The Everlasting Harmony of Love

Take what you want
What you…need
And leave the rest.

Take what you can get
And forget the rest.

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It’s been a while since you’ve looked yourself in the eye


Feast your eyes upon my eyes

Oh, darling, you look so tired

Tired of the untouched parts

Tired of the unfulfilled sides


Not everything’s a metaphor.

Feast on me, then.

If you must, and you must

Sometimes, the sweat runs down the back of my legs

And your tingling tongue stands bright.

To be known,

And alone.

Staring into the nowhere,


On lazy afternoons,

Sun on my hot and humid body through a window ajar,

Cold white wine and cigarettes and masturbation,

I think of flowers and flies and you.

I am still my greatest lover.

But you came,



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Stormy nights, stormy minds.
The sun sets, and I’m alone.
I want it to be quiet but it isn’t.
It’s all so loud.
Yes, I’ll miss the view.
The top of the city, and the endless sky.
But views are views, peaceful or not.
I am leaving you.
And yes, of course, it hurts my soul.
My teacher, my companion, my maker, maybe.
My partner in crime, we never needed anyone, did we?
Running towards you, arms outstretched, I embraced nothing, the nothing.
Now I am running back to something, a something.
And no regrets, no, of course not, my dear.
But I want it…different.

In my home I feel homeless.
In my home I feel homeless.
In my life I feel lifeless.

What else do you want from me?
Bye, I said.
It is not entirely your fault, and I am sorry you must suffer from that.
You will be fine, in fact, you will be the same.
Bye, bye.
Bye to your fibrous roots.
Bye, don’t cry.

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London pt deux

You know


You just get so

Incredibly tired

Of seeing a bin bag

From you local Indian takeaway

Been ripped open

In the middle of the street

By a hungry fox

At 7:45

In the morning


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You (A Shit Poem about Sex)


Please lick the beauty off of me. Like you used to, let your tongue dance on my spiky finger nails, rusty raw, strip it off, reveal the whore, all of her.

I am cold and you don’t heat me up, no matter how hard (I try), it is me who is trying. Get your hands twisted in my curls, let me let you hold me.

Breathe on me, your face so close, distorted, ugly, I can’t see you but that’s how it should be, you don’t see me. O-v-e-r-p-o-w-e-r me.


Me, too.

Me, also.

Pull away, and out, oh god.
Fuck me, you whisper, and I do, I will, I do.

And the waves, the waves.

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I woke up with the riff to Heat-Shaped Box playing in my head. The strangest, most beautiful sex song known to man. The power of the cunt. Rage on.

I knew a man, once. He was a strange man. It was a strange attraction. It was a lesson I had to learn, more than anything. A mistake I’d made before that I had to remake, for reasons that are too human to explain.

We met. And we met again, the day after. And we continued to meet. And of course I let him inside my heart-shaped box. I never understood what else he wanted from me but it seemed he just wanted to be in the vicinity of my person. He cooked me a roast dinner, in his terrible, terrible flat I suggested he move out of immediately. He drove me to work in the morning in his tatty, old van. He took me to Brighton, he paid for dinner, he held my hand.

And one day, he came to my house, and out of nowhere, and with no words, he handed me an unwrapped, framed print. It was Banksy’s broken and battered balloon heart, adorned all over with little plaster crosses. He didn’t know me, of course. Of course I hadn’t let him inside anything except the heart-shaped box. But he gave me my broken heart back anyway, perhaps making atonement for the sins done to others, or maybe the sins done by others, to me.

It was a beautiful moment in an otherwise confusing and somewhat pointless relation. There were many things that were not good enough, but I will leave them at that. There is a reason why I behaved like the rage I have between my legs. And of course I broke it off less than amicably. I wasn’t young, I wasn’t foolish; I was an arsehole, reacting to arsehole behaviour. But such is life, such is lessons, such are cunts.

I haven’t known him in years. I have no desire to. But the print hangs beneath the stairs that lead to my bed. Make of that what you will.

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Nonsense about convenience (malice)

Just remember when you think you’re free
The crack inside your fucking heart is me

Sometimes I wonder what you did with the tickets. You know, those tickets you bought, for you and me, as a birthday present, for me. For that gig that you knew I wanted to go to; for that gig you had to know me quite well to know that I wanted to go to. That thoughtful gift. That thoughtful gift.

The date came and it went. And I wonder if the tickets stayed with you, unused. Or if they were sold. Or maybe you went. And maybe you took that girl you met on New Year’s Eve. I think maybe you did. You always were a cheapskate. Why waste money? Just don’t tell her they were bought for someone else and you’ve got the perfect Thursday night surprise, right?

Your confidant, your sympathiser, your heart-to-heart, your goodnight kiss.

Your lightning rod, your diversion, your love on a leash, your placeholder.

Your convenience.

How fucking DARE you.

A hammock in a forest. And an elderly man smiles and smiles, pushing me gently back into gentle swinging and rubs homemade chilli paste on my eczema-ridden feet. And then he takes me by the foot and the hand and pulls me out and up and around and around by the foot and the hand. And a one and a two and an up, up, up I go, into the sky and moon and stars and nonsense like that. It was a strange dream but at least it wasn’t about you. I dreamt I met you. I was walking and you caught up with me and tapped me on the shoulder and smiled that smile and I thankfully woke up before you said, ‘Hey!’.

No one is ever convenient, to others or even to themselves.

So goodbye to you, my own, temporary inconvenience.

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