The secret of my energy
can be found in my false libido,
unwanted erections,
vibrations on the
inner-city bus.

My blue collar life
with a white collar tongue,
tried pyramid schemes,
tried working for the right thing
on the wrong side of the bar.
Worked on my oral ***
until going down was an art,

worked on my poetry
in the hope I could ******* through
the empty spaces,
clear absence of a career path.

The secret of my energy
can be found in my distance
from anything or anyone.
The secret of my energy
can be found in my contempt
for telling those I care for
about who I love
or what I ate for lunch.

Tried drinking green tea,
meditating by the ocean waves
until I sang the ballad of the sea.
Tried tuning my guitar
to the point the strings would snap
in the hope of portraying emotion
my talent had always lacked.

The secret of my energy
can be found in my distaste
for positivity and pessimism,
for conservative thought
and overdrawn liberalism,
for whistle-blowers
and tone-deaf singers
of flag-waving anthems
and golden age dreams.

Tried holding my hand to my heart,
pledging allegiance
to red wine, white skin, and blue truth.
The secret of my energy
can be found in every idea
I had reached out for
only to find that in my pursuit

I could only become the sum
of all that I knew,
of all that I was,
of all I outgrew.

Turn these restless limbs to stone
so I can get a modicum of rest.
Clothe my bones, walk me home;
steady the clamour of my chest.

Blot the stars with a marker pen,
place a ceiling over my dreams.
No news at ten, play remember when,
when the future falls at the seams.

Place all useless guilt in the dirt
so I can finally lapse to sleep.
No three year hurt, I will iron my shirt
and line my pockets deep.

Hide the misery amongst the flowers,
the ash amongst the living.
These early hours, these mythic powers;
find the solace of forgiving.

Pull me from the Ground Zero rubble
so I can learn to stand again.
Be my double, first sign of trouble;
my anchor and not my chain.

Shield the summer from the rain,
let me walk with a peace.
Free from pain, my voice will strain
for the melody of release.

Heave all words of lazy defeat,
throw them to the pyre.
Been white as a sheet, a snowman in heat;
flame of grief turned to fire.

Mask the eye too full of fear,
leave the door opened for the light.
So used to tears, so many years
at the mercy of the night.

Take me from this dead-end breeze
out into the open air.
I am on my knees, these hopeful pleas,
that you will take me there.

I stopped waiting by the phone
I stopped pressing my glass to the wall
straining for vicarious sound
I stopped waiting for distraction
to prevent me getting bored

I am alone
I am alone
but feel loneliness
only when I feel I ought to
The rest of the time
it is music
or the silence in between

I stopped pacing the floor
as if movement meant
I was doing something

I stopped looking for love
as if desire were the same
as feeling something for someone

As if holding out for change
was as good as holding a person
as if sleeping alone
caused dreams without reason
as if snatches of warmth
gave purpose to the seasons

I stopped collecting forget-me-nots
I stopped bleeding out my liberal heart
every time there was suffering
or hate in the spaces where
love should have been

I stopped waiting for someone
to doctor the still
where sorrow pervaded
the canned laughter of living

I stopped looking for someone
it was only then
I could start forgiving

Left her crying in the driveway
after forcing her way through the window,
feigned a car crash, a sudden death,
so I could sleep alone and warm
without discussion across the pillow.

Drank whiskey and coke,
distant and remote-
noted her painted nails,
her short skirt, her knotted shirt,
shaved legs
in anticipation
for something I could not give her.

Made an excuse to sing the blues
until the pills took their hold
and muffled my strings
in a tranquilised series
of half-toned grins
and yawns that sing
the death of another evening.

Would rather take to art
than any flesh, bone, or heart
that bleeds upon my feeling,
would rather cling to a verse,
a muddied crime, suit, or hearse,
that leaves me high and dry
and staring up at the ceiling.

Left her nursing her wounds
whilst I search for an excuse
why I cannot love without leaving.
Left her alone in her bed
a feast of wine and bread
that has no taste,

that has no rhyme or reason,
for why I keep ploughing the field,
for why I keep moving through the seasons.

There is no meaning to my motion,
no depth to my frantic gathering of breath,
no distilled calm, nor consequence to each brief,
suffering emotion.

I am just a ladder to climb.
I am no stairway to heaven.