The place where we break ourselves. The bed on which we fuck until the sun’s swallowed by the hollow moon. London disease. Free way decapitation as I press my hands around your throat whilst gazing into wishful eyes. Solemn lovers. Melancholy sweethearts drunk on ideas and cheap wine. Books eaten instead of food. The dead of night. A landscape of letters and secret anxiety as the rain pisses down splashing our faces as we smoke leaning out the window. The garden and streets unknown, it’s the little things that mean the most. Resist the voices of doubt. Snuff out the useless ones as we feed the ducks who slip on a frozen lake. Snow falls like your eyelashes. It kisses our skin as we walk off our hangovers searching for meaning in the blank wasteland we call home. So much distress in our empty hearts. So much sorrow as our lips turn blue as a stray dog chases a swan into the fog. All these years I’ve been trying to find a way to put my thoughts on paper. So many times there was only the sense of being numb, but now I’m right where I belong. Taking your hand in mine, we walk beneath the bridge and hold each other to stay warm. The traffic flows as the clouds move invisibly above our heads like a fleeting memory of something long since suppressed. Drowned in emotion. Alive because these feelings flow within our ghostly blood.

Too much trouble. Too many yesterdays spent crippled by things lost in teenage fire. Sobriety wont save you. Isolating your every thought just makes you spiral out of control. Every day tainted by the horrors of what can never be seen nor felt. The evil truth of existence as we strip the bed of its sheets and merge like machines. Bodies full of heat. Madness in the warm air that goes in and out of our lungs. In and out, all day long. Middle class tedium. Upper class glass ceilings. Cupping your breasts and stretching your pussy, these are just the desires of an ordinary man. Pinching nipples and eating flesh, this is just the act of a man no different to anyone else. And yet this fantasy of mine is so hard to describe. A precursor to time travel and portals. Magic in mirrors. Figures emerging from the light of self belief and the taste of peeled dreams that trickle down your chin. Like animals.  Like shadows given form by the grey hand of time. It’s a frenzy of holes being filled with the seed of determination. Drunken walks from cemetery to quarry. Footsteps and deadened leaves mixed with carrier bags in gusts of wind that blow out my cigarette. The art of illness. The illness of my art. Figure me out. Take me to bed. Cry as all those shimmering lights remind you of home. Sleep now angel in my arms, and don’t wake til morning.