An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Category: Uncategorized


My skeleton holds me up,

but only just, my

bones rattling, growing weak.

My muscles have shriveled,

my skin hangs limp,

and underneath it all,


Empty, hollow, vacant,


Stolen by a world which

has unraveled itself.

An unseen hand, pulling

gently, unweaving

each strand until the

last of the thread

comes tumbling down,

disintegrating on to the

hard ground,

dust to be blown

away and forgotten,

left to rot in the

corner, scattered,

dropped off in basements,

hotel rooms, late night

cinemas, and garbage cans.

On streets and down

alleys, pieces lost forever in

a stinking, sweaty vomit-pile.

I sift though the



wailing, singing poetry,

with my hands full

of regurgitated peas.

But I am left empty

and my sunken

skeleton slinks back

to its deadened




Bellies full of beer,

bubbling, bustling,

about to burst.


Empty eyes and

crowded lungs

gasping and

heaving, spitting

out heroic


the clarity of

the insane.


Feet messy and

tangled, bodies

lustful and

mangled, rushing

to feel


while remaining



The bitch gets


the prick gets


the beer gets


the beds get


and as the

morning vomit

comes up

to empty

sour minds,

all heroism

is lost

all clarity

forgotten. Reality’s

cruel hand struck.


I’ve been split in two.

I’m a halved hypocrite,

I’m a fickle fraction,

I’m a funny faker.


The mother holds

her child, protects it

from her own evils.

It feeds off her

fallacy just fine.


“We’re all

doomed, mother dear,”

child cries.

“Never forget you

were ruined too.

But I’m hungry

so forget it, just

stuff your face

and close your eyes

and pray the world

in all its horrid hatred

won’t leave you hopeless.”


I’m an utter ugly stooge

To this utter ugly time

In this utter ugly place

And its utter ugly condition.


To consume is to die

slowly, so die fast,

frantic, and avoid any

chance of clarity.

Head on steadfast

to the absurd and

the vicious and the

starving and never

sit your lazy

ass down.

The looking-glass

I walked alone into the shallow lake and saw


laid out before me like a canvas.

It captured


Even the empty space just before my feet.

It captured


I saw my mother crying in a blackened gown. I saw

my sister with smoke in her eyes. I saw

flesh and earth like a kaleidoscope of life before me. I saw

life and she saw me.

Like a looking-glass through


yeah, I saw

life and she saw me.


I turned around and dried my feet,

caked in dirt and leaves,

I went away.




too clear, I followed the darkness through to


I stayed naked in the darkness,

I stayed naked and I stayed free.

The needle.

A syringe, held to my head,

the needle pinching the skin, but

not yet breaking.


Large carnivorous hands, veiny

in their tenacious anger,

hold a firm grip on

the plunger full

of foggy mayhem, swimming

in the body

of the needle like a

like a snake, anxious

and angry.


One sharp stab, the hands

brace, the needle

stings, my temple



I hear my skull crack. I feel

the blood trickle


It fills my ears,

and now I’m deaf.


The plunger is pushed


I feel the fog seep in. I see it

fill my eyes

until it’s all I can see

and now I’m blind.


I don’t scream.

I don’t struggle.

The fog is stronger than I am.

As are the hands, blue

veins still pop from rough skin,

as they push more and

more fog deeper

and deeper



The needle is gone.


The hands now rest

gently, but ever present,

around my neck.

The fog is everywhere. I hate

and fear it, but am


against it.

Any attempt at

freedom, and the hands

would surely tighten their grasp.


I am paralysed.

Another victim to the fog.

A prisoner of the hands

with no face.


Like a ghosts, I stalk

blindly through the world.

Invisible to those

who see clearly

with necks clean

and faces dry.

Falling to pieces.

My toes fell off last night.

In the darkness they fled,

sliding between my sheets,

jumping out of my bed,

and abandoning me.

I noticed only when I woke

and quickly fell to the floor.

Unable to stand,

I spent the day

on the carpet.


My fingers ripped themselves off today.

Bloody and tired

from dragging my

helpless body,

they popped off and clawed

their way out the window

and down the drain,

leaving me.


Even my eyes now have gone.

They escaped and roll around the floor now

in utter lunacy,

leaving the holes in my head

to create their own

image of disaster.


My ears are melting down

my sore, stumpy arms.

My tongue

lies wasted in a ball

on the floor

where even the cat

only scratches at it

before turning it’s head.


A scattered mess

of limbs and flesh,

crushed bones,

and sore muscles,

broken skin and

ripped tendons

on a carpet now

wet and dripping

with angry red slop.


Soon I’m melted completely.

my clothes laid out

neatly on the floor

and my toes,

my fingers,

my liberated limbs

no longer weep for me.

The house where you live.

The flowers in the vase

in the hallway

are dead again.

You waited too long

to replace them and now

the house smells like dirt

and the colour’s gone.


The radiator is broken.

It’s too hot in the kitchen

and too cold in the lounge

and you have to walk

back and forth between them

to feel comfortable.


The stairs in the attic are creaking.

You can’t go searching in silence.

They announce your ascent

to the house and

like a scared feline you jump

and retreat

because the secrets you keep

there must remain.


So you drink cold coffee

in the hot kitchen

and smoke in the lounge

and do all you can to stay away

from that desolate hallway

that smells like dirt

with the flowers that now

hang limp around the vase

and the light bulb goes out

and the door never opens

and all that’s left is an occasional creak

as the stairs fall under

a heavy weight.

The little boy.

A little boy fell on to the Earth.

Out of the sky he dropped like a bird from a nest

and thus proclaimed his love for all things

as everything to his eyes was new.

Across rivers he swam

and through deserts he trekked

with swollen feet and bloodied hands.

Finally he came across one like him.

A body with arms and legs

and a head like a balloon sat atop them.

Through his travels the little boy had grown to be as tall

and as he approached his fellow man

with his burly beard and bloodied arms outstretched,

the man turned away, repulsed, and quickly fled.

The boy began to cry.

Tears which did not fall

but returned to the sky from which he came

and soon his torn and ravaged body along with them.

I think.

I think I could have been great.

Like when I was young

and I ran and ran and


and my lungs never ached

and my legs never tired

and I was great.

I was triumphant.

I was magnificent.

The royalty that I was

hung from my shoulders

and rolled out before me

like pavement of gold.

I think I could have been fine.

Like when I was adolescent

and I dance and danced and


As womanhood began to snatch

me up and pull me apart,

I danced

and I was fine.

I pirouetted through puberty

and I was fine.

I was ok.

I think I can manage.

Right now

as I write and write and


for no one,

for myself.

My lungs may be weakened

by smoke,

my legs sore from use,

womanhood having devoured me,

the gold at my feet long


I can still manage

I think

but maybe not.


A fire burns

and in the scorching heat

I feel the skin

of my face


and crack

and a smile

becomes a painful


like marble

under the forceful blow

of harsh steel.

Books and

books and


sit beside me

all in their order,

in their rows,

but their words

are only



which I gaze upon

in a wide eyed stupor

of absent thought.

Time is lost in this place

where the crackling

of the flames

drown out all that


and I slowly lose my mind

to each crack

and pop.

A beast I become

in a lady’s dress

howling at the moon

and forgetting

the nature of the words

which line my shelves.

The fire consumes

and swallows the room,

me along with it,

and I burst into what

I truly am.


swims with


as the mindless monster,

the barbaric creature,

escapes from the smoke.