****

You only look pretty on cigarettes And pastel pale with chalk dust. You grew so well, you did so well, You were bold but too short lived, You grew and cried and died And that was it.

You only look pretty with cigarettes. You've forgotten how to talk, So you mumble wisps of ice and sugar; Dress in lace and tie your hair with Children's fingers in ribbon. Kiss goodnight.

The smell of cigarettes And takeaway.

Life advice, but The kind you'll never use.

A shiny head, a prickly white beard And gold rings.

I'm never sure Quite what to say.

When he laughs, he does with passion And strokes his tie.

Every time I saw him, He wore a tie.

He always asked how I was And seemed to listen.

I look forward To wearing clothes you have not touched. My mattress has fresh sheets, but I cannot clean you out of them.

I laundered all my fabrics, then I bought plants to try and clear the air. You are in my skin. I shed my skin and you’re still there.

You got rubbed into my hair. I can’t wash you out. I find you clinging to my limbs. I feel your touch dragging on my skin.

You are hidden in my drawers I put on clothes you bought, for other people And you are hidden there too. He’ll never know you touched me too.

I feel I’ve cleaned you from every crevice, Scrubbing out where you are ingrained I concentrated on the dust, the tiny fractures, And forgot the tumours in my brain.

I cannot wait for the day I wear clothes I haven’t worn for you. I can’t get rid of things. I can’t get rid of you.

Nothing has changed in the last year; I am more bitter. You wouldn’t have liked that. I don’t care if you like that.

You have cut the world into pieces And the best are arranged inside of you, Geometric patterns like parched earth, Like the underside of a leaf, like mathematics.

As carelessly as nature carves her creation, You seem ignorant of your own formation. The blind watchmaker of evolution hath made himself, Each part been placed without realisation,

Resulting in the construction of a whole Far more beautiful than can be imagined, As the tree can grasp the richness of the soil But does not see her fruit.

And though the watch-man may be blind, He still creates; a craft of passion unhindered by affliction. Thus though you see not what you do, You must still have faith in its existence.

I was drunk, and you were asleep, As is the way it always seems to be And I realised all the things I felt And I realised how alone I am

And I think that in my mind I have kissed you a thousand times; Maybe that is good enough for me, Maybe that's the most real it will be.

I've got pins holding up my jeans Over hips which long to be yours. I think you're the only hope left to have. I think you're the only hope I have.

I slept early and I cried, Thinking of your lips on mine; I wish I smoked. I wish I could smoke you out.

You seduced me with your words, They fell into place in my mind Like stars, and I was the empty sky, My twisted colours burnt like galaxies.

I awoke at your touch, As your light danced into my void, Your angelic touches raising from the deep The dark tendrils of my imagination.

Your words, in letters and in sounds Contrived to wake my conscience, My thoughts aroused into sporadic nebulae, While not knowing truly their intentions.

You are like points of light, A way I heard the stars once described As puncturing the darkness of the sky, Slowly, as though my eyes adjusting.

As though coming into focus, Like thoughts when once awoken Crystalise into awareness Before through courage spoken.

But when we look upon the sky From our fragile vantage point, We forget she has a depth unspeakable, An eternity of cold and muddied layers;

We forget she has more than two dimensions, The stars and constellations we assign her Being filtered down to us through the stratosphere Perhaps only by her volition,

And the distance we fail so poorly to percieve Plays mentor to a thousand suns, A thousand planets and their nations, The stars are well imbedded thick and through her.

Do you touch the stars? Are you their ember Coaxing into life, each spark with gentle breath, A tender hand to weave and seek their paths Like a deistic creator in their midst, or,

Do you dance across the surface? Will you as well Recite their paths, but instead like maps; perhaps A more simple application, A noncommital tracing of your art. Have you decided?

Do you contemplate the passages of my mind, Perhaps you lie awake at night, Looking onto the same surface of the prisim of the sky, The same face that you have crafted.

Do my colours re-awaken you, My chromatic dust seeping into your mind, Through your water, through your skin, An infection weaving through you, to begin once again,

Has the light become enchanted by the sky? Does her darkness lure you in, The melancholy of the night has won you over, So you cannot sleep to hear her sigh,

And watch the stars trace out their patterns, Constellations she graced for you to have. A nonchalance but tender, as though watching: Waiting for you to arrive.

You're not part of my body. You're like a hum in the background. You're nothing, And you won't understand me.

You're drowned out by the traffic. You're a hiss on the radio. After one drink you've left, And then I can relax.

You're a bitter aftertaste, One that once tasted so sweet, Turned sickly sour and indiscreet. Leave me alone.

You crumbled into dust. You are noise. You are irritation. I need to scrub you out of my skin.

