28 Apr 2016

Round peg, square hole

I am it seems
Five minutes away from kissing you
Five minutes from holding you close and
Breathing you in as
When first we met

The need is still there
As strong as ever
A burning and want
But what of those clock hands

Which seem to slip
Or fade
Or are held back from
Ever reaching just the right time
Am I the one doing this?

I blame unseen forces
The universe and Darwin
Einstein and Bohr
How can one
Who needs you so much
So often
Reject all possibility of being held
Close and warm and

And yet the pattern fits
My constant attempts to fit into
Unsuitable spaces
Incorrect times
Fighting to get in
Fighting to get out

I am
Five minutes away from kissing you
Five minutes from holding you close

I keep coming back to the fire
The constant predictability of change
And how
To just make peace with this
And with you
That is all I ask.

26 Apr 2016

Almost every boss I ever had, including the one that brushed his teeth at work

There is little worse than a man
In a poor suit
Other than one in a poor suit and cheap shoes

Nor are those whose body odour expands beyond
Their borders as intolerable as those smelling of nothing

As though bathed at hospital mere minutes before
And arriving, un-fucked by the city
At the lift in which you too are ascending

They are repellent
And void of life
Lacking the juice of a medium rare t-bone
Or the opposite sex

How unfortunate then
That so many managers and supervisors and heads of
whatever the hell
Look so goddamn bad and smell so goddamn clean.

22 Feb 2016

5 by 5

The sun that had been burning for 4 days straight finally succumbed to grey cloud and rumble of an oncoming storm. Lightning had flashed the previous night, cutting the London sky every few minutes, striking wherever it may. Now it’s Wednesday. The worst day. I’ve always said if the world’s to end, it’ll be 3pm on a Wednesday. The middle time. Nothing going on, just inbetween everything that just happened and anything about to happen. For now, 9am is the start of nothing for me. I sit at work, waiting to go home. Waiting for I don’t know what. Watching out the window at girls walking past, silk skirts and long hair breezing silently across the high window, and then away. Soon the vans will come, the deliveries will start. The voices will grow louder and get closer and closer to me. By midday the noise will become white, unbearable. And it’ll be all I can do to remain calm and to quiet myself. There have been times - more and more - when I know if I open my mouth it’ll be all teeth and cursing.  Wednesday. The sky still threatening. The people sleep and talk at the same time, a remarkable talent that makes me want to reach down their throat and pull out their vocal cords. It seems again the summer sun has increased testosterone and decreased intelligence. All that blood meant for the brain running straight to the cock. And that’s all fine. Natural, physical. Whatever - just don’t talk to me. I have left in my wake, Friday people, Sunday night girls and Saturday night drinking buddies…. All now ghosts. Here I am floating in Wednesday morning between everything that has happened, and anything about to, and as ever thinking only of coffee. Coffee that I’m going to get right now. 

(This is an old peice written over ten years ago that I thought good enough to post.)