you've got it so wrong.

i know i've been chasing happiness for as long as you've known me.
but still. baby. you're nowhere near good enough to be my pouting, posing, 60's throwback, jagger-swaggering indie boy.

untitled.

you took my words
and scribbled
that which i
would never have written.
you took my art
and created
that which i
would never have drawn.
you took my dreams
and aroused
that which i
would never have permitted.
you took my phonetics
and spoke
that which i
would never have pronounced.

you took my adoration
and reciprocated
that which i
could only have desired.

hendrix.

"i used to live in a room full of mirrors; and all i could ever see was me. i took my spirit and i crashed my mirrors, now the whole world is here for me to see."

sartre ii.

"if only i could prevent myself from thinking. i musnt think. i dont want to think. i think that i dont want to think. i mustnt think that i dont want to think. because, well, that is still a thought. will there never be an end to it?"

pleasure.

i need to see.
i never saw.
your need for me.
your passion raw.
i need to hear.
what i never heard.
against my ear.
your dirty word.
i need your haste.
to pull me out.
i need your taste.
on my mouth.

1984.

sick of big brother.
and the 1984 mentality.
there's little sympathy on my part.
as i watch you follow
behind
the biggest fucker.
but it's ok.
because she's the one who
sparkles
the most.

running.

my lover is awakening. he is leaving me. packs up his guitar and his paraphenalia.
his heart feels unloved. although it isnt. but his soul is tortured. he is running always from old age, religion and the tax man.

joe.

i dream only of words. and the success of my very talented lover.

sartre.

"you see a woman, you think that one day she will be old, only you don't see her grow old. but there are moments when you think you see her growing old and you feel yourself growing old with her: that is the feeling of adventure."

letter.

this is a letter
addressed to fuck knows who
and posted to fuck knows where.
but it's sent from
the creative, warped individual
who loves you,
but only for the idea of it.

murder.

what is this face,
so murderous in its beauty?
with its
sneaky
passionate
acidic
kisses.
it petrifies the will
and then my will
shall be no more.

lover of the famous.

and so you were there with the famous,
you slept with the famous
and you wrote about the famous.
but what you found out is that the only thing that the famous are worried about,
is their fame.
and not the young beauty lying in bed next to them.
your letters that you wrote me slowly became sadder
and sadder
and less frequent,
the more that your lovers betrayed you.
your last letter told me of a 'crying bench'
in the middle of a bridge, over the Lea at Bow Creek.
you wrote of how you sat on this bench every night,
crying passionately, for the lovers who had long forgotten you.
if only you would have cried,
for the love that could have been ours.

sex.

his dreams are long
his heart is high
the chains are strong
but so am i.

penetration is deep
his resistance is low
sex that's for keeps
two bodies to hold.

his kisses are urgent
his desires are wild
when passion is transient
love becomes defiled.

the fear.

if you went out with him, wouldn't you want to spend all of sunday kissing him?
what if your movements seemed to catch alight and burn with thoughts that made him shiver?
and what if, when he finally understood those thoughts, it resulted in him getting the fear?
would you want to kiss him then?

doped.

right you fuckers, all that we really need now is a little bit of harmony. and some kind of social and/or political integrity. but that won't ever happen really, will it?
nothing that we do will ever make much of a difference. revolutions don't exist anymore. there's no passion left.
so all in all, we might as well just stay dosed up and keep on taking those pills, brought to us from a secret administrator of rare hopes and a purveyor of prescribed chemicals.

beautiful freak.

"one day the world will be ready for you,
and they will all wonder how they didn't see you before."

my grievance.

all i can think about is your absence
and how you aren't here with me now.
the only thing left for me to do
is to grieve
the drenched, salty manifestation of our love,
with just the chaos
and a feeling of hurting
and reeling.
there's too little time
to think of nothing,
as we stumble around our dreams
in the midst of the night.
piling anguishes upon confusions.
as all alone,
i am the last to comprehend
the most culpable of my instructions.

f scott fitzgerald.

zelda sayre. what a bitch.

he heard.

i always thought that you never listened.
i dunno, it's how i figured you were.
but you artful bastard,
you heard everything.
taking it all in, ever so delicately,
playing about with my words
and understanding
that which i could not anunciate.
how dare you do that?
who allowed you to comprehend
what i myself cannot?

oscar wilde.

