3.55am, September 7th, 2009.

A venue, a pale black light tries to pollute the effort of a spotlight beside the speaker,
The same spotlight that, behind a veil of wispy smoke,
Holds the silhouette of the one I’d call a lover.
Hung in a shallow blue, his profile standing above his guitar,
The music hasn’t started yet.
Two elbows on a chrome Bar, I stand in waiting.
His heard lyric rolling absently through my mind, mingling with the murmur of a crowd in apprehension.
I feel like tonight is all mine.
Whether he looks at me or not.
Directly across a post-warehouse he stands,
The evening air barely venturing in,
His shadow turns my way but the faceless always remain the same.


He’s waiting out by the church,
She’s searching for another name,
All the while knowing who she wants tonight,
But everywhere else holds the anticipation of a romanticizing technique.

Dreams those night,
Of making love to nothing,
But feeling more toward it than any thing
Writhing around and wanting more but finding no one there.

And so returns the night..

A slight and convincing novice, lie I at night,
With words so weak and a mind so active,
I give away little by sight.
And further my days, retreating inwardly,
Downward it feels, when it is only inside.
Little leaves this mouth that is truly felt,
And unhappiness is masked in irritance and terrible verse.
There should be marvellous rhyme,
There ought be fine and passionate spelling,
And yet leaks from I,
A simple salt solution of which my body is bitter and wrung.
And should we visit passion again,
Should I have a true calling,
Come ever, it’s voice, revealing it’s love for me,
Living in my breath and singing in my voice.
But no such passion has infected me,
No talent embedded in this flesh.
I am the novice that dulls the moment,
I am the weak voice at the end of a dark hall.
I am the expendable, the necessary character to move on to the next scene,
I have become little more a legend than a baby continuing to swim.
Such hope did old voices have in me,
Once I was so missed.
And now I flick at the cobwebs here, in my own dismal abyss.
As I say, however, it is not to be found around I,
But deep inside; it aches to be cleaned,
Are my fears engraved in here?
Do vile shades linger in wait?
I am placeless, and I am label-less,
I look like nothing in particular, and have about as much to contribute.
A pallor like any other,
And eyes that are eyes as they are.
Give in to sleep tonight, the unloved,
Lying by the one.
And attempt calm tonight, unloved,
Become the pain and diminish it.
I grow heavy in body, and mentally I strive to the melancholy still,
Where nothing moves on nor becomes tired nor changes,
I may be always this way.
But should it ruin it all, should it just,
That your irritated nature should dwell beside me,
And finally the wall has begun,
How hard I try still to warn.
You hear me so little through sleeping eyelids,
My nightly begging becomes prayer in slumber.
How beautiful you appear by the light of sleep,
And in this, this silence destroys me.

And indebted.

And to what do I owe,
This beauty that has surrounded my waking hours of late,
The nightmares that lay in the resting hours laugh!
Yes, the words that surround me are of different voice,
Now my familiarity,
The world at my window now that of crisp, clear horizons,
Of the new, the west and exciting.
What power has given me what I once dreamt of,
Only to taunt at sleep, to claim that I owe?

''Oh hopelessness, oh loneliness, to search the ends of time''.
It sings, so quietly in the back of my mind,
It lay undisturbed, long gone in green light.
How might I go about clearing it, the dwelling and the dust?
What has nuzzled into my vein today is sweet and harmonious,
What lingers from before bitter, and alone.
Still i feel the clutching fingers, not cold, but slick and of grease,
I attempt reconnecting with the world before me,
It laughs behind my back and wills me to join it.

When you have lived a life, in the dark of the back street,
In the dim of a room well hidden by bed sheet,
The moon a beacon with vendetta;
To have a light, so graceful, not white,
Appear before you,
In welcome, in slight appreciation, in wanting of you,
You must owe.
There must be a force that has worked out a click in the pattern,
Has mis-stitched too late,
Has moved the stars ever so slightly,
So that you may indeed be granted a life like the other,
And you must owe.


The photographs of my loved ones must be stored for today,
I feel a slight shame in their gaze,
For here is the girl, who sort of disapeared,
And, really, was found too late.

Empty cities.

I do not remember how i got here.
Those older and before me assured me it was something memorable,
full of song and blank, pale rooms of familiar smiles.
But i sat on the end of the bed and heaved,
clutching at my hair in tangles about my fingers.
Purposefully granting you satisfaction you were yet to know.

My feet turnt sideways to the ground, cupping the air between them wistfully.
Your words brought air to my back, tracing the etching of my spine beneath my skin.

-

There were people every where tonight,
I granted my breathing had been letting words out along with it,
The smaller of them almost disapearing before audible even to myself.
'There are people everywhere tonight, the leaves walk the streets in scrapes,
scattering along to the same direction, running past my feet and down the hill.
How had i never noticed them previously?
Do the leaves not walk along side humans by day?
Two seagulls stood amongst some of those crossing the road. '

'I see, i see a man. He stands amongst the flowers gathered in plastic wrappings,
and the laminated newspaper articles, all wrapped around the lampost.
Words in chalk and pen scrawled the floors, i knew that much,
But from here i could not read them.
The man stood, as though embracing the lamp post.
As far as i was, i could see it was him. He read, I'm sure.
For on stepping closer, my breath achily refusing to release any more words,
i saw he was in fact holding a girl in his arms.
The only thing seperating them, the gap between life and unconscious.
I'm sure her eyes ached as much somewhere else.
Across the road i walked now.
All that stood was, factually, a T-shirt, tied with black tape along with the collection of coloured wrappings and wilting petals.


Losing.

Everywhere i looked on these silent roads i saw a person.
In the lights, in the bricks, within gates and stepping down empty alleys.
The drone of cars running along the road beneath the bridge i walked even formed the sound of a room full of people.
Talking so as that their voices might all mingle into one monotone hum.
Unidentifiable.
I wondered if i'd ever be as such.