Suicide is subjective

I hate to hate.

It’s an all consuming tumour

that grows and deviates.

I loathe these loathings,

but my loathing’s at an eight.

I raise my score card high

and give out my bold rating

because I can’t continue placating

a lazy oaf and broken wife;

to him she went for a walk,

to me she held a knife

to her wrists and pressed down hard.

Hard enough to leave ravaged scars.

This woman, desperate, on her knees

is my mother, mother please,

save yourself from these raw feelings

and take the rope down off the ceiling.

I know that you are grieving

the woman you once were

and the man that he once was

and I know it hurts, it fucking hurts

that he thinks you went to walk.

He can’t even talk about it while

My mind shouts, it shouts enraged

that he is at a loss, completely disengaged.

You are both coming to an age

where the focus should be one-on-one,

not subtle snipes and blinkered eyes

where no one bothers to even try.

He thinks she went for a walk

and I really hate to hate

but right now I want to shake him

and wake him up with cutting words

and slit open eyes.

Steps away from the sea

isn’t going for a walk

and if you refuse to talk or

look and see

and make things better

through your own responsibility

as a husband to a sick wife

then what happens next

is round your neck

like an albatross or coarse noose

that you will never shake away or lose.

May you live with it

and may it burn with friction

from your lack of acknowledgement,

care or diction.

and may it prick and cut like little knives.

May you drown from the guilt

of your sickly wife’s actions.

This is my poor mother; mother please,

Get up off your fallen knees.

Know your worth and know your pain;

make changes so this won’t repeat again.

I hate to hate this man, my father;

for hate consumes and deviates;

but I hate this situation

and this blind, blinkered ugly state.

“He thinks she went for a walk”

spins in my sickened, breathless head.

She was walking, walking, walking, Dad,

she was walking to her death.



Last Night Part II

I am putting wax in my hair,

and my brother, suited and debonaire,

calls out to me to sort the buckle

on his black waistcoat.

I fiddle and fuss and make a mess

but its the best I can do

I stress as we wax lyrical in a

slightly cynical way as to why

our mother held us both,


told us she loved us,


and would always love us

no matter what happens.

I mime a hanging.

He nods his head.

We both grimace a grin

and try to smirk

as we work our way out of fear

with gallows humour.

He says:

“Sooner or later,

she’s gonna do it,

if she wants to do it.

There’s nothing we can do

so we might as well  go and have fun,

just be done with it,

and leave her to it.”

I wonder if my brother is a sociopath

and bite my barbed tongue.

A little while longer and my brother leaves.

Gets a lift off my Dad

to go and paint the town red

while I sit alone, padding out my evening

with nail varnish, denial,

pensive thoughts and vain preening.

Unsure of what to believe in

I hear the door slam,

I hear the dogs bark

and I start to panic and

search; I call my sister

before my dad arrives home

“Where the fuck is she?” he snaps;

I say I don’t know

“I’m going to fucking kill her”

he says,

before he coldly explains that

She left a note about demons

and pain that wont leave;

she’s aware of the pain she will cause,

‘but be happy’ she pleads.

I tug at waxed hair

this Icarus can’t understand

I try to breathe but I’m melting,

falling apart from this land

that is crumpling under me

like her broken face.

I don’t know how to fix

this woman I love and to make

everything OK and it all spins and I take

a huge breath

but then the door slams

and her howls are heard

as she keens to the moon

like an animal trapped

and he screams in her face:

“Did you fucking take anything?”

“No I promise!”

She cracks:

“I went to the sea.

I just wanted to die.

But then I got scared of the dark

and I thought why

does that even matter now –

why does it even matter?”

I go up to my room

my heart tattered and ripped;

because there is no way to fix

the urge to join the sea.

It’s the world’s biggest bully,

charismatic, it’s free.

What can we offer her,

but a working class life?

With a bored, boring husband

and the end of family life?

Grown up kids are all leaving

and making homes of their own

but my mountain is falling,

growing smaller


What if she disappears

and enters the sea?

And this huge part of my life

can no longer be seen?

I want to fight nature.

I want to scream in its fat fucking face.

But you can’t fight with nature.

I should accept my place.

If she leaves me she leaves me;

I can’t fight demons I can’t see.

If she leaves me, she leaves me.

And her demons come to me.


Last Night Part I

She comes into my room

and she smiles, the tears renewed

under puffs of pouched pain

and she says:

“You’ve never looked so beautiful;

You could be in movies.

You could be on TV.

Just remember that no matter

what happens I love you

so much.”

She touches her chest

and her face crumples

like rocks on a mountain.

