Above My Bed

I know I’ve been a fool,
I say too much I shouldn’t do.

Well I’ve misunderstood,
Your stoic face – it tricked me good.

I give away too much,
But sometimes you don’t give enough.

I hear the words you said,
Your smile still hangs above my bed.

I’m sorry that I said those thing,
They hurt you.

It’s just sometimes I think,
I don’t deserve you.

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Old Brown Coat

Understated,
In your old brown coat.
Guitar on your shoulders,
Wherever you go.

You want for nothing,
‘Cause there’s not much you want.
Reposed at the desk,
Quietly writing your songs.

Your shirts all have holes,
And you couldn’t care less.
Skin worn down from the strings,
Your blonde locks are a mess.

Life is simple and honest,
Here enjoying the view.
As the waves stroke the shore,
Just below your bedroom.

Elan Valley

Percy Shelley’s house hid under the lake
And I quoted a line or two about sleeping lions
Stood looking out on the bridge
With you and your friends

Across fields we rambled
Looking for mushrooms with magical properties
I felt a deep and healthy fear
Looking at the vastness of the land

They ran chanting like Indians
Through the pine trees and down a slope
I couldn’t keep up
And for a moment you all disappeared

We stopped to fill a water bottle
At the stream I took a moment to think
That everybody should live
Quiet and simply, just like this

Talking about getting older
At last we walked through the heart of Elan Valley
And you said that Leonard Cohen captured how it felt
To be twenty-seven

Whilst looking silently at your face
I knew that I would never forget these days shared
And that this was one of the happiest moments
Of my life

Love Yourself

The room is dark. I look down, my tits are lit by a bluish white light coming from the laptop screen. On the screen is two more pairs of tits, bigger than mine and more tanned. Two women are bent over, unclad, on their hands and knees on a mattress in a fancy looking room with huge windows. A naked man takes turns putting himself inside one of the girls for a bit and then the other. It sounds like they’re enjoying it, but they’re probably not. They’re probably wondering if their dads or uncles or old school teachers will one day stumble across their little faces, mouth open, spunk in the eye.

I paste Nick’s face onto the thrusting man’s body, I paste my own face onto one of the girls. He is not thinking of me as a human being but a human shaped, fleshy, penis-accepting object. I am an object, I am an object, I am a fucking object and then I orgasm. Every nerve, every blood vessel, every muscle in my body contracts and expands simultaneously for 15 seconds. My eyes open, the computer screen is suddenly very bright and is hurting my eyes. The three of them are still at it. ‘Stop it, I’ve had enough now’ I say to them and click the little ‘x’ in the corner of the screen.

Should I be ashamed of myself? I don’t know, maybe, probably not. That odd sensation I sometimes get, where I feel like I could cry for a split second after it’s all over, I put it down to catholic guilt. Wanking and crying, the classic combination. It’s all I seem to do these days. I don’t feel like crying tonight though, well not urgently anyway. I put my tits away and enjoy the last little echoes of pleasure before taking a deep sigh and picking up the self-help book I was reading before I got distracted.

‘Love Yourself’ the title reads in huge red letters across the front page. ‘I think you’ll find I just did’ I wink at myself. Myself, my other self, is stood in the corner, back against the wall, reading a book too and silently rolling her eyes at me. She doesn’t find this very funny. She’s a spoil sport. ‘Whatever’ I say to her ‘…just because you didn’t think of it first’ and I open my page to where I last left off and tell myself that everything is going to be just fine because this book is going to give me all of the answers I need and I’ll never be miserable or have to wank alone again.

Boxes

She threw the boxes,
In your flat,
And just left them there.

All those boxes,
All that baggage,
But she didn’t care.

Because she’s moving on.

Old mementos,
Faded photos,
They’ve sat there for years.

But she’s forgotten,
All about them,
Like she’s forgotten her tears.

Because she’s moving on.

You keep,
A single cobweb,
In the corner of the room.

To remind you,
Of the healing,
That you’ve had to do.

Because she’s moving on.

Games

A play on words,
With contradictions.
Complete denial of,
Fact and fiction.

The puzzle’s done,
The board’s been won.
The hangman’s hung,
You’ve had your fun.
You’ve had your fun and…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

 
You roll the dice,
And move one space.
Snakes and ladders,
Poker face.

Complete confusion,
Just an illusion.
Egos bruising,
I don’t like losing.
I don’t like losing…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.