It’s a sign of the times

11 05 2017

If you just hold me, S… I know we can brave it all.


The Void

3 05 2017

One foot in the puddle. One wrapped in wires. And you light up the sky, the grid coming to life with an ephemeral buzz – the constant hum of the city drowned out by a sharp intake of breath.


Breathe, you say to me, tapping on my temples. It’s fine. It’s fine for now and there might not be a later. You string me up. You lower me down. You’re the vast expanse stretching between the nowhere and the now.

Electric fluid.

Lungs filled up with junk, head’s blank – black, really, sizzling with nausea, empty with asphyxiation. How are you doing, anyway?

You’re clear.

Like spit dribbling down my windscreen as I scrape a bit of crap off the glass. It’s full of scratches, yellowed with age and just overall nasty,  isn’t it? I don’t want to look at it anymore. You can have my car.

You can have my everything.

No one’s going nowhere in this verse. Empty, rhythmless black hole of thoughts. Windscreen, headlights, a deer smudged all across the pavement. Nothing means anything anymore.

It’s concentric circles of pure, limitless blackness I’m drowning in. It’s a vacuum. Gravity’s got no grips on me anymore.


A day in the life of…

22 04 2017

You reached after me. In my insanity, my total and utter lack of sense, you held out a hand and…

I got lost in your touch. I got lost in your fingers in my hair, my face buried in your shoulder. You kept me from floating away, anchoring me to whatever was left of the ruins of reality. Just bricks, really. Bricks where there were towers. Once, a long, long time ago.

You enveloped me in your arms with such warmth… It felt like springtime. Hatching season. The time of the year when the air fills with fragrant pollens and sunbeams heat the earth until new life sprouts from the cold, unmoving soil. You let me put down my roots and held me tight.

It’s still a struggle. Winter’s never really left and the memory of all those frostbites is still far too vivid to shake. But you guard my dreams and keep away the cold when it seeps in through that little gap under the door. You reach after me once the night falls…



27 02 2017

I wake up with a bloody nose. Black mascara smudged under my eyes, nails chipped and lips chapped. I smile and the skin cracks – I taste blood as I roll over and your ripped shirt slides up my thighs.

I walk to the window. Mellow light and fragrant air; they sweep into the room as I open the panes, soaking in the liquid life that fills my lungs as I breath in the flowery scent of early spring. I light a cigarette, resting my elbows on the window frame, chin propped up in my palms. It’s past 9. I hear the buzz of the city from a distance, the hum of ‘the normals’ rushing to work as the light thumping in my head reminds me of the night before.

You and I – we were spinning in the dirty, orange light of the street lamps, shattering glass, oozing smoke and singing curses as we spun, spun, spun around the axis of the light. Straight to heaven it went. Straight to hell we sent it. And I caught my reflection in your irises a thousand times and your body swung past mine and our gazes locked for another fracture of a second.

I was manic and so were you. Manic, sick, out of our minds. And yet it didn’t matter – nothing ever did in those brief hours before the day broke. Nothing ever would when we were so high yet so low, faithless and filthy, weightless and full of laughs.

You were bitter and I was sour. Evil and neurotic, perfect, cold, full of angles and light arches as the light broke on your skin. Shadows filled our lungs as we kept spinning, concrete shattering under our boots as we kept launching ourselves at the world, kicking and thrashing and clawing our way out of the dark.

You leaned in for a kiss – I was ever so eager to oblige. There was nothing like these moments. Drunk with destruction, high on hallucinogens, trembling with terror, and numbed by narcotics – I fell into your arms and you caught me.

It took a moment for me to realise that I was the one holding you up.

That you were the one drowning, clinging to me, floating only because I kept you afloat. In our little bubble of delusion, it was all upside down. We both choked, but I only for you filled my lungs with water as we kissed. We both crashed, but I only since your wings melted as you flew too close to the Sun and mine weren’t strong enough to keep the both of us in the air. And yet, you were never the one to blame.

I was the one who wanted to be abused, and whatever I wanted, you made sure I always had. You’ve only ever granted every single one of my wishes.

‘Love’s a rare commodity in this wasteland’, I once wrote, years after the day I stood in  your window, soaking in the morning light.

I had you in mind at the time of writing. I’m still not sure what it meant.


A delicate state

11 02 2017

I’m sick of it. All of it. The silences, the holding back, the all too telling glances when no one’s watching.

You’re supposed to be my rebound. I’m supposed to find comfort in you. But quite often all I find are awkward silences and manufactured distances. Never too much affection. Not until the lights go out.

And then you string me up, rope around my ankles and blood rushing into my brain in waves that make my ears ring. I can’t really do anything but cut all ties, retreat, find solace in my own company. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I wouldn’t, even if I could.

It’s me, myself and I.



26 01 2017

Styles has the nicest eyes. There’s something kind in them, oval, arched, contrasting his sharp features. His eyelashes are long and dark, shading the amber of his eyes in perfect semi-circles.

Styles is something else. He borders on normal but never quite reaches it, he neighbours mysterious but never strays far enough from the beaten path to become hard to read. He leans against the wall, stature causal but still tense, and listens to the crowd as it roams by, rushing wherever for whatever reasons.

He’s forever there but always half-removed. He’s not really in his mind-castle, no, but a shadow of it lingers in his eyes even when he’s present and attentive.

And his lips are half-circles. Pretty, arched cushions of peach-tinted velvet, curling upwards as he mumbles on about one thing or the other. He’s somewhat like early spring; cold but mellow, sunshine on your face and wind in your hair, the fresh smell of flowers and shivers of the morning dew.

Shadows walk the arches of his pensive, clean-cut face.


Alpha and

12 01 2017


I’ve loved you – just you – a thousand times. You wore many camouflages, many skins, many names but it was always you, you, my cruel little prince. Brother. Partner. Nemesis. I’ve loved and hated you with never-ending anguish, hands in my hair, clutching at and ripping out strands in the afternoon silence, kissing you in the morning glow. You were a thorn – in my chest, under my nails, woven into that crown of thorns I never once took off during my decades of walking the Earth. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

And you reached out, dragged me closer, buried your face in my hair and your fingers in my chest. There, we spun. Up in the sky like Icarus, so close to the Sun that it burnt our flesh and it pealed off until there was nothing left but the eternal radiance hiding within. Scorched Earth. Scorched us.

Patience, you said. Another decade, another century, another night and we’re going to be home again. Home, in each other’s arms, tearing through the other compulsively, ripping flesh from the bone, arteries from their place, cracking blood-soaked joints in searching for that one thing. No one understands the compulsion. No one but you. No one but me.

We have to, even if we don’t want to. But we do, we do, for if anyone, we understand how pain births beauty. Thorn crows, nosebleeds, white lines on your bedroom mirror, tears and mornings when the cold light shines through your curtains, painting your face with the palest shades of blue.

You’re me.

We’re Ouroboros.