Well I tried so hard
And I still  don’t know
How to turn the page,
And let you go.
I’ve read this book
And I know how it ends,
It brings me back to you
Again.
It’s like a movie
Where I play the part
Of the guys who’s imprisoned
By his lonely heart.
And for the first time he’s where
He wants to be
It’s just that way
With you and me.
I used to think
I’d never need someone
Like the superhero
Who comes undone.
As the part unfolds
And it falls into line,
You’re my someone,
Who I want with me all the time
Like the caped crusader
Needs his boy wonder
I need you
To steal my thunder.
I was so confused
Two weeks ago
Whether I really  loved you
But now I know,
Happily ever after
Like a fairytale...
That’s just how it is
With me.
A story that’s true
And real,
That’s exactly the way
That  I feel.

My life story.










You say that love
Love baby it takes time
I won’t give up
Not until I make you mine.
I’ve just found out
That when you take me home
You push we away
With your heart of stone.
Which one of you are you today?
Do you want to hurt me
Or are you coming out
Out to play?
There are so many ways
So many ways to fall
Guess I’m an easy touch
And you don’t care at all.

She came up to me,
Flailing her arms on the stairwell:
“It’s the song isn’t it?
What you were trying to tell me:
‘I hope your happy now, I
Could never make you so.’ It’s
The line out of a song isn’t it?”
I stand there mute, one
Foot up the stairwell.
No-one can argue with an Irish
Women when she’s got something
In her wee bonnet.
“It’s a line out of You Made Me Thief
Of Your Heart isn’t it? I heard it on the
Radio today, a song by Sinead O’Connor,”
I was going to interject but something held my tongue
“It’s from a film about a Northern Irish man who feels
The world has done him a great injustice isn’t it?
Don’t bother answerin’ you’ve seen it, 5 TIMES!”
“What is this a dig at me? Cos I’m Northern Irish?”
“No it’s not...” I whisper hoarsely
“So what does it mean? Have I done somethin’ to upset you?”
“Not that you’d know of...”
With that I turn on my heels and walk away
It’s always a nice send off, when they never really get it.
A flustered northern Irish girl left exasperated
Staring at a piece of paper that reads
YOU MADE ME THIEF OF YOUR HEART
With hearts to dot the I.
Sometimes they just don’t get it.

There’s this guy
I once knew –
He was called ---
And every night he would frequent the local
He was ****** as a ****
But me and my mates felt we had to talk to him
Out of sympathy.
I could reckon that --- was quite intelligent
But he just drank too much
And people gave his a hard time
Apart from keeping us amused
I thought how he must
Each night
Reach his angle of repose
The moment when he began to slip away
From reality into drunkenness
As if we all haven’t?
And when I look back
I think of those fun-filled nights
With his new interpretation of ‘The Lord of The Rings’
And his philosophy of ‘the end of the world’
They were poignant evenings
And somewhere in between the alcohol
Was method in his madness.
Cheers, here’s to you,  ---

I am always curious to see
How we each react in our own way
To the things that hurt us most.
Our breathing lessons.
The shizz that just gets us by.
One foot at a time –
Concentrating on only each and every breath:
Through love
Through life
Through marriage
Through divorce
Through elation
Through heartbreak.
Some of us turn to *****
Some to drugs
Some to women
Some to solitude.
But these people bar the last
Forget the importance of being quiet
And believe the void can be filled
With substance
It can’t.
Much like the governments
And politics
Of this world – it’s an insatiable
Inimitable black hole
That when it shows its teeth
We have to all grin and bear it.
What do I know?
What do I care?
It’s all very much like poetry for us poets –
Just another way to survive.

Through the blue smoke
I see your eyes burning a blaze
And I feel my heart jump
As I negotiate the roadhouse maze
This isn’t just any piece of ***
Any idiot can chase that
But what I’m chasing now
Is a hurricane across the flat.
You’ve had your share of pain
I can only see those brown eyes burning
I can’t take my eyes off the three dots
By your eye that has got my soul turning
Your finger curls at your blonde brown hair
The ringlets fall thick on your shoulders
And every time you pucker your lips
I always feel my nerves smoulder.
I see you tapping away to the evening beat
The long hot Tequila nights before us
The world is playing at our feet.
I see you draw up on a cigarette
The smoke encircles my heart
Now sitting in the barroom five years on
I wish we had taken it back to the start.
I wish we had started again
On that Tequila night
Can I just ask you somethin’, mon amie-
Can you see the light?

I remember once a day at school
I will never forget
She was called Storm
It was not so much what she said
That was memorable
But how she drove some
Guys insane.
It’s amazing what a piece of ***
Will do to a guy’s reasoning.
There was this one Belgian
Called Timothy
He never really said much:
Girls ignored him
And so did the bully’s
Because he wasn’t worth anything
The only thing I remember is
That he used to share his potato chips with me.
I didn’t want to be his friend:
I just liked his chips.
You realise when you have nothing
You’re out for all you can get.
One day when our English Teacher Storm
Came in
Showing all the leg
I think she knew how much to reveal
And to leave us guessing
Just wanting a little bit more...
But not ruining the dream for us.
It’s true we wanted to rip that spray-on dress off
She pouted her rose lips
And tossed her bountiful brown eyes
Her grey-blue rimmed eyes were framed by magnificent lashes.
A photo in the making.
Every boy was willing to pay for her to have her nails painted
And her eyebrows plucked
Well, it would start every English Lesson
Storm (Mrs. Goodwin) would cross one leg over the other
And there would come this noise,
From the back of the classroom,
Quietly at first
Then...
Thump
Thump
Thump
It would continue all through the lesson
And Timothy could continue
With mute persistence.

I shuffle through the detritus within my flat
My atomic stockpile
Once every so often I empty out the draws
The decaying *******
And forgotten poems
I put them up on a board
Prepare them for an emergency operation
I give them fillings
Attend to the cavities
Brush them down
Give them another lick of paint
And bit by bit they stagger into shape
Doctored.
Breathing.
     ...Just
If I didn’t do this
I would have to burn your cities
Hound your women
And unleash my attack on every corner on the globe
You should be thankful
I only clean out my room
Once every  ten years.