Issue Two

Paintings 

For Mishka and Stuart Hoosen-Lewis

She Finds Something To Identify With Great Painters.

I’m going into chronic-overachiever mode again, a

lesson in humility to build my confidence, nothing 

                                                                                                           (but we lost it)

tragic there, all I want to do is make a name for myself,

you’re beautiful, you’re perfect, you’re the rain pouring

                                                                                                            (but we lost it)

down, washing my sins away, you’re my church, dogma,

religion, controversy, and you’re all I want. All I see,

                                                                                                            (but we lost it)

want is that holy feeling when I’m around you, but all 

we have is days, not weeks, not years, and you don’t

                                                                                                            (but we lost it)

want to come back here. I’m a fan trucking, my love, 

my love, you’re interwoven into my gene pool, my bloodline,

                                                                                                           (but we lost it)

you’re here, but you’re already gone, and you haven’t 

said those magic words, you haven’t said that you love

                                                                                                           (but we lost it)

me, Cleopatra, you don’t need me like I need you. 

You want Prague, and I want Rainer Maria Rilke. 

                                                                                                           (but we lost it)

You want to speak Czech, and I want Milan Kundera’s inspiration,

and creativity, and the priorities that informed his writing.

                                                                                                           (but we lost it)

I’m once in a house on fire, in a hospital ward, in high 

care I want it all from East London to Despatch, don’t leave

                                                                                                          (but we lost it)

but you’ve never listened to me a day in your life, so you

won’t start now. I’m a work in progress, not so much a 

                                                                                                         (but we lost it)

great success like you with your life planned out, instead 

my depression has mapped out my entire life, its detailed 

                                                                                                        (but we lost it)

text uncompromising and you protect me most days, but 

other days I’m out there on my own, fighting alone, the boat

                                                                                                       (but we lost it)

is going down, I’m swimming for my life now, reading Salinger

as if it was about us, blood sisters, reading Hemingway on 

                                                                                                      (but we lost it)

the billions of peaks and troughs of the waves, I love you

more than life itself, break, break, break, you watch me break.

                                                                                                      (but we lost it)

I’m reading Martin Amis, I’m reading Kingsley Amis, I’m

reading your mind, kismet, palmistry, astrology in the stars.

                                                                                                      (you’re a stranger)

Don’t leave me here, on my own, but you want to be free.

You want to love, distance, you want to hurt but without me.

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