Baby steps.

Two pounds change
spent on chalk farm chicken

with varicose veins

the sky is dark blue

in the type of winter

you wade through

In my hand is a cold can

of mirinda, the poor mans

fanta, but i love orange soda.

The bus comes slightly ahead of me

so i sort of jog and quietly hide my fatigue

It's more of a rumble and my head rattles

on the window. The light blue bus going past

hampstead heath musics played from behind

my seat I'm writing about london clouds

then throw an evening standard away from me

the front cover was about the casualties of haiti.

The last poem

I know you said once, and thought about it

And if you did,
If you where to tattoo your wrists
Of all the things, you should tattoo this:
The loved one is.
Because Aimee, you are
If not by a, north Londoner
Then your mother and father
If not them, you got the princess
And if not Leah, then
Whoever has the honour
To call themselves
Your lover
Because the loved one is
And the loved one you are:
The lone wolf howling at the moon
Guided by the northern star
Showing up all those who regretted
Never taking it this far
Don’t keep that truth hid
And speak it to those
Who never knew or did, (Dig?)
If a world one wanted
Seemed too vast to start
Remember their expedition
Will keep such places apart
Removing home from the heart
Helps make your past only a part;
Giving your future useful tips
Like counting the ways
In which you are rich
(Light beneath the eyes, soft hands
Strong mind, true grit)
“And, like, man” if ever in doubt
Just…
Put these words to your lips:
The loved one I am,
(the loved one you are)
The loved one is-
Do you really need a tattoo
To remember this?
(Dig)

Winter months.

Come to north London
Where we observe two lovers
 Who are unable to carry on.
Come closer, into Tufnell park
As they get together and later depart,
Every winter they play the same part.

She be- strong and vibrant but can’t
Help but become burnt out when the clouds
Become swollen and orange bricks
Are no longer golden despair doth knock
To him she must flock, runs
Hoping he’s still there, he still cares

He fucks the summer away just to forget
the day her and he crossed paths and never
does his amnesia last, going without her
becomes the longest fast, so he waits
for the snowflakes to fall hoping when
Frost comes she, like he, can no longer stand tall

One way or another their paths cross in winter
When neither have nothing to lose and to their
Inner most desires they surrender confessing

Things they really shouldn’t but believing in
This love means believing in living and when
They’re together living finally feels better

“please don’t let these days end, we’ve messed up
and I don’t want to mess up again, you’re my lover
you’re also my best friend only on you can I depend,
now it’s so cold out- trust- with me it’s warm
don’t leave me this time stay in from the storm”

“as sure as I breathe I believe I will never
leave for you are my rock my soul you keep me strong
and like likewise only you can I depend on don’t worry
my dear you have nothing to fear I’ll keep from the cold
and rest in these arms until I leave this world”

the love made in stone feels so heartfelt
but while the snow melts the promises break
the stone becomes weathered and partners weary
can’t help but believe the world circle theory if
only they admitted their partners faults, so desperate
to see perfection, so shocked when they see a person.

She witnesses the cloudy sky die at the hands
Of spring but doesn’t understand why he
Wants to stay in when there is such a wide
World to explore constantly told she is adored
But honestly feels trapped and bored this isn’t
What livings for- was she blinded by love before?

He knows winter has faded and is scared that
The love is fated to end bitter like last year
So scared he’s trying to keep her near but every
Time he pulls she pushes harder doesn’t understand
What she’s being distant for after all he’s the rock
the soul- is there anymore he can do for her?

The quiet grumblings bubble over while the
Sky gets hotter the flowers do bloom but not any
Larger than the impending sense of doom that follows
The two something is up something is awry then one
Night after a drunken party the expletives fly
And to the winter romance we say goodbye.

