 31 August 2011

23:00 [MCV] to [BBN]

The anxious dash across the footbridge
as I race against the clock
to make it to platform on time
is met with the anti-climax
of digital lettering informing me
that the train has been DELAYED.
The panicking passengers ponder
if the platform on which they’re placed
is the one they need to get home,
checking, double-checking
like every nervous glance certifies
the destination a bit more.

But at last, as if scoffing at their doubt,
the train strolls in casually and unapologetically,
its arrival met with relief as the swarm of citizens
shuffle into the carriages, as they flee
from the severely bitter night-time air.
Everyone sits down,
hoping that the two spaces beside them
remain vacant for the rest of the journey,
before staring determinedly down at the floor
(either to avoid the conductors glare;
to avoid paying for the service which they are using
simply to avoid human interaction altogether).

Directly to the left of my chosen seat
is a toilet, which I’m sure has seen
far worse scenes than the run-down
towns we’ll shortly be passing.
Noone quite appreciates its multi-functionality,
whether it be used for its intended purpose
when people rush to it as the train arrives
having been desperate for quite a while,
used by the overindulged pukers
on their way home from an evidently good night,
or used by the ticketdodgers as a favourite
(but always failing) hideout.

In the seats in front of the toilet is an intoxicated couple who,
were it not for their contrasting attires
I might have thought one person
that they be so tightly knotted together.
Her over-manicured fingers, painted a deep crimson
run through his swept back hair whilst his
wander elsewhere, revealing even more
than her skirt already does, in a display of class
starkly contrasted to his stately suit.
I can’t help but wonder
exactly where this journey will end
for these two middle-aged lovers tonight.

In front of me, a rugged looking fellow
fights against sleep, his eyelids flickering
like the decrepit bulb above me,
no doubt sent drowsy by the dowsing
fumes from the heating above
which hums monotonously
and bears down on me unbearably.
Bearded head in dirty hand
and a huge boulder of a bag
lumbered lazily beside him,
will he defeat sleep’s attempt
to make him miss his stop?

At the other end of the carriage
is a group of young males,
sporting baseball caps and hooded tops.
Their loud voices match their brash swagger
and perhaps unsurprisingly
with her umbrella propped neatly
against her small tartan trolley,
the petrified old lady across
peeks past the pages of her newspaper
which tell the tales of thuggish brutes and rioting teens
as though she could be the victim
of tomorrow morning’s headlines.

But to her relief, the harmless sheep
dressed in wolves clothing
leave the train at the next stop,
and are replaced by a man in a pair of shorts
far too short for this late hour.
Too late to have partaken in any
sporting activity, but seemingly too drab
to have partaken in any other activity besides,
I speculate what possessed him to wear something
so ill-fitting for the cloudless nights
and for his milky stick-legs.

We wait at the same stop for a while,
the passengers looking around
to see what the cause of the delay is
(even the couple's tongues have unglued).
It is eventually announced
that we are waiting for a connection train
from some parallel tin of unfortunate passengers
by the juxtaposition of the jovial ding dong
with the dreary man’s announcement,
who seems as shuttered off as the surrounding scenes,
probably with a watchful eye on the clock
waiting for finishing time shortly after this last service.
But for now there’s movement again…

We’re gathering momentum,
the train driver sensing the unrest
amongst his customers,
who will already arrive
back to wherever they’re destined
later than anticipated,
as we pass through a tunnel
that has no sign of light at the other side,
only the same barren black,
just another meaningless dot on the map
full of smaller dots
in their square houses.

-signal lost-

As for me, I’m sat here alone,
as dejected and detached as everyone else,
with no company,
no newspaper, no novel, no paper, no headphones
not even scenery;
orange lit lampposts are the only things
piercing the pitch black sky.
So the only comfort I have
is the note section on my phone,
restricted and uncongenial,
finding that observation
is much more enticing than communication.

