My love is ever cyclical. It turns in the wheel, it returns evermore to the original point, and it is as easy to forsee as the turning of the Earth, the death of matter, the birth of the bird from the nest.

It is as the rotation of the synchronised planets, the elliptical swarm comes back, even the trail becomes the lead, even the curve of silver becomes a warm reminder, as the years grow colder, I will return to my most adoring state, in love with the world and the axis on which it spins, on, and on.

Falling in chestnut waves
you still halt
every single night
like a death
like a bird clipped
of wings, still I never
ever stop wondering

what would arise in
black eyes
yearned so long
in ink black syllable

you do not know
half the truth
my darling
heed not my self pity
it is fleeting

and know I never come
back to you
ever too gratefully
or ever gracefully

I only come back
'cos I want to be here
caught in the area
between ear, and
between here and now
between love and the reality
nostalgia and wisdom

I kick myself to have lost you
but what would I do to find you?
would I really kiss you upon meeting
or would this feeling be fleeting?

could we still love
during years rendered so numb
I don't know, it's eight now my love

I've spent longer breaking my waves
bursting words in paintings above

I'm not so sure anymore, my ring dulls faint
I'm not so sure,
I'm not so sure...

taking humble feet on tired step
there isn't a cloud in her sky
but there is in mine

she will walk the breeze
while I get stuck on the moon
it's the way it goes

catching my foot,
tripping on love
standing in puddles

kicking in the sea
drowning for her daughter
dying for my son

we could never quite meet
with maps so stretched to breaking

with her hand
on my chest
i am only just breathing
but to breathe I still must

with her hand on my neck
i am suffocating fast
but i must stay conscious
to feast late on the past

with her hand on my lips
i can barely speak
her amber stare
freezes my words there

I may not be a perfect man. But I certainly like not being like any other man.

When they told me you'd died, I couldn't believe it. On the first day, i wrote a simple letter, to send underground. On the second day, I saw them wheel you away, cold and empty, infinite and pure, pale and empty, filling the air in escaping spirit.

Three times I looked, as if through will, I could make your body move again, perhaps entirely an instinctive foolish reaction.

Grinding ever so slowly, an empty tomb ringing in each tick, the clock finds four, and a happy silence, remembering laughter dismissing the black, the obliviousness of the oblivion, the inevitabilty hushed away with whispers and giggling, a warm hand knowing, but stayed. A hug that can only ever be finite.

You laughed in their faces to cool the furnace. By the fifth you were on your back..

and they were laughing back..

On the sixth they buried us side by side, together in soild and in wood, the sky full of the sighing white birds, a gathering we deem meaningless, a pair of children we would never have, certainly not now. They crouch and cry over meaningless stone, we have left, my love, we have left long ago. They steal kisses from petals and toss them before their deep hazel and coolest blue eyes.

Eight days later you left me, melted through the mud, the trees, and the sky, faded so far that the keenest eye could no longer see, span and twisted, ballerina lifted, twirling heavenward, past stars, comets, planets and blackness, never afraid, unceasing even in eternal death.

I never believed you could do it, but I do now, finally coming to crash-land in a crystal shimmer, in a distant sea, in an instant, and you gleefully closed your eyes.

It provides comfort to know we are but static, scattered blossom tumbling in meandering sighing curls towards a limitless ground, a cavernous, endless whole. We float like cells in a blood stream, in a great black deep, diving for precious stones in the mouthes of giant oysters.

When I need to, I try to touch the bottom of this limitless ocean, as sleek and vibrant as a fish, turning in on myself and bending myself to the wave's behest, it acts as lover and friend, mother and sister, father, brother and blood. It drowns me in its inexorable drift. If I stay, I die, if I swim, I will be caught. I revel in the panic; my lungs bursting over and over again, the agony puncturing my lungs.

There is no shore, no bottom of the ocean, there is no arm to pull me up, for that arm is lost, fading into a shimmer of dust and here I am, microscopic, miniature, and myopic, arrogant in my beating of chest, forgetting the limited vessel I inhabit is one in ten thousand, inside a snowglobe shaken so hard it cracks, and all the tiny characters flood forth, to make not one ripple, not one sound.

In this deafening space.

Starting to think I may have to get on Sertraline again very soon.

Sigh.

I've done research into eating healthily, and with no meat in the diet. I think the old thing about "There's not enough protein in veg" is bollocks. I think that stems from laziness. It's easier to eat meat, that's the only reason it's done.

I still eat fish, but because I like it too much to give up, at least inititally. Every marathon begins with a step, after all. After two months though, I've managed to train myself to eat the right things. a lot of spinach (It's good for pretty much everything, not least er...virility, like I'll ever bloody need that.) and red cabbage. As well as fruit, and yoghurts. These things are nice, combined in a way that is nice. Combined with exercise, it feels very good.

I feel better already, especially as I now drink less too. I'm actually doing something. Not bad.

I still don't feel happy, but I don't expect to unil I get back on those anti-depressants. Some things are bothering me. I'm thinking more, but internalising less, does that make sense?

And all this is beauty
even in cracked, brittle bones
as it is in fervent green shoots

a tear destined to fall with the thousands
still makes a noise to deafen
and a ripple in the water
is all that's needed to reach me dear

I've been to London, to see nothing of interest. It's rather disappointing to go to my favourite city and see so little of its magic, being as I was stuck in a meeting. I did manage to find a public blue screen of death though.




Into year eleven of diary, I sit here with a cat and a bedroom of my own. Things are not perfect, by any means, but I take care of myself, and I pay my own bills. I finally can say I live truly independantly. I owe nothing to anybody, and in a few months I can start saving.

I'm never as sad as I used to be, though I really should get back on my anti-depressants. Sometimes I can feel that little sting around my eyes....



Here is a poem I made into something pretty. I am a ponce, after all. And I am a romantic ponce. Well, more sexual than romantic nowadays, but I still love through my fingers and feel with my heart.