Slight and understated emotional turnover. The dizziness that has consumed me lately, the ultimate tests and the achingly slow approach of Autumn. Distressed walls and antique throws, I find myself in the turn, I find myself lying with use of my clothing.
Each statement, each slur has embedded some where within bone, to be extracted later and mistaken for. And my heart wills me to be better, for it sees the body encasing itself, it sees the mishapen lull, it senses the lack and the over.
'What am I?', it cries to me, 'What is this beast in which you have placed me?!'
And so the heaviness in my chest swells, and my need for appreciation from my family furthers, waves from the horizon and laughs - 'She'll never do...'.
I grip these arms distastefully, and paint these eyes to see sweetly, to rosily tint the awful posture, the bad demeanour and the voice that could not hold a note.
'How I wish to speak' leaks the heart, secondly, 'How, if only you could, I could share a dream or two!'.
It sighs up into my throat, and remains dull and still.
'If only you could walk well, if only you would grow tall, oh if only you could sing!'.

A record creaks into play beside me, and beauty falls from it, and all that I feel is the jealousy of my heart, how it selfishly sighs and points me the blame.
Beautiful people are only people that have some thing beautiful to give.
'Even as small as a laugh', reminds the heart.

Room of rubble.

Yes, I have set my bags down on strange floors again, oh it has indeed been a while. It is the same city, with a different rhythm running through its vein, I myself bleed the same and yet this particular home is of different shade. I am not settled, God wonders when I ever will be, but I am calm, and slowly, my area becomes breathable, I adapt and yet still circle the edge.
I have not heard from a handful of particulars since departing again, I guess you should honestly be careful what you do ask for early on.
The first week had my dull of inspiration leaking back with a fresh vibe, the sort of trickle a mountain spring offers. The beauty of the space between the back of the taxi and the tarmac beneath, droplets of rain between, shone to me like no other. Do not call it a muse, but call it a breath.
Atop the bed I currently sit, it is not mine and yet I rest, joins me; the boxes. And many of them. Piled and coloured, bulging and half empty. Each sound beneath my large window is the delivery van I await, each creak, a possible guest of whom I am not willing to allow within yet.

I guess this should be brief, for words of my life are weak at present. I have been suffering internally, and to know one's necassary concern, it is all self-prod and question, and I unfortunately have little to soothe it. Oh but my shell, how lusciously she is treated, her skin dampening with age each day and yet soothed by a familiar and loving hand. The window we sleep beside ever brighter, and still do I hide in my shade.
It can be sweet, you know, just you. But no sweet will come without time, work and progress.
Oh do not end on a dull note! For each day is a grand oak door, for each dawn is the silk web of winter's morning and my evenings are the coloured crystal of occasion.

In case you had yet to realise, Autumn is breathing in through the window, and I inhale it's cool.
I'm coming back to life.

Collective Monstrosity.

Oh collectively!
Each sin, oh what we are,
Together beneath each sheet
This wretched, nasty being,
This monster between us,
I will be any thing with you.

How you push unto me,
And the blasted creature tickles a claw against my stomach, it lurches into my breast and it breaths so terribly heavy.
It won't let me to you!

How I want to give in,
Oh banish this as a sin!

Whilst this sinful thing within,
For I am truly, I am,
Wanting,
and in my young skin I should be able!
Blasted creature!
Leave me to my one,
For he, and he is mine and only: he;
He gives in.

Is able.
Such pathetic pen this is that scrawls.
It yearns to better its words, to practise it's give,
And like me to he,
It gives only what the creature between does filter.

It's scream will be audible to me only, the night it is torn from my skin,
wrenched from it's ever-home!
"Die Monster Die!"
Crawl, will it, up the spine to the base of the skull,
Will it linger at my neck, breathe into my ear,
Such is the snarl,
You nuture the other.

Can I possibly ink this thing whilst I am with he?
Can these tangle of words distract it long enough so that I might just be?!
Please, just a moment without one of these creatures to lure it's foul head!
Banish it from my bed!

There are always monsters behind the curtains.

~

Let us cherish our sin,
Even, has the creature forbade me from use of it's words.
But still it does whisper.
You are italics on parchment, my love,
You are the rose blooming over the once dull, routine wall that I pass on my journey.
You knelt in black, did my heart ever wilt.
Those eyes so sadly framed.
Let the monster rest for this caress.

Ocean 2009.

