This is not a notebook, and it's not a diary, yet it aches like one.
Sometimes it feels like an album, with photos stained yellow, because a fog of cigarette smoke and glassy eyed amnesia has tried to strain the cognisance out of them.

The Moon For The Misbegotten

The moon for the misbegotten, 
is a reflection in the gutter.
Why dream, they asked, for history
is already wrapped in colourful  soap boxes.
There is a different perfume for your 
pain, desires, emotions and every ignominy.
Streets have no name 
but they do have a song. Calling
Elvis from the jailhouse. 
M stands for Misery and 
A doesn't answer. It just aches.
There are no moons for the misbegotten,
it's down there in the gutter.

Televised satin skin celebrating moisture,
nervous hands masturbating in cornfields.
No wonder your crops are bad, they say.
Blood no longer flows, it chills 
and clots in throbbing, thirsty veins.
The songs of the martyrs are sung
to put you to sleep, not awaken.
For anger is a wet dream, spent 
and seminally dissolves into your shame 
even before you learn to feel the pain.
There are no moons for the misbegotten,
it's down there in the gutter.

20th November, 1998

Candle

It was smooth, satin in its lustre,
shaped to divine perfection, eager to illuminate.
But that was before it was lit.

The wax melted, clotting in lumps,
solidifying ulcerously, lacerated of all saintly pretences.

I look at the mirror, aflame, and my image melting,
into a bubonic silhouette, clutching desperately to save the light.

12th July, 1998