Easter Sunday 2

He’s so old now I can

Feel the graveyard on him.

There’s nothing left

Of what once made him him.

Deep inside, his genes

Are frayed like a bootlace

Beaten on a wall.


One day I pray that lace will snap

So I can face it like a man

Before its just a bunch of frail hairs

Murmering

And munching on his soup spoon.

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Cardiff

Each new morning

As the crisp sun cuts through the oak

That lines Sophia Gardens

A litter of fresh baggies

Line the Cardiff streets.

Frantic tongue and nail marks

Scar the ragged plastic

And betray the city’s nightlife

To the soft, welsh day.

Untitled 51

You see her face and every wound is torn open

Each memory memory dredged up

Like silt from a stagnant pond,

And through a cloud of settling ash

The odd hot ember jumps out

To scold you for mistakes you never made.


No, you know what, I take that back.

It feels like a man with an iron boot

Is kicking you in your gut

Over and over again.

And you deserve every single blow

For each mistake you chose to make

And each chance you’ll never know.

Inferno

Nighttime on a cool August day

And the stars above me blink

With lidless eyes.


There is someone watching

Through the windows

Curtains closed

I feel them.

Until the sound hits.

A crack or shot

It’s sharp

Into my bones

And the curtains open.


I run outside

And hemmed into the alley –

Lying side by side,

A family of strangers smiling.

Their cold corpses washed

By the pale moon.

Camden Town

One Wednesday morning

I found a ball of heroin

Lying on the ground.

I snorted it of course,

I wouldn’t smoke it.


Except I would.

And I did.


By Sunday I was chonging down

Long, broad tokes of the stuff

Like a kid with cotton candy

Rotting out his teeth.