(London, January) 1

Still don't understand lonliness
What is it with all of these young men who say 'fuck' about everything except fucking like fuck doesn't have love in?
These tastes, these desires, have held sway all too often, unrestrained, barely kept at bay and I'll stay disastisfied for satisfactions sake
For a while that town might mean a lot to me sitting on my throne
Plotting silent novels I'll never write
Inserting subtle references to affairs incomplete
Tracing furrows in face with coffee and alcohol insomniac nights and freezing bus stop waiting
Escaping containment only to be slaughtered and put away in the attic, a bin bag over my face
or
Laughing and dancing and touching and shouting in reverence to the gods of love and chances taken, the everyday household deities lesser spotted but oft felt, celebrating by your side when that horse come in, that plan comes together, that erotic being looks your way and you want to supplicate, to subject, to sacrifice at her altar of joy, again and again
I could be the resurrection given her blessing
A touch of the face could massage the happy to the surface
One morning wake with her in my embrace could energise compassion sketched in words thus far without the meat of feeling to enact

How far have I come since form room mornings seeing todays news and hearing fraudulent miracles by solo piano?
The same songs keep playing in my soul, and it makes me want to believe that I don't have to wait until the records over to start dancing or to tell you I love you
That our mixtape doesn't need a hidden track as a punchline
Scratching the surface, peeling back the plastic, clicking it into place
Our fingers on Play...Pause...Record
Each breath of silence a moment of aniexity before the wheels keep rolling on
for the cycle to repeat
90 minutes
But every story has two sides, so its really only 45, yet it could be a lifetime
Committed, ageing, but not diminshed