The crackheads
want the good gear
even though it doesn't matter
they are going to take that eight-ball
and smoke it all

All wide-eyed and sketchy
teeth rotting out of their head
scanning the floor for any dropped crumbs

Another run for a twenty stone
to be drawn down deep with another and another

Good gear they say while grinding there stubby stumps
too wired to think of anything else but the crack

The sores on their bodies skinny rakes for a frame
A bad reputation with their drugs to blame

The nights and the days they very much mesh together
until they run out of funds that were begged for borrowed or stole

The crash is inevitable the cycle as well
the lives they lead are a living hell.

I can't now
recall your
first spoken

words to me
probably
mummy or

mum or words
similar
but I can

remember
your last words
that you spoke

back to me
-that Sunday
as I left

that useless
hospital-
you said so

softly -your
breathing bad-
all right or

maybe or
was Ok
after I

said I'd see
you on the
next morning

I didn't
know those would
be your last

spoken words
on parting
2 hours

after that
your heart stopped
the first time

and even
though they got
it going

on the beat
for a while
you never

spoke your words
anymore
just silence

memories
flying round
like dark birds.

Planets above and fathoms below,
I ask on the Empty, "Where should I go?"
Do I trust my compass, shall I break my clock?
Are there ways of guidance we've yet to unlcok?

One giant leap forward, two giant leaps back.
One foot nursing wounds, one prepared for attack.
I knock and I knock at the great wooden door
but the Empty is silent and I wonder for more.

My questions give silence and no answers are found
except words of heaven that make not a sound.

The planets and fathoms, they answer me not,
but somewhere has answered this pondering thought.


You can search far and wide, you can struggle and bleed,
but the answers your seeking aren't the answers you need.

silence is black ink and it fills the room around me
until I cannot see cannot breathe until
I cannot taste anything but your last words in my mouth.
darkness has not fallen but rather it is
dripping
from the ceiling and onto my hair, hands, my face,
spilling over notebooks and cups of coffee.
silence is flowing around me as if someone
has knocked over a jar that contained it
and as if it has been fighting the walls
of that jar
for a lifetime.

it is that empty feeling -- I'm sure you remember --
that feeling you get when you
run out of feelings and salt water and your heart
has stopped hurting but only
because it is gone -- you are sure.
there is only that gap
and it is filling up fast
with melancholy music that you play
to make you feel again
and words you scribbled down
in vain attempts to breathe again.
it is human to hurt this way or so they say
but how does the world still spin when everyone is broken
as broken
as I am?

there is nothing but blank ink
spilling from pages and pages of
where my soul used to be
filling and filling the gaps of hearts long broken
and it is silent and there is no comfort in it
this time
because it is the kind of silence that sounds
like loudness, sounds like screaming, feels like
cars driving in the desert with no airconditioning
feels like traffic jams on highways feels like drowning.

still I write because I
can't.

Love is
An intense feeling of deep affection
If only it felt just as good
Weeping underneath your billboards of rejection

Love is
A great interest and pleasure in something
You must love me a lot
Shouting the lies, watching your words sting

Love is
A formula for ending an affectionate letter
I'm still waiting for one
That admits why your busy, and how I'm so much better

Nothing is
not anything; no single thing
That is what I have left
Still I love you and the things you couldn't bring