You're an acid burn, A superficial lapse of attention: An unfortunate turn of events. Get out of my head.

When you stand like that You look like your mother, You have her temper too. Do you think I don’t remember -

You say the right things, Everything you think I want to hear, And some of it I do. But without such concession as this.

And your insipid sigh, you roll your eyes, Dissonant, forced nonchalance; An unconvincing semblance Of the disinterest you’re so eager to convey.

Eyes glazed with false apathy, Your sickly, lurching smile. It’s like your one cocked eyebrow Is burned into my brain.

And do you remember When I wore your mothers raincoat? And my shoes filled with water. But Now your face is carved in cold complacency.

Your nature crawled into my organs While I wasn’t looking, tricked, And I tried to swap them for another, Near crushed by my own decisions.

I want to cut you, carve you out. Fix some deficient effigy of my dispassion, Take all the pieces of yourself you left behind and Tie them with string into an ideal.

Much the way you have done this to yourself, You have smoothed away your edges, An icon of your own pure paragon. Exemplary, indefectible child.

And sometimes it slips, I see a panic pass so briefly, Or stress as your father speaks, I see your humanity, reassuring me.

Followed by the same boredom, You run a hand through your hair, You sigh, as you say with little interest How much you love my eyes. Try again.

I wish I could breathe you out, You wove thin crystals into my soft tissue, Designed to trap and tangle. Their pride, their burning, scalding pride.

I have been unpicking your knots for many months, Lacunae, devoid of past emotion, Devoid of memory or of passion, I wish there was a clinic to remove you.

I won’t remember you but for your words, Abstracted beyond all recognition, And they will etch into my memory. They will replace you.

Last night a guy nearly drowned And I swear it's the most badass shit I've ever been involved in. Now I reek of fancy cigars and port And I’m sitting on a train home In last nights clothes Trying to cover the smell with Dior.

I told the ticket guy the wrong thing, And I didn't know how to explain myself Other than to say, Last night I was awake until 6am With boys in three piece suits At a party out of the 1930s, But you can't say that to someone Who earns minimum wage.

Is it any more classy If you're getting off your face On liqueur and champagne? If you're in a six bedroom townhouse in London? Because at first it feels like fine living, When the evening costs a grand, But then you start to realise That really it's just as empty As the bottles littered around you

And your friends ask why you aren't drinking, Because normally you're the worst off, Normally you're the life of it all. Let me pour you another whiskey darling, It's 25 year old malt. And you can't. And when they want to know why you won't, You don't know how to say You can't mix drink with the pills, Because antidepressants don't complement alcohol As well as the £300 food.

I'm told it's an upper class problem, But last night a guy nearly drowned, And as we pulled him out of the water And laid him down on his side, We just carried on like it was normal. And stone cold sober, I wished I could be the same as him; Drink until I was nearly dead, And pray maybe I wouldn't have to deal with it the morning.

They say "I'm concerned, you aren't nearly drunk enough", And pour you another glass, So you smile and quietly pour it into sombody else's When nobody is looking, And you keep going and going and you smile and laugh, And they say "smile, it's easier if you pretend", So when he asks you if you're okay Every time without fail you tell him, 'always'.

When it may occur You're selling your every belief To be part of it for a night, And you can't see past how alone you are I suggest you quell it with the wine. If the pills won't let you Then you're on your own. And you're alone because they're all trapped In their warm inebriated minds. Some songs define you, So sing louder.

Evenings like that seem beautiful. Modern decadence. Louis Vuitton suits, And D&G perfume. And people joke about that time we called an ambulance, And then some guy nearly fucking dies. The beauty is only in it's fragile decay. The inherent instability of it all.

Silence, and Holiness. Removed from the sanctity Of heaven.

We are mortals now. Or forever. But not here; We are gods.

Infantile peace, I am a god. A god of nothing. Yet of everything.

And what are you In this domain. We are all nothing, You are untouchable.

But voices cross Like fading dances, Trances incomprehensible And bland.

Gods, under the earth I hold the stillness In my palm. Nothing will escape you.

Sprung webs Of iron silk, This holds our Fractal species together.

Voices, these voices. They have No place here; We are gods.

J'ai vu tes casses Et j'ai les vu entre les étoiles; J'ai les vu quand le ciel était foncé, Et les planètes étaient triste au même.

Saturne a dansé avec sa soie Et les couleurs avait joué sur tes cicatrices, Comme les fantômes fantastiques, Et j'ai vu que tu guérisses.

Mercure, chaleureux et assuré, Il tu a vu et il a pleuré. Les larmes de pierre est tombée Sur ton peau des yeux fermés.

