I wish you better

This a song that I needed to get out my system. And hopefully it is now out of it.

It's called...
I wish you better

I wish you better so I can miss you like homesickness

I wish you better so I cut myself

You are not better enough to deserve my scars

You are as a crisp November leaf in fire

I wish you better so I wander, broken

You are not better enough to deserve my fractures

You cast no light to cast no ill-light

I wish you better so I send flower heads

You are not better enough to deserve my mourn

You are far from risen from the dead

Christ Almighty, I wish you better.

An ode to feeling this way

This is a song about having an anxiety attack.

An ode to feeling this way

Come to me, squeeze me.

Place your hands on my hips and inflict pain on me.

Remind me, too, of the night scent of strawberry smoke.

I get it occasionally.

Drink with me, Lonely.

Don’t need a barmaid, or barman. Poison for my company.

Take my control, being and shape:

turn me an aberration when skewering me.

Fingers delicate over and under the spinal cord,

playing out something grotesquely.

And what is this wave, but helplessness

And what is this sensation, but a falling

And what is this place, but my own hell

Muscles twitch but don’t get to anywhere,

feel the air like beetle antennae.

Heart rattles its bars, brain throttles the jailer, captives

I’m taking down with me.

A vibration in wires of veins and arteries into paralysis,

detuned ethereality.

Soul a rag. Eye burned yolk. Magnesium teeth tighten.

I’m my own enemy.

Damned pain: pain of the joyful act with the absence of joy.

A repetition zombie.

And what is this wave, but encasement

And what is this sensation, but landing

And what is this place, but my own hell

No one can reach into me and release the screw and I want to sleep longer

When I used to stand in-between a graveyard and a library

For National Poetry Day, I've written a new piece.
I wrote it quickly and it was enjoyable to put down.
This is something more clearly autobiographical than a lot of the Greville and the Tombstones tracks. I might well return to this style again.

But don't panic. However stripped back, it still is Greville and the Tombstones and if it came with a tune, it would be played on by an accordion.

When I used to stand in-between a graveyard and a library:

I remember standing, recalling latest songs in my head

From Thursday TV shows,

Re-running action from 24bit games,

Freeze framing a girl I noticed in the library earlier,

when I held a book with a fuchsia cover.

Always in blank winter light, my breath would cloud in the thin shelter.

I stood with barely more than one thing to be.

In my shapeless, black fleece jacket, I’d kick Doc Martens' scuffs at the pavement.

Fingers blushed from the concrete air.

The weight of my hair drawn in a swoop over my right eye as I invented

fantastic proposals I would definitely turn down.

Others were creating beauty so I didn’t need to bother.

My shapeless, black fleece turned feathers.

I figured I would tend the graveyard in the harshest conditions,

knowing that others wouldn’t be able to make it on such days.

Though they would often want to.