Tag: writing

We Should Be In Love

The strange places I wake up
dank bedrooms, mouldy stairwells
always hoping to be by your side
I am alone, or much worse
making pathetic, transparent excuses
when we should be in love

You’re off chasing some pretty model
around the backstreets of Shoreditch
photographing graveyards
painting your nails green
not thinking of me
when we should be in love

When it all goes wrong
I’ll still be the one…

I met you at a summer party
you seemed afraid to talk to me at first
I smiled and said ‘I don’t bite, you know’
you purred ‘I only like the ones that bite’
O beauty, why do you do this to me
when we should be in love

And to the city you chase your prey
I lie in my bed, my grave
six feet beneath the sheets
unappealing, yet constant and surprising
waiting patiently for you
when we should be in love

When it all goes wrong
I’ll still be the one…

Why must you be drawn to the bad ones
they look like cartoon characters
but “shit always gets too real”
and they crush your heart with steel toecaps
here, I persist in my grounded daydreams
and we should be in love

Don’t you want someone who knows how to love
someone with experience of longevity
who can love you from afar and up close
melt you with their lust, drown you in their trust
sit silently absorbing
the beauty of your complexity
O, we should be in love

I’m still the one…

[2010]

I was not the one. Thanks for reading.

If you fancy it, pop on a playlist of some of my recent poems on Soundcloud…

It’s Winter There Forever…

Curious, sometimes
I go walking back
through old photographs
eyeing the dusk snow
with fresh feeling
Reimagining that old way of things
to get lost…

A teenage heart pumped through
though I was older
A teenage longing ran right through me
though I should have known better

I find nothing in the snow
always the same
I find nothing I didn’t know
and it’s winter there forever…

Seeing those photographs
sometimes, I wonder
seeing those photographs now
I feel a little pity

Those old stars, that ancient map
was it leading me here all along
What was with those long dark nights
endlessly reflecting

You can’t live inside a photograph
no matter how it pulls at your heart
yet I dive, sometimes I dive, backwards
and it’s winter there forever…

[2016]

Thanks for reading this old poem.

Purpose

My car stands motionless in the driveway
but I don’t know how to drive it
That guitar is propped against its amp
but I don’t know how to play
and my lover
she lies there in the bedroom
but I…

My chess set’s collecting dust upon the shelves
but I don’t know what the rules are
That fishing rod looms above the bait box
but I don’t have the technique
and my lover
she lies there in the bedroom
but I…

What am I for
when I don’t know how to love her
when I don’t know how to let her
love me back
What am I for
What am I for

So, I’ll keep buying toys
and promising I’ll master them
When really there’s no joy
in anything, anymore…

[2007]

Thanks for reading this old poem.

Dark At The End of The Street – featured on Spillwords.com

If anyone hasn’t read or heard me read the poem Dark At The End of The Street, you can find it on the Spillwords Press site this week as one of their featured poems.

Many thanks to the team there for selecting my poem. If you enjoy it, and if you feel inclined, click the little ‘heart’ button on their site to show some love.

Dark at The End of The Street

Thanks and happy easter all.

P.S. You can listen to an entire flange of poems here:

Torture

You show me your open hand
flash me your smiling eyes
Say ‘come here, talk a while’
then you leave me standing in the rain

You hand me a note stained with kisses
gift me a signed photo of you
Say ‘have this, share with me’
then you leave me standing in the rain

I am such a fool
I am such a fool for you
I’ve been standing in this rain
for three weeks solid now

You meet me at one of our old haunts
loiter in the doorway of our youth
Say ‘Thank you, so much, for coming’
then you leave me stranded in the rain

You write me such an honest letter
show me even more of depths of all you are
Say ‘I’m in need of someone like you’
then you leave me stranded in the rain

I am such a fool
I am such a fool for you
Either you don’t know enough about me
or you know exactly what you do
Give me another taste of all I want
then pull away and make me wait again

This is torture
I could do this to myself
I don’t need you, too
I am such a fool
I am such a fool for you

Why won’t you open up
and give yourself to me
finally and fully
As I stand in the falling rain
soaked through
I’m soaked through for you…

[2009]

Thanks for reading.

The House Looks Like A Painting

The house looks like a painting
yet, we can’t agree on anything
What I want is meaningless to you
what you want remains awkwardly obtuse
and unreadable

I play my game, aligning the pieces
to get me whatever I desire
O, the house looks like a painting
but I never know what’s right
too adept at getting what I think I need

Meeting an old girlfriend
who talks of monasteries and monks
as I count the freckles on her nose
and wonder if she still swallows…

O, the house looks like a painting
yet, we cannot agree on anything
Is there an urge that we can harness
and repair
or just our feeble pushes
toward opposing goals
Two firm lurches toward different shores

It’s corrosive
it’s wholly limiting
it’s the only way we seem to know
to operate

The house looks like painting
and still we’re not aligned
on anything at all…

[2017]

Thanks for reading.

