Trespassing.

Shots fired over No Man's Land
mark the arrival of the masked Trespasser.
They dive into the craters left
behind by some bygone barrage.
A perspiring sniper takes aim
and his trigger finger itches.
The Trespasser meets
the cross hair;
the Trespasser takes
the blame.

Without.

I am without myself.
A flat whisper through the trees
where once there was a hurricane.
The dullest of all aches
where once there laid the sweetest pain.
The sun sets into vanilla skies,
lest anything greater should be slain.
A slow burning match on an almighty arctic shelf.
Bind my hands and blind my eyes:
I am already without myself.

You.

After another whole year of being
the same you that you've been
since the very moment of your birth...
you're more you than ever.

Happy New Years and the best of luck with your resolutions!

Boreas.

You force your once warm breath
into your gloved palms.
Stood there on the corner,
flickering street light above,
you attempt, with shaky hands,
to zip up your coat:
all red and green.

Your brightly coloured scarf
trails behind you into the night.
A moment later and it's lost to Boreas,
flying past a late-night-driver
whose car screeches out festive tunes
to the bruises he's sporting:
all black and blue.

The turpid winds howl as they
clutch at your heels.
Shivering ever more,
you hold onto the presents
in your hands even tighter,
scrunching up the wrapping paper:
all white and gold.

Declarations.

I've lost the ability to think in days.
I measure time only in hours and weeks,
since there's so rarely a lull
and so many don't sleep.

There's no escaping this place.
The lights are always on outside, and in,
lighting drunken avenues
from which delirious declarations
spell out the evening's sin.

Somebody, somewhere, is always awake.
You're only a text away from a glass
of whiskey shared and secrets spilled -
for everybody knows that
3 am's the time to show your cards.

You're rarely truly alone.
So many have identical weeks,
and they're always around to help
since there's so rarely a lull
and so many don't sleep.

Campus.

I drank myself into campus
looking for some bar someplace
where there are vacancies
and awful liquor cheap enough
for underfunded students
to indulge their way
into the medical centre.
A tall man with blonde hair
stopped me on the stairs
to confirm that I had just arrived
to make sure his wisdom was required
"These are the best three years
of your life, go make some friends"
was all he said in husked monotone.
Looking beyond the blonde stubble
of a face glassy and scarred
I witnessed a piaza of sober intolerance
and I have never been so glad
to not find some bar someplace.

Heat.

A bead of sweat jogs down
my damp forehead,
heading for the tip of my nose.
Where there was once "pit stains"
there now lies quarries.
The bus is tightly packed
as well as stuck behind lost
and foreign lorries.
I experience the deepest envy
I've ever known,
as outside the window
a small child holds two ice lollies.
What greed! What fiendishness!
To flaunt such a gift before us all
in this Public Pressure Cooker.
I'm not ashamed to admit the smile
that turned the corners of my lips,
when I saw those frozen poles
melt, and slide right off the sticks.