At last, the train makes its final stop,
and the remaining passengers all scurry for the door
just as hastily as they had done to get on,
as though the train would set off back in the opposite direction
if they took their time.
The couple giggling, the tired man staggering,
the old woman using her trolley as a battering ram
on the ankles of people in her way,
and the man in shorts shivering along.
At the station, I still have many miles to go
before I’m home
but I think I’ll save that for another page…

Sunday, 28 August 2011

Oration of the Soul

The planned speeches
that I have been rehearsing
so devotedly in my head
will never come into real-life fruition,
and I find myself contentedly
watching opportunities flying by.
I fear that this will always be me;
finding stability in comfort
rather than making public
my soul's escape plea.

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Repetitive Scenery

How is it
that I'm still passing
this same old tree
hours after em-
barking past it?
Those dark tired rings
around its trunk
match those of my eyes,
but it has seen
so many more years
and has more reason
to be exhausted.

I'm just wasted

I don't think I can
ever hold my branches
aloft as proudly
as it always can,
and the marker
which I can never surpass
will always taunt me,
until the day I fail.

Friday, 26 August 2011

My Poisoned Medicine

Force-feed me medicine until I choke
then ask me what it's like to be alive.
This self-inflicted poison is a joke
and laughter's the only thing giving me vive.

Drain out the test-tube of its every drop
ensuring that no life will go to waste.
Once I've started it I can never stop;
I can't get enough of its bitter taste.

But I know that my cure will be my death
and that more chance lies in letting time heal,
so is it better for me to force breath
or to let it all end for something real?

Out of either glass I will not drink
for I fear both could send me past the brink.

Ripping Out Pages

I'm going to keep on taking leaves
out of your book
until there's not even a spine
that can come unstuck,
and in a world of thugs and thieves
it's no surprise
that what I once held to be mine
will be my demise.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011


An attitude devoid of gratitude completely grates
and fills me full of hate.
So when you empty the banks shows some thanks or you'll collect
less than you would expect.
I'm growing tired of things being acquired with the omission
of your recognition.
I've found that the price of being nice is just far too steep
for this pattern to keep.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Lost at Sea

There's been a stir in the seas
awoken by the breeze
and it's all too feral,
your ocean kiss will be my peril.
Yet I still welcome the winds of change,
I like the discomfort in something strange.
I am feeling queasy from the sea
but I'll try my very best not to be
because if I will, the storm will worsen
and I am but a person,
I don't know how to sail
but I'm overqualified in 'how to fail'.
I'm scared that I'll go overboard
and when the clouds have over-poured
I'll be left on my own, trying to steer to shore
and I don't think I can find my way anymore.

Tired Script

Different characters in the same recycled plot,
I'm becoming stultified by the script
but still I fall into the same old traps
and find myself confused and tricked.

If my character decided to improvise
and work a shoot of heartfelt lines,
would he be able to rid himself
of a poor plot's pessimistic confines?

I can't put any conviction
into a part to which I can't relate
and when I try to be that person
I start to choke on my own self-hate.

Perhaps I'm just useless at this game.
Perhaps I don't suit this role.
But trying to be both him and me
has left me with a tear in my soul.

So tomorrow I must kill my character off
so he can't make a return series
and when I look back on his story
I'll see just how irrational my fear is.

Saturday, 20 August 2011


I'm getting broken by my addiction.
At least now I see it in black and white.
Before, I saw the symptoms as fiction
but now the truth's too clear for me to fight.

Yet I'm still no closer to getting rid
of the habits that have been plaguing me
ever since I was just a little kid,
the problems have always continued to be.

So is it too late for routines to stop?
Late or not, I'll give it my very best
until I feel this urgency drop
to get these burdens off my troubled chest.

But I know then I'll crave just one my fix,
using the nibs of pens as my needle sticks. 

Friday, 19 August 2011

Sad Fish

A small fish in a big pond
or a big fish trapped in a can
it would make no difference to me.
You see, I know you wont be fond
of which ever fish I am
because I like to swim free.
I see others swim in a batch,
following the latest bubbles
together in fashion and fate.
I might not be the greatest catch
and I come with my own troubles,
but I will not take the bait.
So I'll watch you all get reeled
keeping my own sad sorry road
whilst wishing that I'd be caught,
but keeping this wish concealed
until I need to unload;
won't you let me onto your boat?

