Wednesday 24 March 2010

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.

Thursday 18 March 2010

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.

Wednesday 17 March 2010

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.

Monday 8 March 2010

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."

Tuesday 2 March 2010

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.