it’s twenty two and sunny on the high road

we’re up by 7

and out the door by 11

there’s a man selling flowers on the corner and there’s a man selling flowers by the station and there’s a man selling flowers opposite the man selling vegetables

and everyone on the high road is also up by 7 and out by 11 so we fight for the last borek at the bakery and eat it outside

everything is gorgeous and the church bells are ringing and you pose hypotheticals at me, like whether i’d survive the impending devastation of an apocalyptic scenario and i remind you how quickly i’d put a gun to my head at the slightest inkling of inconvenience

as if i’d want to live without the boreks and the flowers and the twenty two degree british weather

that has sent everyone in london into a spin

there’s a dog in a pram and a baby on its toes taking its first steps down the high road

it stumbles past the book shop and past the man selling flowers by the pub towards the common and we have the revolutionary idea to spend the day on the common with a picnic

you tell me your survival plan as we walk past the man selling flowers by the bus stop and you remind me of all the ways you could beat the zombies or the AI or the evil evil men

we can’t believe that everyone is on the common and you can’t move for picnics and couples under trees so we lie amongst the bushes with our tiny speaker that spits out the magic city hippies as we attempt to catch the sun before she disappears on us again

it’s now fifteen and clear on the high road

we’ve chased the sun as far as she can go and

i’m asking if you can see the stars and you tell me they’re planes and i say does it really matter when they’re that far away

a light in the sky is a light in the sky when you need one

you ask me what i’d wish for anyway after a day like this and i tell you it’s that i’ll never have to live without days like this,

without you

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to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

crisis of faith

and when i meet god i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever whilst always being heard i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother for carrying her burdens in my womb it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...

my love

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