Like wandering the streets at 7pm,
Looking for breakfast in this bustled city.
People in business suits walking along side folk with their heads shaved on bikes.
Who else could create such thoughts within me?
Sitting beside it, or glancing over steep walls into the water.
Records you can see through the lake and streams of grass for us to lie,
Summer wasps in the air,
And lack of obligation for our adolescent stares.
Slowly giving ourselves the summer out,
And slowly we begin to show ourselves the lives we want.
Somehow tearing us apart at our joined hands like pulling paper from its rings.
The letters I wrote you and your right hand in mine.
I see your careless mouth but your thoughtful eyes turn over the scenery,
Just as though you never did see it.
Within your head you think you'd spend day after day with me,
But within the miles between us we could spend a dozen other lives.
And don't you fear missing that?
Cold to think I may leave you, yet missing,
and miss,
Are two very different words.
Explanations you just didn't want to hear over a cup of coffee in the cafe on a rainy autumn afternoon.
Trains that don't take me all the way to where you live,
And buses that run me off the beach sides.
Standing on the pebbles, undetectable in the darkness of the summer night,
Each one as damp as the ocean that threw itself upon them.
And my shoes wearing thin and through them, bare legs and a horror dress,
And my darling in his suit.
Watching what he can see of me darting about the ocean side, down by the burnt out pier.
Safe in the knowledge my feet are still on the ground as the pebbles are forced into one another.

Oh of all the other lives we could be leading,
The different clothes we could be wearing and the people we might know,
The jobs we may slave at and the social we may partake;
But tonight, that night, in the past we, you and I, stood together on a breezy well-known beach.
And we knelt in the stones,
Each of those a part of the mountain that held us up.
And the ocean collapsing black upon itself, the stars overtaken by floating fires.
Shadowed faces almost as haunting as the skeleton that emerged from the sea.
No horizon or cut in our skyline,
Just constant darkness at our feet.
The black that continued rolling threateningly toward us, then pulling out softly as if a tease eternal.

Perhaps sleep should come? I wondered almost as much as Trevor's wife did the keys.
Rolling images and music that no longer is made nor sold.
Footsteps between us on the pathways of a seaside town,
And our bodies beside walls of religious B&Bs.
Not wanting to part the us that was between every one else.

Tonight I see summer breezes I once detested that remind me of moments I once missed.
Meaningless teenage romances and conspiracies,
And faces I no longer care to see nor fears I no longer emulate so powerfully.
You came into a life that messed itself up and attempted straightening out a few kinks,
Before falling for them.

I came across this piece dated 11th August 2009. It is not a love story.

Salt and Sand.

As of late, I have caged that washed-out summer feeling, and once again it is encasing my emotions. Death has reared it's claw to another familiar face and voice and distracted with the masses elsewhere. It's being disgusting at the moment, I am not sure why, not that any are, but I feel it too common a place.
A friend, not so wise - it must be said, once said to me after the death of a very close loved one to us both;
''How old are you now? 19? -Here, he shook his head, fiddling with his thinly rolled cigarette- It's all down here from here, one after the other now''.
Of course, he was referring to deaths. It was a terrifying thing to hear, no doubt. But I remained calm, and responded only with a tilt of my still mind, a glance at him that he did not return, and the idle fiddling of the gift from her who had passed in my hands.
I have not been in that living room for quite some time, but then, it was exactly as she had left and decorated it.

Much of this, many of these thoughts, have provoked nostalgic, dry, white thoughts of the East end streets. The common, natural, and ever flowing longing for returning 'home' has returned. I see the crowded buses without faces, the tube journeys and the summer heat between Dagenham east and Barking. The cool tease of the tiled floor of Chadwell heath station, the dusty dry streets just outside of his home. The suspicious eye of the shopkeeper as I buy a countless amount of Jamaican Hardo Bread, listening to the likes of Amy Winehouse on my i-pod. The cracked, white cool of his kitchen floor, the strange and unidentifiably comforting scent of his then home. His final home.

The sky here at present is muggy, it is grey and lightless, thankfully, but the heat still rests at the door.
It is a home, that is for sure, but I find it rather difficult to connect these two places. It is not the first time that I have felt like seperate people, that I have been torn right in half for want of one place and need of another.
My life is pleasant, magical and astounding now, oh the thought that ran through me just weeks ago;
'It's my turn now, to live my life'.
My heart screamed out and turned in my chest, I have more than one home, how fortunate I am. But the people, those within those homes now, what do they scream?

