Lone

Poeticising autobiographies,
vicarious thrills felt
through old-shoe eyelids
as I drift ghostlike
over tarmac hills;
lone wanderer on the range,
beating records and climbing
ever upwards
away,
white wraiths racing
across the plains;
drowning out feelings
with full-body sounds
and guttural car engine
growls.

Cascading down
and dipping a toe
in barely thawed
heartbreak blue waters,
prodding from a distance –
and tire squeal and off again into
darkening sunset skies,
homebound headed
in the direction of order;
exalting the sad
glamour of the
damaged;
melting into the seat,
feeling the bumps:
numb.

Juxtaposing photographs
in rear view,
brushing cobwebs off beauty
and reframing the present,
with its unticked boxes;
thoughts streaking by in headlight beams
painted across dim-lit nocturnes
blended into blackness
and disappearing into anaesthetic
nothingness:
wheels turning,
brakes screeching,
roads sprinting,
soul hurtling
into the night.

Don’t

Don’t
want to
want you,
want you to
end the torment
of wanting:
the enemy
of peace.

Don’t
long to
long for
your presence
but
to feel
the calm of
the deceased.

Don’t
crave the
cravings of
an irrational mind,
or desire that
which will
never be
mine.

Don’t
need you,
need you to
to fill the gap
and leave it filled,
scratch the itch
and leave it
scratched.