The Hidden Lake

Take me to the hidden lake
let us wander through
the valleys of your heart
Let us revel in the splendour
of all that rests within
Accumulations, it’s what we are
everything we’ve felt and seen

Let us swim in the hidden lake
in that secret world
deep at the core of you
Make it rain, bring forth the sun
We’ll watch the waters flow
across your canvas
into the sea, into reality

When the soul flows through
and out of you…

How long I’ve wondered
where this thing springs from
How long I’ve yearned to learn
what is the source
that feeds your ocean
How long I’ve ached to understand
where creativity is born

Is it the gifting light of some divinity
or weird wiring in the brain
A prophet with a prayer to share
something deep to celebrate
A seer into the fabric of what is
with raw sensitivity, purest empathy
or a jester writing their own joke book

When the soul flows through
and out of you…

The unique way you see things
how you intuit and interpret
painting the ephemeral
The haunting way your voice
speaks of the rich duality
as it carries the tune of living

Don’t despair, the lake is always there
some days, the level low
some days, only a trickle flow
Some days, the dam spills over
some days, the trek into the mountains
takes a little longer

We’ll always return with something new
there’s nothing more beautiful
there’s nothing more true

When the soul flows through
and out of you…

[2022]

Thanks for reading.

https://linktr.ee/tomalexwrite

Things Half Said

Looking back
over everything
I committed to the page
There seems to be gap
between the truth
of what was felt
and what’s recorded

The words came
while I was still
questioning the validity
yet, what I
then went on to feel
was always with such certainty

There is a space
between
There is a space between
you and me
filled with things
half said

Sifting through the sketches
of painted scenes
I tried to show
There are great swathes
of missing detail
I deemed too complicated

My vocabulary
was much too meagre
to convey
with any accuracy
and what I left
scratched for all time
was never entirely honest

There is a space
between
me and you
between
the story and plot
filled with things half said

Will I ever be skilled enough
to tell my story, completely
Will I ever have the talent
to fill that space
with something other
than things half said…

[2011]

Thanks for reading.

I Fear Winter

These stunted days, these freezing nights
compress my thoughts
The year’s impending ending
forces me into reflecting

Winter lets breed a fear in me
fear for the furry little lives
fear for the torn out pages
And so, for warmth, I write…

These forgettable phrases form
These liable little lines laid out
These humble homeless honesties
These intangible inky inches

The outside world is shrunken and cold
all the best times are defined by people
and who was there, it reflects exactly
how deeply those memories carry

Curtains closing for the final time today
fearing the endless chill of white
I’ve got all the things I badly needed
and trapped indoors, so much to write

All I know to do
is to give thanks
for all that came my way

These woozy words warmly whispered
These spidery sentences slowly spun
These drunken dark descriptions detailed
These nosy noisy nothings noted

All thoughts are forced into a verse
by the impending ending of a year…

[2010]

Thanks for reading this old poem.

Deeper

It’s easy to blur the picture
slip the lead of life
A stray dog
running wild
No duty to reality

In truth, I wander lost
fighting to make sense
of all I’ve got
Can I dive deeper
Can I really reach her

Such superficial urges
with such urgency
swell up in me
As if I’m bound always
to beauty

She pushes her hand into mine
When she licks those lips
and presses her tongue
so sublime
how could I decline

But can I let her
throw herself into
this shallow sea…
Her perfect body
into this shallow sea…

I’m staring out
restlessly
Peering back into me
But no, not deep enough
Looking out
relentlessly
back into me
And no, not deep enough
not deep enough to dive

Can I let her
throw herself into
this shallow sea…
No, no
not deep enough
not deep enough to dive…

[2010]

Thanks for reading this old poem.

Tiger Mountain

I have fallen for the mad ones
and the sad ones
and the ones who don’t know what they want

I have found that mania so consuming
confused depression for deep thinking
I’ve tried to heal the cracked ones
and piece the broken ones together…

O, I have tried
to climb that mountain
with broken ankles…

I have lived off the wild ones
brought calm to the angry ones
laid down with the tired ones and slept

I’ve ridden with the seesaw ones
always wondering where I stood
felt lost with the wilful ones
and cried beside the bitter ones

O, I have tried
to climb that mountain
with broken ankles…

I’ve walked across the weak ones
swum naked with the free ones
reached out for the timid ones
but found no hand waiting there

I have been ungrateful for the nicest ones
been bored by the honest ones
prayed for the fickle ones to change
knowing no love could bloom there

O, I have tried
to climb that mountain
with broken ankles…

And I have wondered loudly why
I never could reach the summit
with my broken ankles…

[2014]

Thanks for reading.

