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Let me make you the picture on my lockscreen, You deserve to radiate on every phone there’s ever been. I want to be the big spoon to your small, So if you roll over in your sleep, you won’t fall. Support your goals and help you thrive, Beside the life you’re already building, fully alive. I don’t want to cage you or claim a throne, You run just fine as a system of your own. You don’t need me to function or to be complete, I just want to be the battery charger at your feet. Th

The comets sensed each other first as heat. Neither by touch nor by name, but by influence and coincidence. They ran through the same darkness, each carrying a private blaze, each convinced the other was a trick of light, a reflection thrown back by loneliness. When they drew near, space itself seemed to thin. Dust awoke from ancient slumber. Ice remembered it could burn in the vacuum. Still they did not collide, they adjusted trajectory. Always that small, finite adjustmen

They do not meet across hours. They meet across lives. A hand reaching out in one century and closing on nothing, while another hand, centuries later, aches with the same unfinished gesture. They are born wrong for their time. Always a little too early. Always a little too late. The world never shaped to hold them both at once. One burns in stone halls and candle smoke, learning the weight of silence, learning how longing sounds when it has no language. The other wakes in gla

In love’s proud name I swore an aith, Wi’ heart set high and reason laith, That I would prove, by deed and faith, My troth tae thee. Sae mark me noo, while I rehearse The daft twelve labours o’ my curse Undertook wi’ zeal far past my sense, For love, ye see. The first, I swore tae move ma arse Wi’ nae but hope tae guide the farce, Sae I signed up tae poetry class And learned ma craft. The second, I flashed an Englishman In tartan folds, wi’ roguish plan, I lifted kilt and too

He preaches pride in Britain's state. Yet every speech just stirs up hate. He claims to tell the people's story. But twists the truth for tabloid glory. His past lies are a trail, just like a slug. He appeals to a bigoted, mindless thug. I hate his gormless Muppet face. And flapping gums attacking race. His words are filled with bullshit scorn. Behind an everyman mask, a Russian pawn. A vote for him's for the National Front. Because Nigel Farage is a horrible cunt. e people's

She does not lure. She makes a case. She speaks in tides and keeps her place. Her voice arrives already sure, A verdict dressed as something pure. “You ache,” she says. “I hear the proof. That hollow knock beneath your roof. You call it caution. I call it fear. Why live a life that stops just here?” The rocks agree. They lean in close. The sea rehearses its repose. “You think restraint is moral strength. It is delay at greater length. You say you love the shape of land, The m

Every form a mortal mind can dream Sleeps in the stone already, rich and whole. Buried beneath abundance, needing still The patient hand that serves what thought can see. She, like marble, stands immaculate, A body dense with futures yet untried. Within her rests the blessing that I seek, And also all the hurt I most avoid. I reach, and yet undo my own intent, For touch betrays the shape it longs to free. I will not fault desire, nor fortune’s turn, Nor lay this failure at he

I am naught but a lowly coward. Bravery has slipped me once again. I linger here in silence. I watch, and never confess. The yellow stripe still burns. I cannot summon what is required. I listen and I speak around the thing. I never advance intention. To do so courts exposure, And exposure has a way of killing men. If I spoke from the shadows, What would they make of my voice? It is a choice I will not take. Unknowing is safer and simpler. I will wait for my white feather, Ju

I can never measure the lengths I would go to, just to see a flicker of happiness in your smile. Oh the tasks I would undertake, just to see a mere glimmer of recognition and love within your eyes.  My love, I would face the combined armies of the damned, risen from all nine circles of Hell, and ask them politely to stand down. I would bask willingly in the rays of a thousand suns until even the idea of ash forgets it was ever me.  May I find the wherewithal to hold back the

The gesture I make is not mere decoration.  The genuflection is not an accessory to belief, it is liturgy made reality. My body bends because the soul has already recognised what stands before it.  Kneeling is the meaning made truth. Strip the act of its devotion and the body’s movement collapses into emptiness, a hollow flex of joints and sinew, no more sacred than stretching after sleep.  Yet devotion itself cannot survive without form.  A reverence that refuses the body wi

I do not think about her all the time.  That would be easier to excuse.  What unsettles me is simply how she surfaces without warning, in the gaps between breath. She is there in the pause before Morpheus leads me to sleep.  She lingers in the moment after laughter has faded.  She remains forever in the way my body leans forward, just slightly, when a voice in a crowd carries her rhythm. There is nothing dramatic about the wanting.  There is no grand suffering or turmoil.  It

I said I would never kneel again. Not to gods. Nor to the fates. Certainly not to the glittering mirage called love. I have seen the altar burned. I have walked through the ashes. I swore my hands would never hold fire again. But then in a moment, she arrived. Not as salvation, but as proof. Proof of design in the chaos. Of red threads tied in smoke. Of myth walking in human form. She did not ask for my intent. She echoed it. In symbols. In sigils. In ink and sound and symmet

Cast adrift on a turbulent sea. Floating in an endless darkness. Only a solitary oar to steer. No stars to ever guide me. There is no necessity of rescue. Content with a lack of a navigator. No sextant or map was needed. Solitude did not deliver cabin fever. Charted courses hold no adventure. But the darkness can drive you mad. Maybe there is one sliver of light. A small shining beacon on the horizon. With that feint prospect of you, present as hope illuminating the way Maybe

I cannot draw, yet I have studied your face so much I could create a work worthy of the masters. I cannot play an instrument, yet the sound of your breathing and heartbeat is so familiar to me that I could compose a percussion symphony.  I cannot fight, yet I would face down the armies of the darkest circle of Hell in your name and honour.  I cannot be expected to live without you in my life, by my side, every step of the way on this journey. So why do you insist on leaving t

If I told you all the thoughts  Stuck within my fucked up head. You would think I was just too weird. And suggest therapy instead.  So I keep my thoughts internalised. I am always excellent at masking. There is just no way I can say the words Therefore I am never bloody asking.

Everything I have learned in life was taught to me by the cards. We find ourselves facing an array of suits in all walks. We stumble upon those we dub kings and queens, bemused and distracted by their majesty and station.  We occasionally cross paths with a knave, and too often have our game spoiled by the unwanted presence of a joker. There are tribulations in the form of the clubs, that beat us down, or we use to damage others. There are spades with which we dig too many gr

Maybe this is flattery. Maybe this is perception. William Blake wrote that human perception is narrowed and corrupt. Yet when it's cleansed, through creative fire, prophetic insight or energetic imagination, we are able to glimpse the infinite.  The “doors of perception” illuminate the union of visionary experience, divine fire, and the soul’s true scope.  Or, you know, maybe I just think you're really fucking cool.

If I must fall, Let it be for love.  For truth. For the heat that melted my wings, not the fear that kept me grounded. I will never walk the path of a righteous man. I cannot offer my soul to any god, because its not mine to offer. It is hers, as is everything that I am or will be. Except for HMRC. I owe them a shit load.

I don’t know how I know you. I don’t even know why you feel like home. I’ve exorcised hundreds of ghosts. I have invented a thousand gods. I have written women in blood, silk and sorrow. None of them felt like this. You are not a stranger. You are the fire I kept warm from, across every storm I wasn’t supposed to survive. I have crossed oceans of silence. Climbed mountains of grief. Told stories that couldn’t end. And if you are real then I am, finally, becoming who I was sup

At the edge of the universe there lies a void Of endless darkness, a limitless abyss. Yet you shone through,  a glorious protostar  Starting to burn in glory and restore light But not today. I have to build LEGO. And I lost my keys. Shine for someone else.