TELESCOPES

the thing is...
I can't help thinking
of the things we never did
and the things I said
but didn't follow through
and I'm scared that will happen
this time with you
because being scared is easy,
holding onto it is hard
(and I'm hardly trying not to),
locked on to a love that won't last
if I don't stop being the martyr
I've started to become
young gun
with the sun in my sights
and telescope eyes,
crying lightning for her
suck it up and spit it out:
you're a man now,
a man who's head over heels
with the reoccurring version of events
that led to this mess
in the first place

X

they say they're all for united kingdom independence

when i think we should be dependent on each other

not to disrespect a man or woman for where they come from,

not to make peace with bombs,

and not to fall to pieces because of the wrongs of others we've invented:

a vent for the closet racists that are costing us our respect for each other

another hateful letter through the post,

posing as politics,

and i swear i'll stop caring

expecting an X on the paper to make things better

when i've been let down and lied to

by the people who said they'd try to make a difference

to the riots and the fighting on the street

to keep what we can

whilst everything else is being handed to the privileged few,

a silver plate matching the silver spoons in their mouths

and lacking any thought for the everyman like me and you

not that i'm doing badly myself,

i just see so much hate and loveless lovemaking around me

that,

sometimes,

it seems making a difference is more difficult

than turning water into wine

(when the last guy tried that it didn't exactly turn out alright)

trying to believe in that when rats the size of dogs are all the papers care about

allowing the things that really matter to slip through their fingers

thinking that hacking a dead girls phone is ok

that the BNP are making a good point

that royalty means loyalty to giving everything to baby george

well BULLSHIT

it's sitting on the fence like we are that's led to this mess

and i feel powerless:

how can one man make a difference?

the jam said that's entertainment

but i want more,

i want to be sure that people will keep fighting the things we find unfair

that we'll care about more than the boring things that fill our days

and the hazy smoke of our friday nights in

i want to know that there's hope over the broken social scene we're stuck in

something in all this that's worth the worthless people dying inside for

as they try to have their say

i want more than to complain

i want to raise the bar for what we can do

prove it's more than just pissing behind a skip when saturday night's lost its charm

the CALM DOWN DEAREST

and nearly falling over,

overcompensating for the way things are

and the parties of tomorrow that slow down

when we realise we didn't try hard enough

and trusted the wrong men to lead us

when all they did was teach me

not to feel guilty

about the misery

of those less fortunate

but i know that all i have to speak my mind

is 2 intersecting diagonal lines

in a square

that no one cares

or gives a SHIT

if i fill in

A MATADOR

sometimes i feel like a matador
sorting you lot from left right and centre,
my red flag ignored as per usual
as useful as the broken glasses that lie on our floor,
another job for the matador
adore me
but my flaws will still leave a sour taste in your mouth:
how's that for an accolade?

LA LA LOVE YOU
but love's only skin deep
so keep dreaming, androids,
of electric sheep
then at least you'll be counting them
instead of the fleeting moments that you actually see me
in between the seemingly meaningless moods
that dictate my day

if something good will come
then you'll be first in line,
china shop distractions surround you
and fresh feelings of 48 hours ago
as you forgo the friends we made
by creating scenes of a violent nature
waiting for our future to unroll
just a soul clap away from certain calamity
you come at me with broken arms
but flexing can only get you so far
when you're a human heart attack like you
a suit and tie can't hide the horror on your face
as you face backwards:
does pot kettle black ring any bells?

respect me
and i'll respect you
i try to see through you
but i can't,
so i acquiesce instead
but righteousness can only get you so far
i'm in the dark about your high and mighty feelings
clearly we need to talk
before we walk too far down this road
of cat fights,
broken bones
and biting my head off,
coughing with innocent surprise
defending your lies and disguising your guilt
killing my questions
with your questionable level of responsibility
tricking me into forgetting
that it's YOU i'm angry at
attaching myself to the unhealthy habit
of talking behind backs and closed doors

falling over myself to help you
when you helped yourself to what i had
i've had enough of being pushed around
like a human merry-go-round
each rotation making it harder to hit you back,
back to reality as you continue to be
my red flag friend
and i wait for it to happen
all over again

