I’m at home waiting for life,
With my queer mythology,
Between the compost heap and the clinic,
The goddess either too dirty or too clean.

This wandering mind idles
On the slipping portrait of woman,
Her war between preservatives and rot,
And I’m keen like ambition.

I pull myself from the periphery,
From the excesses of my longing,
To the centre of it,
And hunt the ghosts that stalk me –

Dead dream, dead poet, dead night,
Dead wife, dead eyes, dead right,
I am the calm, the bullseye,
Waiting for the next blow.

Reaching out always reaching,
Like the lighthouse eternal,
So that this moment might pass,
Through the terror of my solitude.

Will you come for me then love?
Come with the collapsing sky,
To witness the wreckage of me,
And take us down to the sea floor.

Cherish the fading light,
Take those cold dead hands from around my neck,
And follow me love..
Into my darkness forever more.