Tuesday, 16 August 2011


Could I belong somewhere I haven't been
if it is filled up with things that I want
or does a home have to be tried and seen?
Get concerned with content before the font!

Things at present are a messy scribble
but I am happy with what they convey
for they contain no quarrel nor quibble,
every word is a scorching shining ray.

But if I was to move to something neat
I might take away what makes me, me
and the words would be on an ice cold sheet
and then when I write I couldn't feel free.

So be happy with your distinctive print
for it's what gives your eyes their glowing glint.

Childhood Disputes

I've been standing outside your door
for what feels like years
and I'm just too frightened to knock.
I stare down at the clean paved floor
fighting with my fears
and fighting with the ticking clock
for the time is running away,
but I just can't speak
when I know it really matters.
Just what could I possibly say,
when feeling so weak,
to keep our friendship from tatters?
So rather than me being brave,
without any sound
I make my biggest mistake yet.
My knowing heart a hollow cave
I turn back around
and slunk to a home of regret...

Saturday, 13 August 2011

Fresh Air

I’m sprawled out across my bedroom floor
because my bed is just too consoling
and I want to feel the cold hardened boards,
to feel my self-pity controlling.

How did I become so lost somewhere so
familiar and full of fond feelings?
I’m buried under junk I need to let go
but the thought of their absence leaves me reeling.

If I just had a clearout of my chest
I think that I would lose eleven stone
and then; no, I still wouldn’t want to rest
and that ounce left of me would still feel alone.

I decide to stand and head to the window,
open it as wide as my damp, tired eyes
and I behold the world breathing below
to see that I’ve become that which I despise.

Should I join that life in the windy streets
my cheeks would return to a rosy verve,
rather than wrapping up in my bed sheets;
youth is not to be bubble-wrapped and conserved.

So to hell with boredom, to hell with sorrow
I want to breathe in all life’s oxygen.
No longer living for a tomorrow,
I will feel alive, day by day, again.


In a sense, innocence doesn't exist;
morality is a subjective thought.
Would the boundaries of right and wrong be missed
if the difference between them wasn't taught?

Would our selfish primal instincts prevail,
where everyone is out for their own lusts,
and would the human heart become less frail
if it didn't have to rely on trust?

 Or would we instinctively be kind willed
if we had no reason to know of bad?
If this made the world less kill-or-be-killed
then ignorance is bliss, we ought to be glad.

I am still not quite sure what to believe,
is it best to be streetwise or naive?

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Brutish Britain

I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives
and now it’s happening in mine.
It seems the world is engaged with make believe strifes-
it’s apparent that humanity has lost their mind.
But what do you all fight to achieve?
Does your violence come with a cause?
Or am I to truly believe
that you no longer have faith in laws?
If this is all some moral act
to better our humanity
then you really ought to face the facts;
this is inhuman insanity.
There’s “cons” in constitution
but there’s “care” in healthcare
and crime is never the solution
when to the victims it isn’t fair.
Put down your stolen goods and your knives
and try to pick up some sense
and you’ll learn how your illogical protests cost lives
and your swag all comes with an expense.
If you live by the gun, you will get shot
so don’t feel so hard done by if you face consequences.
These actions, of course, will not be forgot;
you will all suffer for your offenses.

Car Crash

I’ve been on this stretch
for what must be decades now
and I’m still no closer to my destination.
When I first embarked
I was passing verdant sights
in fresh forests and flowing river,
but now all the beauty
seems to be in my rearview,
and only barrenness
is in store from here on in.
My fuel tank seems to be as bare as the scenery,
and although I keep passing service stations
I know that if I was to stop
I would give up, and sleep my days away
on some dusty bed in the scorching sun,
and so I carry on in vain hope
that what little fuel I have left
will endure the hours ahead.
The radio’s jammed on the same song,
the singer’s voice repeating in a taunting loop
on and on and on
and on and on
and on.
I sing along in the hope that my airy optimism
may drown out his damned annoying voice,
but the agenda changes, and I realise
I don’t know the words to this new song.
                                                          I am out of step, out of time,
out of my depth.
I hear children in their seventies screaming
                                                                 “Are we there yet?”
and before I can console them, and tell them
                                                                   “Not long now”,
some voice from the radio reports “Miles to go”.
I see a roadsign confirming this;
∞ Miles to Home
and I have the sudden urge to turn back,
but my wheel is locked,
my gearstick is broken.
There is no way of changing speed or direction;
I am set on this route and now I cannot return
to where the road forks.

