Blisters

Cut out on my feet –
cigarette burn rounds–
from city streets
that used to greet me
with imitation fireflies
and flights of fancy –
dizzying and glorious.
Now cracking and porous
my heels no longer
enough to support
–me –

Lo, lost, in this city
I knew –
So well –
It’s a hell

from the second you left
familiar became terror
and all I could want
is to escape –
walk away searing
in the heat –
I burn my feet
on the streets
that used to love me.

For you

Writing words
as if they could touch you.
As if a sentence
were my arm outstretched,
my words – my fingers –
go through your hair.
A Full stop – a kiss,
a comma – a breath
that we breathed together.
This could not exist
within me
without you.
The twisted silver lining
of the aching heart is this –
after all of this
I still have my words;
you are still my meaning.

Absence

I strip inconsequentially,
hiding myself in insomnia midnight.
Your eyes aren’t here to see me.
My body’s outline
isn’t traced by your fingers,
it’s met by a queen sized bed
and cheap linens that drape
like disappointment.

Dreams of you.
Perhaps the consequence
of your disappearance,
fleeting and wonderful,
the morning light
will open my eyes
only for disoriented dust motes
and silence.

Mining inspiration on city streets.

Sucking, ring-mouthed, on exhaust-pipes of inspiration
exhausted I pick-axe my way through soot and darkness
that chokes me up and sits in subconscious corners
cobwebbed clinging on my waking walking
through streets and observations of people
and things to find anything worthy of ink and page.
No rough diamonds or polishing those rough rides
on nights when all it took was a drink and to be taken home
before the morning light could cast judgement on me.
There’s no ore in the veins of jazz and cigarettes,
smokey rooms clinging to skin and sucking you
into their smells and ear-ringing. Wringing your ringless fingers.
Its romanticism Is better left for films
No inspiration to be had sucking on pipes and dreams
and stale cigarette smells
and running from morning light
and forgetting it all
In an afternoon wake-up beside bedside aspirin
and pushed away under the sheets
and washed with your jeans that are worn on the knees
and wear crumpled bar receipts mocking from empty pockets.
Yet here they are, those nights, those receipts,
All laid out, laid again,
In little lines and sighs of charcoal-dark smudges of ink
inspiration on your hands and pages.