I smile at her,

eyes aglean with fear and think

she is a mountain too far

for me to climb.

There is no air to breathe

in the dense compressing thoughts

that envelope her


She lives in her thoughts

only physically with me

in our home.

images (7)


Encased in a cocoon

like a giant joint

I will soon embrace

the soft smog

surrounding me.

I will get lost.

I will hide.

Close my eyes.

You can’t find me.

I will dream

of my dog chasing a red balloon

on the beach,

of its teasing torments

and the short time

that was spent

before the balloon burst

and the colour was gone.

I will dream

of being



a box in the ground

with only the sound

of some gold bullioned priest

promising peace

as comfort.

I ask you

to come forth and pay

respects, and say to me

what I want to say

to you.

No Entry

She can’t welcome you in
when the doors fully bolted,
from the inside
she’s in a land where she’s faulted.
The memories haunt
as they dance to the rhythm
and her demons
they’re screaming “There’s no carpe diem.”
She seizes the past
instead of the present
and thats why there’s a descent
instead of an up,
and instead of being full
there’s an empty cup.
Not even half full,
or a quarter, theres nothing,
and the people in her dreams
are mocking and scoffing.
These alcoholic drinks
they’re greedily quaffing.
Drink up, keep drinking,
drink til you drown.
Suffocate on vodka bitches
as you laugh, you fake clowns.
She laughs pretty loud,
so fake she astounds
as she takes hold of this tower
and stands at the top,
embracing the air
she gracefully flops.
Closes her eyes
and the air hits her face,
then she’s kissing the ground
and there’s no more space
or concept of time
in the blackness of death.
The doors fully bolted,
its time now for rest.


Sure enough,

I’m washed up:

a beached whale

that’s belching salt,

and has blistered skin.

In the soft sand of time

I slice

a sloppy slow grin.

I sit on it,

a taunt,

while it ticks softly beneath

teasing me with its hands,

the death on my body reached.

I peel see-through skin from my husk,

white gills on my arms

flap like wings.

I want to feel lifted,


dissipated and released.

Instead my papercut wings

offer only pain and no peace.

Hiding under hoods,

my wounds are raw, sore,

and stinging

from being peeled out of a shell

that was both drowning and wringing.

On two feet I stand,

and kick away the smug grin:

Me human. You human.

From an end we begin.

The Curse of the Righteous Stone

As I staggered softly to my home,

whistling, giggling, I heard a groan.

I stopped, concerned, and stole a peek

to see a bloodied stone  in the street.

My neck, it bristled like a wolf,

a hackle rose, and goose-bumps goosed.

‘Is anyone there?’ I shouted, brave,

but no single answer came.

I shrugged, I turned, continued my stroll,

to reach my modest, lonely home,

when I heard a pitter-patter on the road

and turned to see the bloodied stone.

No eyes as such, yet parts did glisten,

as though some macabre mind was on a mission –

but such thoughts! Thoughts from one so drunk!

I laughed and turned and slowly slunk.

‘An evil stone? What crude, strange thoughts!

I must be half-a-penny short!’

I laughed and carried on my stroll

yet my heart stopped dead when I heard the stone.

It didn’t speak as such, but scraped a whisper

and said: ‘Your wife… do you still miss her?’

I wiped my eyes, said: ‘Leave me alone.’

yet my body shook with icy bones

‘I know you well, oh little man.

I know you are a drunk. I know you ran.

Your stricken wife, she needed you,

yet you ran away, you cared for you.

I am a righteous stone. I right the wrongs.

Your time is up. It won’t be long.

I will take you sir, will take you now.

It can be easy, painless, if you allow.’

I shook my head. I mopped my brow.

A fetid fever, am I sick?

Stones today, tomorrow a brick?

I laughed, my conscience was out to play.

No time for games. I ran away.

I heard the pitter-patter follow me home

this conscience hungry, righteous stone.

A supernatural stone, a ghostly spectre

bought to this earth to bully and hector.

I reached my door, ran in, and turned the lock.

Safe at last, I laughed and mocked.

I opened my letterbox, put my mouth to the gap,

and felt the stone crash against my teeth,

they snapped.

The stone forced itself inside my mouth,

I coughed and choked and fell about.

A mouth full of blood and broken teeth,

the stone rummaged around, a violent creep,

clattering, crashing, fighting to break through,

my throat was raw, my terror grew.

A violent violation, an awful dream,

for help I tried to shout and scream.

Merely gargles burbled out,

my eyes they bulged, my nose a spout.

The stone blocked my airways, the light turned black.

I saw my wife. No turning back.