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.



Blinded by Science

She blinded me with science.

I expected razzle dazzle, pomp, panache;

a bass line hook

and a crescendo crash.

Perhaps little birds and love hearts afloat,

holding warm hands

in Autumn coats

but no, nuh uh, not meant to be

for my fair maiden had a chemical science degree.

She made a potion highly potent

– created with a fine mass of math –

until she concluded the correct quotient

to throw in my eyes in a parks path.

‘My eyes, my eyes!’ my voice did bellow

as a hideous goo

poured out, brown and yellow.

The woman claimed to be a nurse –

a simple lie and my life’s curse.

She took me home

and cared for me well,

I fell in love,

fell for her spell.

I got down one day on bended knee

and she said “Over here!”

(because I couldn’t see)

I tried again

and she accepted

but I know her trickery

and now regret it.

We married in a church of glamour

with a funky priest

and black soul jammers.

When we returned from that church

she told me straight

about my curse.

The bitch, she knew my wallet was bulging

and she felt like a bit

of selfish indulging.

“I’m going on honeymoon”

she said with a smirk,

“With a guy called Stavros,

not you, you berk.”

She left me here

and took a plane

for sun, sea and sex

with a Turk in Spain.

Blinded by love?

No, just a fool reliant

on the devious bitch who blinded with science.

Asexual, Unsexual.

Asexual, unsexual

is prudishly conventional.

Give or take exuvial,

like clothes but that’s impossible.

The prudish are exceptional

at being so conventional;

asexual, unsexual,

unsexually asexual.

Excuses are so usual,

if they’re married voices audial:

“Not tonight dear” words reliable.

They are so frustratable,

(especially if they’re mate-able)

but this life to which they’re liable

no sex is undeniable.

An asexual desirable

is absolutely cry-able.

Frustration is so liable,

indeed, they are not diable!

Saving Face.

I brought a mask

from a charity shop

in Richmond;

one of those classy shops

with decent shit.

The mask was softly textured,

yet solid

and firm in its morals

which was clear

when you knocked on the wood

and also in the carvings

of its regal, native, nomad face.

Two moons later

as the sucked smartie,

derived of colour, dissipated

into the blue of morning

my wife found out

about my affair.

It wasn’t the knickers

in the








of my back pocket,

still stained from the action

in the back seat of my car.

It wasn’t the condom wrapper,

crisp, clinical and open

as it released the demons

from Pandora’s box.

It wasn’t even the sordid texts

over the period

of a gasping, sweating, lusting year.

It wasn’t any of these things.


That mask was fucking cursed.

Leaves on a Tree.

It’s brought up,

that time,

in the regurgitation of your past

as it falls down the toilet bowl.

In passing comments,


like little jabs with pins

or a swift burn on the top of the oven.

You can’t cremate the past

and blow it away

with a typical blustery British wind.

A typical English family,

not the last in England

but one of them.

We cling together,

pale leaves on a tree,

whimpering and dying out,

falling one by one

onto an urban cracked ground.

You fell first,

you fell with pills in your hand

and tears in your eyes.

You fell for him

years before

and he repays you

by raping your trust

and shredding your confidence

while enjoying the heat

in the Mediteranian.

Did he ever think of us?

You keened, a wild animal,

destroyed by a sight you couldn’t forget

of young firm tits,

a smiling face

and an exotic background.

Why didn’t he take you,

try and make it work

instead of an easier,

more ego stroking option?

You can only leave him

by falling off our tree

into a soft wind

of whispers and clouds.

It wasn’t the end

and thank God for that

because I love you

and you broke my heart.

My leaf fell too,

the family split in two.

Now there is one less perfect family

in England.


The solution was hydrochloric acid,
the problem was therefore the husband.
The band of love clutched
the untouched woman and caused gangrene
so clearly seen leading to the heart.

The blood stopped pumping.

She became old, dry, cold and wry.
Shrivelled and grey with nostrils pinched
by a man who perspires
a stench of desire to those wenches
of tight and little attire.

The blood rushed to one place.

He would boil, burn, twist and turn.
Sleeping next to a woman
who hated to be touched.
She felt his weight on the bed,
and waited for the time
to set upon her perfect crime.

The solution was poured
into a modern cauldron
then placed on the hob to boil.
This snaked was coiled
in a pan and planning its attack.
The witching hour had past,
and the malt whiskey he savoured
would be his last.

Who said they didn’t have chemistry any more?