sleep in his sweatshirt
sleep in his bed.
tell yourself it's okay.
tell yourself he doesn't wear
your heart on his sleeve
and roll it up with idle hands.

I go to counselling now ( Read more... )

I touch the bruises
just below bones
and revel in the places
that you
linger.

every now and again it feels worthwhile ( Read more... )

when she dies I will remember
my mother
as the woman who would
waltz with me
to Ray Charles
and sing off key
in the frozen food isle,
half laughing with her
steroid swollen
tumour twisted
but always beautiful face.

That bar defines my existence ( Read more... )

It's a full moon.
I smoke alone in my living room
listening to classical music,
reclined while watching the clouds
across that full, full moon
and on nights like this
I can smell the carnage.

I'm not entitled to my sadness,
I'm not entitled to my happiness.
I'm alive and I'm not owed that.
All I have to do is try.

I fracture with the
ever present anticipation
of death.
to watch love and wait
for its object to die
is softly appalling,
gently torturous.
I pirouette with small
collapses, drink whiskey,
weep alone and hope as
resolutely as I can.

who do you work for baby?
and doe it work for you lately?

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