                                                I often wonder if I’ll find the final stint
too hard to endure; I can see for myself
that things aren’t going to get better.
This is a carcrash.

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

#Lucid Dreams

If we're in control
anything's achievable;
life's a lucid dream.

Cacoethes Scribendi

Words are becoming digits
and  lately I can't figure
any meaning from them.

It seems everything is adding
to some kind of statistic
and I don't like this sum.

It all contributes towards
an end product
and opinions are divided.

Can I please just forget
about all these numbers
and return to cohesive clarity?

Sunday, 7 August 2011

The Best of Both Worlds

Faces in the clouds are swimming by
in an ever flowing sea of sky
and I wonder if they'll find their way back
or will they drown in the nighttime's black?

The wind takes them gently by the hand
in the hope that she can guide them to land
but her grip is weak and can't get tight
so she loses them to the dark of night.

In the morning, the sun starts a search
as she can see best on her lofty perch
but her presence frightens them away
and as long as she burns, they can't stay.

So the Wind and the Sun grudgingly leave
and their absence the clouds can retrieve.
Fulfilling hopes is not reliable;
the best of both worlds is not viable.

Friday, 5 August 2011


You are an anaesthetic;
a temporary relief
from reality.
You soften the pressure
but don't remove the problem.

You stop me getting frenetic
when I've lost all my belief
in reality.
You help my mind to freshen
and see past the bottom.

-I'm feeling faint again
so place your song in my lungs
and let me become sane
with every word we have sung-

I'm still waiting for surgery
to cure me of my failings.
But I'm grateful
for all the help you have offered.
However small it may be.

Don't Trip

I've been growing jumpy at the slightest noise
and though I know, I just can't get a grip.
The wolves still watch on with hunger and poise
waiting to pounce on me as soon as I slip.

The Devil's been knocking on my door for days.
I hide in my room, pretending I'm away.
I know I can't continue with these ways
but I'm afraid that my demons will stay.

The spiders have been crawling down my walls,
along my arms and across my mind.
Their footsteps resemble my messy scrawls,
and I'm unsure what they or I hope to find.

The wolves have grown bored of waiting to eat.
The Devil has decided to try next door.
The spiders have made their movements discrete.
I don't feel this darkness anymore.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011


The wind is whispering
"it's okay"
softly into my ear,
but does she say it
because it's true
or cause it's what I want to hear?

In any case, her voice soothes
so for now
I'll accept her words in bliss
and as I contentedly
close my eyes
I feel her nighttime kiss.

When I wake the next day
I roll over
to find that she's not there,
so was the calming wind
just a sweet dream
or is waking life a nightmare?

Witching Hour

I see her arm outstretched in the trees,
fingers reaching as far as possible
like rays of light glittering on the river
but my world and her land is out of sync,
as she moves behind the leaves
on a reversing travelator never to be seen.

I know that I should not follow her in to the woods
for once I tread inside I am sure
that I would not be able to find my way back out,
but the way those rays of light
still dance on the ripples nearby
invites me to make an impulsive decision.

And so in I step, clambering over a wooden fence
that has seen the worst of its days, in mossy decay
and as I trudge on the soggy grass
toward the boundary I notice
the sudden shade made by the approaching trees;
it is witching hour and I have lost my light.

But now I have already committed myself to follow,
so onwards I must go into the shade,
and should I find myself alone and lost
I will know that it has been the cost
of the hasty decisions that your witchcraft has made;
I have lost my head in your sleepy hollow.