I’ve stopped writing, I’m trying to ignore
my thoughts, the feelings, the walls, fences, doors
and ceilings, I just want to stare out windows
without analysing the condition of anything.
The bricks in those flats, those houses,
the lives between them, the gardens, the dead grass
the feeling I can’t fly, the sleep I can’t get to,
the nerve of a city boy who doesn’t write
cars have more parks than us,
this bed is polluted with the stench
of a walking regret.
my bones are claustrophobic
in my body of work.
the noise is broken in my head.