This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

The mad guys at bus stops are always the most sincere.

This guy turned to me at the bustop and told me that he’d never felt pain but lived his life in fear
His eyes said it too
With red veins
And flickering
He was clearly lonely
Maybe mad
Maybe he’d pissed his pants
And didn’t mean what he said
But the mad people at bus stops are almost the most sincere I find
I mean for fuck’s sake
Why lie to a stranger?
Anyway he bugged me for a lighter and didn’t even smoke
Just stood there pouring
Waiting for the bus
Waiting for guilt
It was a sunny day and after the bus had come and I was sat face against the grazed plastic window
I saw the man smiling at me
And waving his hand the fingers all straight and extended like a spider
And I thought
Fuck that guy.

Take your pension with a whiskey chaser.

Let the stream rise
And the condensation slide the bottle around your palm
Cross your heart and hope to die
With smoke anchored lips and lungs caving in
From Begging for volume
Let the smoke settle on your fuckable curves
While you cough the blues at all the mirrors in this city
Screaming with undone shoe laces
On the steps of a long dead lovers house
She had been pretty as a film star
Weathered the storm
Grow old how I want to
With a young man’s dancing feet
And hunger for pigment and bodily fluids
Grow thorns , wings and breathe fire to scorch bar stools
Blow the windows out with your last gasp
Skin tearing at the edges.