"a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he will see the dawn before the rest of the world."

my prolific bastard heroes.

i've run out of things to say tonight. and as i'm writing this, i'm thinking of bukowski. and i'm thinking of cohen. and i'm thinking of wilde. my poetic, literary heroes.
i picture them sat over their typewriters. sat at their desks. sat at their respective machines or sat upright, pen in hand.
i bet they never had to cope with writer's block. i bet they never had to deal with running out of things to say. they were such prolific bastards.
such magnificent, prolific bastards.

realisation.

i don't understand you. but i do love you.
maybe i love you because i dont understand you?

where dreams end and reality begins.

you, my love, are the biggest dreamer going.
i watch you going about your business and living out your life as if you think that it is real and that it is yours to own. don't you know that it belongs to me? and as you live it out, a thousand kisses deep, it is me that dictates where your dreams end and where your reality begins.
you see, there isnt enough time in life left for dreaming. there isnt enough time left in life to always be taking time-outs. that's why you can't be trusted to control it on your own.

an explanation.

i'd try to explain my dreams in words, but i sometimes find that words can be too exposing.
i would try to draw out my slumber-driven fanstasies because that would make them a little more ambiguous in meaning.
except, i can't really draw and have no talent for the arts.
i'd leave all the painting to joe, but it's just that, i don't think he'll ever be able to quite understand exactly what they mean.

my poet.

my poet doesn't write me poems,
his dreams spill out of paintpots
onto white emulsioned canvases.
all art is poetry.

he doesn't write me words,
instead he plays the sound of his kisses,
using the romance from the keys of a piano.
all music is poetry.

the rhyme lies within his talent,
our lust is what creates inspiration.
and his genius is borne out of my love.

cendrillon.

a boy who's love i used to enjoy took to calling me cendrillon, the french for 'cinderella.'
i never really grew to love him back, but i shall never forget the intonatations behind the nickname. and now that i am in love with a new different boy that is not him, a boy that is worth my affections, all i can think is

oh cendrillon.
doesn't it feel good to be in love with someone.
when you've always had to be with noone.

resigned to acceptance.

he was a clever boy. intelligent in the ways of the world. his only downfall is that he was sick with love.
'i was thinking of you,' he said. 'i always think about you.'
but now that i am begging him to speak. just to murmer a few words of comfort or to show a slight utter of affection.. it seems to be going nowhere.
and after all that, i am no longer one for intimacy.

lovers for a minute.

my echoes will tear your world apart
but you boy, you want to make it tonight.

we could be lovers for a minute
a coveted, lustful little secret.
we could be lovers for a lifetime
feelings that mean something, for some time.

and as we set the night on fire
i know that you will fix my desire.

ziggy stardust.

i cant really remember how long i've been lying here. i dont really want to move, either. this room has timeless magic to it. a timeless beauty. a little like the beauty of my lover. he is mysterious and engulfing and his love fills me with timelessness.
but, nothing seems real. the chatter from the people walking by underneath my window and the echoes of a woman's stilettos as she sharply hurries by, they arent real.
just like my life doesn't seem real.
my life is nothing but a dream of this timeless room that i've built in my mind. the walls are filled with celestial posters but they offer me no particular comfort. and so, im just going to carry on, uneasy in my riposte, as bowie gazes down at me from above my bed, with the smoke of his ziggy stardust cigarette blurring his face.

jim morrison.

"when play dies, it becomes the game.
when sex dies, it becomes climax"

the boy i love.

and there goes the boy that i love. he isnt real. and he doesn't live. but he is lost. and he is falling. he is always falling, but he will never land and he will never make a sound.
he is incredibly intelligent, but he never knows the answer to any of my questions.

"hey Fuzz, every rock and roll song has all the answers. just lie with me here all night and we'll listen for a while in the silence of the lyrics. i'll be able to tell you the answer in the morning."

all that is left of his mind are the torn rags of an intelligent youth.

a velvet goldmine inspiration.

a bloody dreadful film. but it inspired the following...

i long to be a true dandy of culture and pop music and dreams, where venus is wrapped up in furs, and exudes elegance whilst walking arm in arm with life. you see, it doesn't matter what a man chooses to do with his life. what matters is the talent that he grows up to be. and our revolution will be the only one that matters, the only essential one, as we smoke away life, on virginian cigarettes, where the smoke rising traces a ladder up to the stars...

the beginning.

i have no idea what has posessed me to create this blog, as the only purpose it will serve is that i will post my writings up here. i have kept a personal journal for nearly four years now and have never wanted to share any of my poems, my prose, my thoughts, my inspirations with anyone before, so goodness knows why i want to start doing that now...