walking home alone

The city Lights up
haunts are glowing
central london
left of the centre
down the corridor
so close
it just makes the dark darker)
physical closeness but loneliness)
but the doors open
shows about to begin
everyone looking at me
do i belong-

and i step on, the floorboards creek

now i move in toe but it feels too slow.

damaged good

A: what's it about?
B: it's a poem about a girl with damaged goods.
A: uh, what's it called?
B: Damaged goods.
A: right.
B: see, the poem says she has damaged goods, and i should help her, but really i don't. I damage the damaged goods!
A: it's like a twist
B: it is a twist. I use a lot of italics too. like im gonna damage her goods because they're good damaged goods. pretty much every time i write the word good, I italic it. for effect.
A: that sounds good.
B: ha! really?
A: no.

artists are so cool

I'm so not mainstream

not a part of any team
lets listen to patrick wolf as
Led Zeppelin are so passe
I'd pick wes anderson over scorsese any day
such tastes above such stature
nnrapture polaroid picture a christmas sweater
naked legs beneath riding an inclusive
(elusive? obtrusive?__) lecture
such style lends to others that waste
so originally cheesy
duran duran on my sony walkman- that's a tape player by the way? yeah?
home artists filled: crackpots diversity
without having to be-fortunately-diverse
fun. dance. love. the mantra that i speak
though i do not preach in reason, reasonable
seeing as i know nothing at all. an artist
a clay-maker. poet, writer and drug smuggler
my flat is like no other )(sd arliar)( but it's true)
university a wonder my day job is great
because it's... non-existent. nnnn tristan
and isolade or iso-sol wahtever it is
it inspires me to rock and roll like the skull on my back
the rose on my shoulder the dragon that crawls
up my leg. nnnn soooo unique
nnnnndo i have to leach off messages of peace?
annnnn if my life is just a squeak in a fabric
torn apart by fascists who know no art
let my veins bleed once more to gesture how
i will take no more, I'll twitter these views
until i die making up plays about robot slaves
foribelievethatiswhatweare (besides it sounds cool)
a-(and that's what I'm about really)-n life makes mean-(being cool)-ing full
steps.
in.
the.
wrong.
direction.
for you let this be an education, i lay in misdirection
a permanent tennant to the house of creative masturbation.

On that day on the way

Whether driver or passenger
We ride together
Ready to fight whenever
And laugh forever
Like the Northmen,
We're Depending on each other
But obviously
We look a little better

Our heart's been known to wither
I don't think I could do without her
She keeps me a steady fella
Her lips my umbrella-ella
I'll love her until I die
And if you don't know
Just check the eyes
When she leaves I'm not the same
She's the girl who hates the game
And I wont back down again
No I wont back down again

Your gift and curse is felt
Times I've wished another hand were dealt
But maybe our presence can be felt
After all,
I have the pen
And you read my page
We'll run for mountains
Away from our age
Like the last sage
Trapped in Loki's maze
If only our peers
Could understand our rage
At the actors and
The Writers
In this mediocre haze
Drive for days and days
Live by our cowboy desert ways
Writing books forever
Every stage shall feel our thunder
And while we're drunk on laughter
We'll see imitators pinning after

And though my anger
Will never die
I take comfort
In you hearing me cry
Not a coincidence that
The one who understands
is the only one who will listen
and we don't need Swiss cottage
underground for your
hair to glisten
and in these words
just listen clear
and in these words
just listen clear:
as long as we're near
You wont ever have to fear
And I will always be near
because the loved one
Is loved around here.

To be so.

All my life I’ve tried to be big
Laying the best jokes and delivering the deadliest blows
To the luckiest folks sitting in the very best rows

The only goal I’ve ever had is for the world to know my name
To have it spelled in light bulbs, I’d pay the price of fame
To me, it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to claim

But to be with you under these covers, spending the morning
With your gentle soul…
It’s never felt so great to be so supposedly small
If you remember to call my name
The rest of the world could go fuck itself.

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?

Baby it's cold outside.

I grow off words and feed off speeches
My brain doesn't house creativity
just prose-hungry leaches
Neil Young Neil Young Neil Young Neil Young
Where am I from where am I from? Bob Dylan Dylan
See this blonde hair
shinning underneath the swiss cottage underground light the light it stares
Pick this out Pick this out Pick this out
You who shouts me who stares she who listen's
See how that blonde hair glistens
the black mascarra doesn't highlight
It exaggerates because her eyes already show enough
They're, bright
Like a cowgirl in the sand
Like a ruby in the dust
Like the woman of my dreams
and the guitar solo inbetween
they speak
I wonder if she'll save me
I wish she'll make me feel alright
because while it's cold outside
If I can keep looking into those eyes
I'll be warm enough tonight.