i’d found stone rock bench platform plateaus
where you used to drink your coffee    cigarettes
and laugh at passers-by, sitting on yourself
occasionally eyeing an old-styled frieze
of judgemental swords and curling lips,
half-wondering what shiny sparking floors
hid inside grey white smog smoked walls.

you’d complain about the square
forever being full of something,
usually people, sometimes markets
utterly refusing to let the space be
and your smoking spot’d be stolen
by wooden huts hawking mushy peas
or mulled cider or chocolate tools

she’d sipped at broken wine,
minding her skin on the glass,
she’d told me it made more sense
when you were bruised, when
beautiful tiredness burst
behind your eyelids and cracked
your wrists with all the fury
of what you’d wished you could say.

on days like those we could lie
about the beauty in everything,
but now we can only tell the truth.


To be breathing
awake and feeling
in small seconds
of unending infinite
mechanical mornings.

muttering step-step
dragging dead dreams
through shrill-ringing
alarms and siren-shouts
life-lost but still living.

we wake in gentle light
dawn-struck dealing
daring to open life-worn
eyes and see for truth
the world we’ve been


“The Blade”

The blade reaches up
above the rooftops
to dawdle beneath
the clouds and smog
of a vast cityscape.

It hangs above my life
every life by a thread
of thinly woven white
little lies and half-truths
that mill us all to sleep.

Every now and then
I see the people stop
and glance at the blade
with renewed wonder
then start to carry on.

The same people stop
walking to question why
they wander weary streets
beneath the blood-bound
blade; then they forget.