And yes, I am having my summer block. Writing is difficult to structure, thoughts will not meet my lips with ease and my skin is tightening beneath the glare, but still I am here and to try. This rolling upset, this longing, these photographs, yes, they will always breathe down the back of my neck strangely alluring and soothing...
But what I have before me, oh what I have.. There are not words for the astoundment. I have not a way, yet, to describe how fortunate I feel. How scared that my lips tremble a smile. It is true, some people have it handed to them upon a plate, and squander it mercilessly. But at the moment, I feel like the only one. I grip this beautiful thing in my hands like the sand on my so-missed seaside, discovering silver shells and shimmering pebbles as the grains fall.
Water collapses at my feet.

Yes, I do miss you all, but I am aware that your lives are a little too advanced to be missing me too.
Moving photographs so I can see the waves, a stone heart beats softly into the sand.
I'll never know another day like the one that my uncle and I sat, getting rather off it on Rose from plastic cups, upon the seaside. Oh the pebbles and the sand, we waited for something that never did come about, throwing rocks at a coconut on the water's edge. It was our sunny evening.
The train back, the scent of sand and salt, tearing faces from the news papers and putting them upon others.
My hair was claret and blue, yours, of course, was slap-head. And we did.
'Your wondering now, what to do, now you know, this is the end'.
Taking notice of my music, reminding me of yours. You truly wanted to know me.
Oh how distracted we all were.
And then, there were the nights. How voices still run through the memory, the smell of whiskey and wine. The sight of Jack bottles in the bin outside, the constant damp of the garden. Amy wording the back ground, dices rolled and how I always managed to 'get the glam questions'.

It has grown cooler, the nights will begin to leak in earlier now. I ask the winter, the winter I have confessed my Love to, to treat me well this year. To be kind.

The Young Rambler.

The creatures that lie in the beds here,
Are the ones that once donned my bedroom walls.
I need not fear the monsters here,
For I did reside before them,
My deepest fear equipped masculinity,
It was caped in woes older than me.
When my years begin to gather,
I have written and I have witnessed the matter.

Make this true, within this natter,
I have got these things inside of me.
Rest child's eyes, and lie in the cool of stone.
The damp and the dry,
The aching, the fingers that pry,
My window was never a safeguard,
My humming nervous system did flail.


Damned away from the sun,
The same old monsters run.
As a child, I knew they would come,
During enjoyment, they waited with heaving chest and narrowed claw.

Rotted teeth and gaps in gum,
The glorious creatures shadowed.
The earth from my garden wrapped around each thumb,
Each claw, each tear in ancient, leather skin.

Is it the quiet of night that doth draw the worry,
Aware, was I, that my skeleton led within me.
Had mere younger years seen but enough?
They lurched in their places, even inhaling they bring a dull hiss.

And could my childhood ears have perked,
I pictured them at the window,
Even knowing they lived within the walls.
Still do they crawl at my hair, do they whisper at innocence.

'Oh what on earth is even holding you together?!'
And hear I, only, the response;
'Oh what is it that puts the colour in your skin?'.

-
- Notes to this piece;
Even as I speak the light dims and flickers, as if riding on my pulse. When will these demons leave me? The bell rang only once as I spoke 'The monsters were always faceless in the barn of my childhood home'.

Trains.

I told myself yesterday. But I mimed it coherently today.
I heard the plug fill up with water, gargling and choking if only for a few seconds.
I'm sure the eye down there had squinted.
Maybe i shouldn't have called him
A lovely little thing.
Because he got the bus before last.
The centre of town had so many lights,
And I'm sure that water in the dock was deeper than it gave away.
The steel bench was grated and cold. But i was rather content,
in my tit and tat, with my tailored coat.
Waiting then, for just about any one.
I could see some stars, speckled in the gap through the clouds.
Still, they looked rather silver, and i decided they were standing in for the moon.
Who's place they had clearly stole.
My fingers were sort of, stained red.
I'd made a decision three hours before.
At home my bed was covered in cat hair.
And most likely dust. For a home from home was a then a permanent lust.



Some one ran in from the streets, they bashed through the door,
They were yelling to get there,
Screaming obscenities and love.
I must of been addicted to him by now,
For i was in the carriage behind.
Distracted by words on the door, I missed my stop by an inch
And had to leave with my hair behind my ear.
My ear not particularly present, what when stuffed with sounds and wires.
Shining like chocolate on a photograph,
I decided a greeting card wouldn't have done.
And thus my presence regained in your odd little town, 5 over from mine.
Demanding less subtle answers,
I called once more. But only through mobiles and automatic doors.
Constantly reflecting and smiling now and then.
Sinched in at the waist, hair really in for a trim.
You'd of mistook her for a local,
had a suitcase not entailed.

I almost forgot to write, and so to end before a story begins.