Ellipsis…

I don’t write them like I used to
they’re not carved out of my bone
the way they used to be

I don’t bleed over the carpet
in some mouldy rented bathroom
like I used to

They used to say it was the angst that drove me
some mild flair for painting what had pained me
but you have to make peace eventually
I don’t know what is driving this anymore

At the end of that final line there’s an ellipsis
at the end of all I said there’s an ellipsis
saying so much more than I

Now, I don’t sweat it out in twisted sheets
with cramped heart and cracked beliefs
surrendering my barbed emotions like a flag
the way I used to

I don’t tap that vein of pure unfocused bile
don’t let it gush across the front row of my imagined audience
they don’t say much about my unbridled verse these days
like they used to

At the end of every poem there’s an ellipsis
at the end of all I said there’s an ellipsis
dragging on and on

It speaks louder than I ever could…

[2014]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Technique

The way I write…
I brainstorm twenty titles
words or phrases
that sound good to me
that subconsciously
already feel like parts of me
then I refine them
and refine them
pile them up around my feet

And when I’m in the mood to write
I’ll either start writing
(with aim or aimlessly)
until I get stuck
then I grab a title
work it in the lock
release whatever’s hidden
(and it feels good)

Or I choose a title
poking from the ground
reach for my shovel pen
and begin the excavating
find the poem that’s buried beneath
(and it feels good)

Those phrases, those titles
feel like friends I haven’t met yet
that sense you get
when crossing paths with someone
and feel you already know them
or that there’s a story between the two of you
and you just hope that it gets told

The stories we got to tell
are ripe for poems
and the stories that slipped through our hands
can be riper, can be richer sometimes

So, I’ll begin
gathering my titles
and choose one for you…

[2019]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Born To Muse

Click above to hear me read it. Right-click and choose ‘Save As’ to download an MP3.

In the hammering rain of last night
I slept the best I have all week
I slept deeper, longer
than I have done for months

And would you guess who I should meet there
on the dream stools
at the dream bar
ordering her dream gin
sliding me a dream beer

Well, you come here often
I don’t have to ask
I’ve seen you here so many nights before
but it has been a while
(and I’ve missed you)

Back in real life; you live so freely
you’re pure inspiration to me
a scholar of your beauty
besotted by your confidence, your creativity

And when we went our separate ways
(did we ever really agree on one path anyway?)
after all those notebooks you drove me to fill
after the purest verses I fear I may ever spill

When we went our separate ways
you found yourself an artist
and now you’re all he paints
day drinking, or in the nude
the ways I still remember you
you… you were born to muse

Sitting on the dream couch
in the dream bar
your dream knees
pushing against dream me

you… you were born to muse…

[2019]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Your Poem Is Still Young

Your poem is still young
I have not mastered it just yet
I am constantly revising
still working on the phrasing

Your poem is still young
though its meaning is defined
I only have the final line
those last three certain words

Your poem is still young
each year instils new ideas
your actions suggest more rhymes
and we have many years to go

Your poem is still young
though I recite it constantly
my aim is to perfect it
through every day and night

Your poem is still young
I’d hoped to have found a way to say
to address all of the beauty and joy
there is in you, by now, but no

Your poem is still young
and I am glad to say that
it remains unfinished even now
open on the pages of my favourite notebook

Your poem is still young
still improving with every moment
as we lay together, safe in the flames
until the end of time, I’ll sing;

I love you…

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Beds, Hearts and Books

In these surprising years beyond expiry
forty and not failing
the journey remains largely painless
and brightly lit
wrapped up in love
in beds
hearts and books

Pull this feeling tight around me
another year of moving on
from all that didn’t seem to fit
closer to who I want to be
tangled up in love
in beds
hearts and books

All these lines, I can’t help but keep weaving
on the loom of all my longing
happily in awe of the ever-expanding story
forty and still dreaming
swaddled by love
in beds
hearts and books

There’s a deep and lingering kiss
waiting in the other room
the co-author of all my future stories
if I put down this pen, move to that place
we’re smothered in love
Hunkering down
in beds
hearts and books…