L'acide de Venus a renversé; Les liquides refroidis et paisible, Ce vogué dans l'espace Mais ton corps ait les repoussé.

La solidarité de Jupiter est dans ton âme Et tu sont plus fort que tous tes épreuves, Encore plus maintenant. J'ai la conviction grande dans ta force.

Neptune même si distant, comprend Et les bleus, irisés et prismatique Illuminent ton ombre avec un feu drastique: Tu peux poursuivre.

Pluton, le plus froid et vide vraiment Comprend mieux que la majorité. Il a vu tes fractures et il a sangloté, Il a senti ta peine aussi.

Et Mars a consacré sa vaillance; Tu as le courage de toutes les étoiles. Quand les essais de vie devenu trop difficiles, Pense aux les choses qu'ils tu avaient transmis.

Le ciel qui continent tes casses Est réparé par Uranus, qui garde les nues Et il s'assure qu'il existe toujours Un place pour laisse tes malheurs.

Take me home, I want to see the stars, Take me home.

Take me to a place Where the lights burn brighter than my soul, Take me home.

Take me to the desert; I want to feel alone, and the landscape with my body. Take me home.

Take me home, Let the waters wash me clean. Take me home.

I want the streets in my lungs And the sand in my bones, Take me home.

And the mountains, they breathe, I want to feel them with me When you take me home.

The empty heat, The never-ending dream, Take me home.

The desert and the sun, The burning heat is where I belong; Take me home.

Take me home, Where my accent is all wrong. Take me home.

And the highways, God, give me the highways, Take me home.

Coloured light; A camera in the dark, Take me home.

The sand is in my skin; Dirt and dust and coloured light. Take me home.

I want coloured light, I want the desert night, Please take me home.

And thick, cold trees, I want the evergreen leaves Take me home.

The mountains, they sing, And I can feel them in me, Take me home.

Take me where there's snow, Take me to the north; let the mountains hold me, Take me home.

I need the cold, Give me the ice on my skin, I need my home.

The roads. I need the roads and the highways, Take me home.

The open land, Fields and forest and snow, Take me home.

Take me where I can be alone; Cassette tapes and second hand clothes, Take me home.

I need the wind on the highway, I need the desert and the snow, Take me home.

And the neon lights And the history. And my history. Take me home.

Take me to dense city sprawl, And take me to where the world is empty, mile upon mile. Take me home.

Beautiful trees, beautiful trees. I need to be at home. Take me home.

I need the lights on the highway, I need to be alone. Take me home.

I need the stars in my blood. I need the stars in my being. I need to be at home.

Silence, silence, silence. Calm stillness and serenity, It it the silence of death and of war. An arrogant silence, patriotic hush.

Green fields and clean glass, And my room smells like 1945. And the building looks like 1945. The Nazis never left, not really.

Quiet when you are on parade. The silence is in your air and in your bodies and in your clean lungs. Nothing moves unless told. The light is still. Nothing moves.

You are always watched. And washed in detergent and blue. Scrub out the stains and scrub your boots And scrub your mind with the solvent too.

The Nazis were not here. But my room smells like 1945. High ceilings and cheap carpet, And my sheets have been bleached white.

And the air holds arrogant patience, Arrogant because you are just a day-tripper. Because the Nazis were never here. The air is silent and British and blue.

Block on block on block, They've cut corners ever since the 60s, Blocks like acrid tumours Crawling out of movie sets of 1945.

Red brick façades and green grass, Their rosy, arrogant faces Keeping careful watch, Stone faces in neat order, like Auschwitz.

The perimeter men beat with their brittle machines, Boot and heel and shoe, Polish them polish them clean And polish me polish me too.

The perimeter watches you too, Although the forest beyond it is blue And the lamplight on the ground is blue And the fence in the night is blue.

Your skin in the sheets is too, Shoulders beaten and blue. And the sign on the door is blue. And the grease in your lungs is blue.

Scrub me clean with bleach, My sensitivity stripped with identity, Peeled away like dry blisters, Red skin raw on the sheets.

And the silence bores down into your skin, Through bone and melts your marrow; Drip into the ground, you're 1945 You look like a Nazi too.

The blue light seeps into the ground, it's 1945, And the Nazis never got you. But you look like a Nazi too. Silent and British and blue.

The guard-men are made of wax, And the edge of the base is blue. Perimeter wire coiled in your lungs, The trees are watching you.

Two hundred thousand cots, Each one waiting for you, 1945 has melted into the carpet, The Nazis were coming for you.

Dark, dark morning, Parade Gloss Black like your boot. And the bleach scrubs at your mind, Kiss their feet and salute.

Photographic light, you're washed in blue, And the calm composure of façades. The surrealist night and the silence, And the beating step of the guards.