I’m living in the cellar of a dead… Duncan, my usual purveyor of all t… Told me, “his wife just called and… So, I rooted round a box of ports and…

You cannot live your life in fear! Each moment missed as looking here… You watch your step; diet; drinkin… Mind your manners; Ps and Qs. Wakeful worry of what might or mig…

Nobody loves you. They say that they love you. Love you. Love you. But you can’t hear!

If I had fingers, I would find things. I would fumble, feeling through drawers of cards and notes. Fond felicitations of folk, friends from days gone by; five new pence; four candles;...

Living in the city is like, Not living. Bodies beaten and blown, As if by a blizzard, Swerve, stumble and slam against e…

I’ll write some drunken poetry, It may not even rhyme. It doesn’t rhyme. It’s not even poetry. You soft lad!

Four march hares dashing, Running right to left, From my window. Three march hares dash back, Running left to right,

I don’t do drugs, I don’t do sex. I don’t like hugs, I don’t like pecs. I don’t do dunes or nudey beach.

I only have a moment before my hea… Wishing I could linger here, Shrug off the sweet repose of slee… Which is coming, And the darkness fills my head.

Like when my darling Matt threw back his head on the back seat of the car and at the top of his five year old voice triumphed, “and I wish you joy,” (oh what a tremolo), “and happiness,...

How easily he cries, these days, With thoughts of you. He lies. These days,