I said I would, I never did...

Here are a collection of images, in place of words.
They were all taken (what seems now) a long time ago.
I had a lot of fun with people that I've barely seen since.
They were a catalyst for what I produced, and since their departure, I've hardly been able to achieve from work what we did together, in just keeping good humour and faith between us.

Ashley

Man-made in Norwich

Eating alone

Winter in London

A love letter

In contrast to all that is corrupt within my own nature, I try to see that which is splendid in others. Not wanting to pertain to lies, however, I try to admit that which is true. I've written letters of love for many people; those I've known for so long, and in immediacy, those I've hardly met and sometimes to those who are strangers entirely.
This letter is to someone who fits into the former category, and yet I abuse them so, because I know I know and love them.

I shed a tear for you,
love,
because you are as sweet
as seraphim-
truly,
and innocence is a virtue shared,
for you become it
purely in essence.
   What exists to be seen,
as most can perceive,
but few comprehend
is that a more wicked stipend
of transient bliss is often achieved
in a comfortably drab fitting sin.
   Our exuberance lies in
the ethereal-
we live equally as we dream
and your excellence reigns
in a conceptually confounding way
that is the pleasure of mine
to have been shown.
   And so, for those
to whom such examples arose
it is possible to believe
that a beauty exists
more beautiful still
than the beauty of your aesthete.

An addiction

Any sufferer of such will tell you how the fires of addiction are hard to quell. How do we leash that which has no neck, for an addiction is an ugly and figure-less thing. I have been, myself, long in the throes of this horror which binds me, and during that time, I have struggled further with my internalisation of theology and debated morality. I have witnessed acts of God and experienced them directly- they are subtle, so that few acknowledge what they have seen, and few know what to look for. Such things exist, and are more readily felt than the agency of most are willing to believe. Here are a few things that were spawned from these conflicts.

It is easy to see
how many signs there can be
to prove the existence
of a higher design;
one that could possibly
be conceived of
by your own mind-
you read the words:
'Prepare to die'
as a man looks at you,
reaching for a cigarette,
and pointing at your own
is a gun in his hand.
A very design perpetrated
to illustrate
when you're being 'bad',
and thus, with such discouragement,
it's easy to understand
why holy men go mad...

                                                                                *****

I understand now
what dying is-
the slow, easing tact
of the spirit
that again
makes the plain
so beautiful,
that makes the ordinary
so profound.
I understand
all this.
To feel the blade
glide across the throat
and your body rise
into the sky

Of the 'student' population and losing home...

How I detest them, hypocrite that I am. Modern day colonisers- the future- our future! How we shall weep for our future. The rabble that drinks your taxes, desecrate our streets with smashed glass and vomit and pay no respects to your sites of heritage. See how we force out the indigenous  allowing only the richest of the natives to stick it out. No one lives here any more. Those that used to live here don't live here any more. The old have been moved into houses, or have died. The others have been ousted.
   Watch how demure I am, sitting by the fire and quietly, complacently, reading my book. Please, do view our house for your future prosperity needs. You'll not know how, just five minutes before, I slept in my made bed; ignorant and happy. Ignorant as you, of the ghosts that harbour here. My childhood remnants, the good and the bad, belong here. The corners, in which I spent so much time with my nose pressed hard against the walls. The birthdays, the celebrations, the tears. See the stairs where blood was smeared?
   And my heavy head; it cries for the pillow. You wont know how I drunk last night. How I lost myself along the roads at night. How strange and new it all became to me, when once it was so frequent. How I'm soon to never hold this place again, or walk these roads I once called home. And finally, the sadness. Lost dreams do not come cheap.