Poetry - The Third Wheel.

The Third Wheel.

It’s understandable when it’s your mate and their boyfriend.
At least then when they facially maul one another you can remain little miss stoic stony face and that be the end.
But don’t pretend it’s not worse when its three friends.
It just asks for two against one conflict.
The two too concerned with bonding over one’s faults.
You may then wonder what that is all about,
but the real clout is when you’re out.
Out on your ass.
Two strikes becomes the third wheel,
and with it the one becomes the donkey,
dragging the whole bloody wagon.

Poetry- 7:59am.

7:59am.

That time before the alarm.
Where the world is slow
and has its charm.
There is nothing and there is all,
A brief movement,
A silent call.
In this place where silence sings,
the taps drip ,
the boilers ring.
There is a poignant modesty.
A certain truth to humanity.

Poetry - Real eyes.

Real eyes.

Through the keyhole life is worse.
You can glimpse a realm of opinion you never knew,
A snitch of words strung together in a new way.
A truth you never needed to know,
or a thought you thought didn’t exist.
With each peek your self diminishes and
with it any logical way to comprehend.
And so you are left, changed, enlightened
and
alone.

When the key turns,
and the door opens.

Poetry - Brought up. Kept up.

Brought up. Kept up.

Awoken by a crescendo of showers,
by students shredding away the early hours,
the parties, the gigs, the drink,
all sink
down the plughole along with the old life.
An old regime. It’s old knife.
It’s parental dictatorship.
Castro. Hussein.
Are nothing compared to
that.
And so they wash.
And I listen. And I think.
And I sink
back to those dazed days.
Where I used to sit and
rot.
And now they are clean and
now I am not.