She comes here,
consumes nothing,
offers all
but what I desire.
Folds my laundry,
teaches me Thai,
goes down on me.
Massages my shoulders
to tempt sleep
in restless sheets.

But I cannot write
a lullaby
with her sleeping soundly,
like a lie,
by my side.

Departure lounge. Crown of tears
probably dried upon my father’s shoulder.
One year before I touch down again.
Everyone will expect some change.

Tried to swallow consciousness on the Bangkok streets.
Too much heat. There is no familiar face –
I cannot even read the road-signs.
There is no culture shock:
I had lived with that my entire life.

Made friends with the strays
for we had a common place.
Caught in no man’s land:
a need for hunger,
some awful drive to be free.

Left Bangkok for the coast.
New faces to hear old stories.
Born new, kissed each night on the mouth,
shared a hotel room for the month;
relinquished every memory

in a flood of beer,
old tears, the reservoir
to cleanse ourselves of doubt.
Dictated each depression

to a room full of strangers
until I could frame every disgrace,
put them to bed
until I slept full and new.

Fell in love with a singer,
red hair and a voice
that climbed a ladder to heaven.
Bid farewell in a country of mourning,

wore black until I found colour again.
Descended each rung
until I found that rock bottom
was still much higher
than where I had come from.

Wrote poetry and songs
nine hours from the foundations
I had built upon.
Black-eyed and clueless,
wrong side of the classroom,

I tried to teach a foreign tongue
in a place where I knew nothing
and no one. Far from every addiction
that once anchored me in place,

I shaved my face, pressed my shirt,
made amends for every cigarette end
that once painted the frame
of all I had amounted,
all I had done.

Fell in love with a town,
a pink sunset, stretch of rice-farms
and apple trees that patterned the view
of all I could see.

Still broken, still maladjusted,
still craving those twisted words.
Take my motorbike off into the drumlins
each time that I fear the worst.

Still broken, still singing
a song I cannot sing,
yet each muffled string,
each half-worn verse
is a half-formed reason
to rehearse
the melody I gather
each fateful, live-long day,

I cry out for meaning
before it fades away.

The advertisements tell me
to make a website.
From there, I can sell myself.
My bad habits and poetry,
my every night, stop-gap routine,
as if I am tired of chasing women
and am looking to get clean.

Place a filter
over every image I’ve seen,
place a void between myself
and reality.
To cut out the ugly spaces;
the maladjusted rock and dust,
the invasive thought

that I could end all uncertainty
by taking the plunge,
knocking back a few shots
before jumping into the canyon
and forsaking my circle-****
panoramic snapshot
for a chance of real feeling
the lawn mower forgot.

Another glass of Hong Thong
and Pepsi, another cigarette burn
as I scream *******
at the top of my lungs.
2.a.m in the morning-
all the girls have gone home,
so I ******* over yesterdays:
my ex-girlfriend in her bikini shot,
the high school girl I never laid-
but imagination was enough.

Stay up until the ashtray is full,
until each bottle is empty.
Until I run out of interesting
things to say
and finally begin writing poetry.
The crickets sing their curtain call song,
the blackness of night
as I black-out my lungs.

Wait for the paltry feast,
for the ***-shot girls,
for the dying embers
of a wonderful world,
where we smoke trees of green,
red blood and liquid too,
of fermented grape;
forget all of yesterday
and all of tomorrow too.

I see skies of blue,
I see clouds of white,
I see iridescent plumes
of neo-liberal,
comb-over groomed, Eton schooled dog-*****.
I see colours of the rainbow
that have all turned to grey,
too scared to offend anyone,
to say what we want to say.

I see enemies shaking hands,
saying “how do you do?”
I know that they’re really saying
“I ******* hate you,
I didn’t come to argue,
I didn’t come for the truth,
I came for my fifteen minutes of fame
for the twelve million hits;
for the five million views.”

They tell me to make a website
to sell myself.
For each time I stood
in the moments I fell.
To chronicle the crawl
of each cancer-drawn progression,
of each failed urban sprawl;
for each whiskey-drawn confession.

For each moment I stood tall
through the instances I felt small.
They told me there was a market
for each lazy, drunken drawl.

They told me to sell myself
as a failing beacon of mental health,
as a mass of demons,
all bite and no bark,
only to come alive
after blood-shed;
after dark.

Long divorced from love,
owned three guitars
and slept with nine women.
Remembers every song,
every poem,
scarcely recalls their faces;
lilt of their tongue
as sleep took hold of them-
not him.

Trigger finger over the snapshot
through each baulk and ****** of passion:
"this is the poem, this is the verse
I can lay down in print
and finally live again."

Night sky too full of uncertainty.
Cannot observe a desert scene
without a commentary
on each unanswered question.
She is dressed in sequins
but what for the spaces in between?
He cannot accept filler,
blank spaces that intercede
moments of ineffable beauty.

Maddening crowds emerge,
bright-eyed and stupid
to each early, pink noise morning.
He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs,
slow to movement; formulation of words.

Each night a battle of sobriety
as the sun does bleed
in the skyline before him.
Each night a generation dies,
subtle points of light
lost in the noise of the modern day.
Screams pointlessly, without need:
"don't forget me, don't forget me..."
would rather leave a scar

than no mark at all.
Lives for the colours
he cannot see, for the common thread
that connects everything.
Tweaks the string of each broken seam

to expose each diversity,
each personal loss
as a collective sigh;
every sleepless night
as an off-white lullaby.
Born for collision
beneath a dying star,
long divorced from love;
he is married to art.