“You’re giving me actions but no feelings, reasons or why’s
And when you tell me love me it feels like a lie.
It’s as if you’re keeping secrets, made me so broke up inside
Yesterday I snuck on your facebook, and fucking cried for turning
Into one of those guys, you’ve robbed me of my pride”

“you fool you fucking fool I love you so much yet you don’t
stop accusing and thinking im just using I can’t keep on
guaranteeing love I can’t keep on promising if you do not believe,
im so trapped here you’re so on-me-all-the-time I need to…
I need to go”

The words come out of nowhere hitting the two harder
than, unless you’ve been in love, could never know.
The two depart leaving half a heart, only able to love
half as much, both become- no in fact both succumb to
an un-feeling of being numb, when with new lovers they’re
not loved nor lonesome just trapped under a summer sun

September if anything is a time for change when
Summer wanes and we embrace a baptism of rain-
She’s soaked in it as the clouds came from nowhere
In a short skirt she’s embarrassed and cold feeling
Too old to make such a mistake then she hears the
Pitter-patter over her, she’s standing under whose umbrella?

Septembers clouds are London’s cover a grey duvet
Rolling over her, soaked wet knowing if he
Helps he’ll regret it but fuck it she’s soaked and

We must help others and well she’s still looking
Good as ever he stands over, she turns to see her
Old lover he feels the way she looks. She looks in wonder.

They get together and later depart,
Every winter they play the same part.
Though maybe this time, in September-
A time for change- they can try for a fresh
Start, able to rearrange their broken hearts
and see if instead, a friendship can last.

                                             
“how you been?”                                 “I’ve been okay”
“still living round here?”                   “no I moved”
“Really”                                                “yeah but just to archway”
                                                               “you’re soaking wet”                        
“yeah I realise that.”                          "you want, a hot drink or something?"        

Slowly but surely vanity creeps up on me.

I've had enough of dressing like a kid. Enough of looking like a feeling like a kid. I want to hurry up and be the man I know I can be the one that's inside of me. Or maybe he isn't. Maybe this guy needs to be found through hard work and dedication to the causes I believe in. If only there were some causes I believed in. To be completely honest I'm telling all of you right now I'm not going back. Not to my old stomping ground or ways. I have to be egotistical and vain and let myself know I'm better than the people I met and the things I did to them the things I did with them. No sleeping around in body or mind (thanks camera obscura). So that's gone. I'm now a blank slate. I have less friends than fingers but thankful for it. I will build with laugh drink fight and die for them. And only them. I learnt something harsh already: not everyone wants the same thing as me especially something I've been longing for badly. What I'm supposed to think is that my life isn't a story it's just a life but I don't think that's quite right despite understanding I'm not giving up on that notion. That life isn't a story. It is. And that's why I like writing. I'm supposed to be writing now but this is what I'm thinking and inside my head it keeps rocking and racking my brain it's not pain but it draws my eyebrows down and my sunny demeanor isn't what it should be. But I've never been one for moaning or having a love that's unrequited so I'll just face it and it'll be accepted and already it's easier to deal with. Just, came so close to the end of lonely almost finding serendipity only to be plucked into something that I suppose will eventually been told apparently will-of course- be better for me. Fuck me if I wasn't fucked already. So what I'm doing is stand up comedy a little poetry writing a play and spending more time with my family. Stand up is slacking but only because that stuff is hardly temporary after all I may be doing that for my eternity that may be the beginning of how I make proper money. Poetry is easy because my minds just come from swimming in love and now I can write that down and get back into the groove. The play's the thing and that too I've been struggling. The subject is just so close though but maybe seeing as my actual lesson is learnt the story can now have somewhere to go. Despite having such good company (daily) I still get urges to leave this place like Ricky. But even he said this city is in me. I don't love Camden town I hate and am Camden town and hate that I am it. I feel this place owes me something and maybe in my unsaid vanity I believe this city, this city yeah it kind of needs me. To show the pretenders that lie daily and the beautiful and funny stories that could only be (and again with the vanity) told by me. So I'll be doing me. Let him breathe please. Just a moment before I do something drastic and reek havoc on a bunch of punters who probably couldn't H-and-L handle it. I'm going to let thunderbolt take the wheel temporarily, make the Ultimate Warrior understand that I'm doing my thing you see on friday finally hang with Dempsey finally and maybe, maybe slowly with working and dedicating I can someday be the man I hope to be. But how many comedians do poetry?