HEARTSINK

I'm sorry

that you hate this place and the slow pace of life that you and I got used to

I'm sorry

that I'm useless at the things that bring you the rolling stone satisfaction you call happiness

and as much as a rebranded man I am now,

this is what it always comes down to:

a hundred apologies and boring monologues from me

not seeing red but red-faced from the effort of chasing up the loose ends I left you with

and the aforementioned tendency to be a dick head/

accidentally like I said

but that makes no difference, does it?

indifferent to the differences between us

you want to trust a man who can barely put his trousers on without falling over/

lowering the bar,

setting it so low

that doing the limbo with me would break your back/

back to where we started

square 1,

2,

3,

4,

5 months

of velvet underground moments

until I learnt that looking back is a futile action/

a new romantic reaction to the metaphorical slap to the face you gave me

(even though you didn't mean to)

I know that, but knowledge is not what we need

needlessly stating the facts

when the fact is:
we fucked up

up the bracket and down the stairs to the

"SHUT THE FRONT DOOR"

you were so sure of saying

the thing is

my apologies can only do so much
with the biology between us/
waiting at bus stops
stopping to think how i'm wasting your time

like the white wine I drunk when you left

and the expectation on your face/

exhausted from expecting more

more or less letting love tear us apart

look what I've started:

blue screens of death and

another endless summer of

"we can still be friends"

when the thing is

I MISS YOU

not the toothpaste kisses

or pissing with the door open

but just knowing you,

showing you that age is just a number,

a number that numbs us
with every year that passes/

as the heartsink

and pink squares
fade away

CLOUD 9

what are these repetitive electronic noises?

the sonic youth of our annoying generation,

the walking dead of our weekends:

is it just me or am I repeating myself?

revolution number 9/

on cloud 9 again

as we pretend this never happens

when actually,

it's not the first re-enactment of the night

nor the last

we hide behind the go faster stripes of glitter
on our shit-stained faces/

facing up to the fact
that there's some things shiny bits of plastic can't cover

and 2 lovers entwined in each other's thighs behind a burger van

isn't remotely romantic
but the pinnacle of the hopeless antics we're expected to perform
 

great expectations aren't so great when we're expected to supply:

acts of mediocre violence,

getting high

and trying to score another notch on the bedpost/

hoping you'll grow out of the phase you're going through

even though it's been going strong
for a decade too long
already,

steady,

cook
your brain slowly
over 30 days of a cruel summer:

a bananarama nightmare

frightening when you think that last night
the pink lights of the portaloo

were enough to keep you amused for hours,

distracted from the grandeur of the day:

more fake than gold teeth
or the beef in the Tesco ready meal you've already thrown up/

a grown up but slowly dying modern man

standing on the soft bulletin beneath you

trying to understand how 4 fingers and 1 thumb makes a hand/

at least until it's in your pocket

with all the other things that you forgot/

the rocks of whatever you cleverly hid in your sock can't help you now

as cowboys and Indians spin round your head

you get head then get hurt/

learning that her fur coat is as real as she is

and jesus is just another man with a fag in his mouth,

standing over there,

caring less about you than he ever did/

in the strange,
strange
reality

we call the twilight sadness of this place

MEMBER

this useless organ

is more than just the end of my non-muscular torso/

a masculine symbol falling
like static pink water

from the last remains of my childish fantasies/

handing the baton over to you,

consecutively losing each person

and struggling to function

from the modern day smoke and mirrors

that hinder our interest

in these games of boys and girls/

toying with thoughts of inadequacy

as you ask me "what's wrong?"/

the longitude and latitude
of the map my bed's become

crossing at all the wrong moments,

momentarily thinking
of the 5th limb that is my member/

before remembering the responsibility
that unfortunately comes
with wielding this weapon

that can be so much more persuasive than sword
or pen

but in between such highs of confidence,

I'm forced to remember

that my member
just means membership
to the WHEN WILL HE TEXT ME BACK

and the empty meanwhiles

of the nights it entertains