Only One

A taxi driver reminded me I was 
mortal. This life is
the only one I’ve ever known 
so it’s easy to forget that
it’s precious.
Abundant but priceless:
the usual rules don’t apply 
when you’re talking about
Superstition sowed the seeds of
solipsism. This life is the only one
I’ve ever known
so it’s hard to think that
it’s not special.
I seek fame for validation
of my divinity,
then reject my grandiosity;
meditate on my mortality. 
I fell for the reflection in the
mirror. My image is the
only one I see,
so it’s hard to believe that
it wasn’t meant to be.
Faith in fate brings reassurance
that this narrative 
will end in a blaze of glory:
a hero’s denouement.
Rebellion is curbed by
self-consciousness. Being
the only one is lonely,
so it’s easy to see why so few
reach the top.
I idolise the übermensch
but find comfort as the everyman,
succumb to conformity
while aiming for the galaxies.
Vicarious voyeurism steers this
vessel. This body is
the only one I’ve ever owned
so it’s hard to shake the feeling that
they’re watching.
We flaunt our peacock feathers,
amplify our sound,
all to attract their gaze,
then hide when our cover is blown.
Silent, we float in solitary
space. Connection helps us
that we’re not the only ones
suspended in experience.
Hands outstretched,
we bleed just to make contact,
we martyrs to the solitude,
searching for an end,
searching for more than
only one.


Every night alone
it comes,
every seed sown
spilt over cold ideas,
over nothing:
ghost lovers.

Sleep urges me to
start anew,
wait until the waves
lap at my consciousness,
lull me into ignorance,
wipe the slate clean,
until the residue

How soon is now?
I never believed I could
empathise with Morrissey,
but the pressure,
seconds steady ticking,
is hard to comprehend
when you don’t know
where the
end is,
when you don’t know
how much time
is left.

So in silence I sit over skyline,
pristine and gleaming in
black and light,
sip a green tea and
but the glass wore out its reflection
and there’s nothing much left
worth dredging up from
no steps worth retracing,
no more mileage that
meditation can
make up,
so the only way forward
is through no man’s land.

Every night alone
it comes,
the pressure
breaks the surface,
ghostly fingers
of imaginary lovers.

How Long Will It Be?

How long will it be?
The problem is not knowing:
it could be any moment
but it could be never.
Too much time alone
leads to loops,
leads to questions

How long will it be?
When I travel forward in time
I see the past recede and shrink
into something so small
it barely exists.
It makes things easier,
but when I lose faith
I ask:

How long will it be?
and for whom do I build this
if not only for myself?
I had imagined
the foundations strong enough to let
someone share this castle
with me.

how long will it be?
I stand amongst the debris
and try to fit the pieces together;
shake a fist at the sky;
and still the hope
of an unearned happy ending,
bought by a miracle,