[2021]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Free Line

Aren’t we both hedonists
just looking for a good time
shouldn’t we just enjoy this
a drug to take
for which we don’t have to pay
in these times of austerity
we can do our bit for the economy

Aren’t we both hedonists
looking for a good time
and if it’s free then why wouldn’t we
indulge whatever thrill we can
with just the touch of our shoes
or our elbows, waiting in the street
wouldn’t we be getting high so harmlessly

I play my free line, hanging on for your reply…

Aren’t we both lost a little
and willing to gamble all that we have left
The sun of this excitement
coats every moment’s surface
mundane places now hold mystery
the daily grind; a roulette wheel of flirting words

I play my free line, chained to your reply…

This is fun, this is free
so why should we reject it
why turn away
from the magic of this opportunity
let’s get out of here
come on, let’s disappear…

I play my free line, a slave to your reply…

[2015]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

This Window

This pain is a jigsaw
This bond is a handcuff
This place is a death-trap
This window… is closed

This moment is endless
This feeling is crushing
This heart is failing
This window… is filthy

This love is spent
This union is ending
This sweetness has soured
This window… is painted

This want is obsessive
This change is approaching
This peace is shattering
This window… is cracked

This journey is over
This air is stagnant
This pressure is critical
This window… is shaking

This decade is wasted
This effort is thankless
This ‘us’ is in tatters
This window… is hinged?

This shoelace is tied
This suitcase is packed
This pocket is full
This window is…

This window is opening
This window is a door

This one is leaving
That one is staying
This window is a door
and I am walking through…

[2009]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Late Night, Harbour Lights

The air is warm tonight
the sea no longer ravenous
As the shawl slips from your shoulders
there’s a feeling that breeds in us
now, we are home
or close enough

A candle flickers at every table
the seafront cafes like crooked teeth
The harbour mouth is kissing us
with its swing bridge tongue and river beneath
We feel that we are home
or close enough

Tied by these rings
and the meaning of this thing
we’re bound now in our journey
seas and sunsets, tears and terror
I long to treasure and to explore
the universe inside of you

In my hand, I now find yours
such a sweet relief
the reassuring touch of home
now close enough

Late night, harbour lights
dancing on the water
This love now blankets us
And our kiss… our kiss…
we’ve never tasted anything like this
The feeling spills from every pore
O, we’re both home
now close enough…

[2022]

Thanks for reading.

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems

Somewhere Beyond The Graveyard

She stumbles blindly down the steps
meets and greets the coming traffic with a wave
Falling into this new day with a crash
our dusty lady, of the railway tenements, almost smiles
bruised and beautiful, she sways
left to right, into town, clutching her head tightly

Limp and vinyl shining hair, a shelter
the burning sun neutered by thick glasses
and treading on her hem, she crosses the street
Our heroin girl, of the bed-sit spoons, almost smiles
wired and beautiful, she turns
face to the floor, queuing up, clutching her ticket tightly

The rattle of the train, hypnotic, into the moors
through forgotten, unloved places, and to the sea
Tears barely perceptible, in her faint reflection
our haunted figure, of the candle-lit fish-dinners, almost smiles
re-composed and beautiful, she inhales
eyes on her hands, hands on her knees, she clutches tightly

A red lamp and the bitter end, the slowing coaches
the evening falls to show her breath before her face
It’s almost weightless in her pocket, but weighing on her mind
our anime child, of the emotional apocalypse, almost smiles
diffident and beautiful, she hesitates
Decisive metal, the off-switch in her pale palms, clutched tightly

Doused in black…and drowned in white…
A vampire for sensation’s bite, she used to say
‘If I had faith, I’d take my own life, I swear…
Somewhere… somewhere out beyond the graveyard there’

O, isn’t this what she wished for, isn’t this why she came?
somewhere, just behind the grave yard grass
high above the white and salty crashing waves
her drained and lifeless, body caught up in the barbs
a tangle of black lace and bloody metal
blowing in the wind, in the shadow of the Abbey

Dressed in black and lit by fading light
a picture in her hand, she clutches tightly
His indifferent, almost smiling face, stained red
and that sacred heart, drowning in her own wine
Saved? Is she saved? In many ways she is…
Saved, she’s saved, In many ways she is…

[2004]

Note: Written one afternoon in early 2004. My first office job was as a call centre worker and this poem was composed as an email to myself between phone calls. I have no idea where it came from and never knew quite what to do with it. I’ve always had a soft spot for it, despite its obvious flaws.

Thanks for reading.

Image Credit: Nightwalker Magazine

Give your eyes a break and listen to some poems