Violent vomiting. I stand outside his room and listen. To a man checked-out from life.

A gift of darkness. The perfect place to forge my words, in the abyss and fires of hell.

It’s a storm I inherit. A despair I relish. It brings purpose to my wrath.

And as I sob, relentlessly, each night, for everything I cherish, and all that tears my heart apart...

... I’m stronger for the demons. My fuliginous blood sparking with indignation and fury.

For it’s a gift. As your soul crushes - your heart hardens and your eyes see.

The light is easy to navigate. Show me the damned, the poison, the evil you’ve steered.

Give me hope, for the man I love, as his hours left of life... tick... tick... tick away.

I remember the night death offered me

a tempting invite to fall asleep,

wrapped in anaesthetic snow.

Closer to caring about the icy, cold release

of unbearable, mangled tension,

than I was about waking up

the next day.

I imagined, sliding down the sword-sharp chute of 'given up' and landing by the river to blissfully freeze in a wayward,

drifting demise.

I declined.

He came back, with a wounded fracture crowbarred open by rusted metal, and incessant desperation to control. His own guilt - a formidable shadow, eclipsed my view.

So I sat, head in hands, with no saviour on my side. The only road lit was a hot,

angry release from the bars of

intolerable anxiety. A road that lured me, willed me, to crash my car.

"Escape" he whispered.

Dreams replaced with paralysis, haunting sanctuary, safety, and home. Screaming demons piercing the early hours of new days, and prolonging the nights.

He was losing his grip.

Now only able to reach me between asleep and awake, I dropped fear,

took his hand,

and let him drag me down.

There was - no resistance.

And it killed him.

I was tired, exhausted, but anxiety dominated and rendered the escape of sleep redundant. My feet, cold and crippled on the floor of my concrete cell. I was so used to the pain that I'd discarded my cries after an eternity of being engulfed by darkness. I could hear the whimpers of others rising up into the already dense fog of despair. 

I tried at first, when I still had a soul, when I still felt life; I tried to connect. I remember it once felt natural to be affectionate, it once felt natural to trust. I learned though, quickly and brutally. I saw whenever I dared meet the eyes of our warders, that there was no connection, no friendship, no compassion. 

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then... you're invisible. 

My pain scorches.

My fear swamps.

My screams pierce.

 And my skin bleeds. 

I saw a fraction of humanity once. The day I momentarily jolted back to life. Seeing that stranger walk into the prison, a day I'll never forget. That stranger who looked a lot like me, except, he was free. He strolled past our cells with an air of joyful innocence, kind eyes, and a pure soul. He stopped briefly as he passed my cell. He stopped and looked, right at me. His smiling eyes in direct communication with my own. He SAW me. It was the closest thing to affection I ever remember and the jolt it gave me was like a defibrillator to the heart. 

The warder came in almost immediately and I feared for the stranger's life. I shouted out to warn him, and that's when I saw it. The connection. The warder ran straight over and launched his hands towards the stranger’s neck. I winced, awaiting the violence. When I heard no scream I looked up to see the hands thrown around the stranger were in an embrace, of love and tenderness.

My head thudded in an agony of confusion. If the warder could SEE the stranger and was capable of such gentle kindness, why was I treated so differently? Why was I invisible? Maybe soon, he'll see me too… and then I'll be loved like the stranger. It gave me hope. For a while. But it didn't last. 

Soon came the dark day. 

I'd been allowed outside and I was walking around inhaling the freedom of fresh air, when two men dragged me into a narrow hallway. I couldn't move. I was so choked with fear that I couldn't breathe. They straddled me and rammed something hard inside me. 

Twisting. 

Tugging. 

I screamed out. 

They laughed. 

That's the day it began and was repeated, more than I allow myself to remember. I killed myself that day, emotionally. The extinction of light, led my mind to black, and I blocked out this hellhole of a nightmare. 

Sometime after, I don't know how long, I was brought into this cell. Confined. Unable to move. Pain. Blood. Agonising pain. My mind was so fucked up I had no realisation I'd gone into labour. I can't remember much about it. They took my child, I know that. Of the tiny fragments I recall, that was the most painful. 

The attachment you feel after giving birth is so fierce. Mothers around the planet will generally risk their life to protect that of their babies and when that's taken away from you, the grief of loss, the mourning, is desperate despair. 

I wasn't the only invisible soul trapped in inescapable torment. I watched as they dragged another girl out onto the floor, whilst she convulsed in agonising seizures and spasms. "Hurry up and die." the warder sneered.

I sensed death. It was near. 

We'd heard the rumours, but you can detach yourself from a story. When you read of horrors you don't want to believe, you divert your consciousness so reality remains veiled. Like all diversions though, at some point it must rejoin the road, the intended direction of travel, the highway of your subconscious that remains ever aware of the terrifying truth.

The stories that echoed in locked-away thoughts of being shackled, of tongs being attached to their heads, of huge electric currents passing through their brains until unconscious. And, of the times when the warders fucked it up, watching as the poor bastard writhed in a hopeless, miserable struggle. 

Agonising electric shocks.

Paralysed.

Unable to move.

But still conscious. 

Regardless of the outcome, conscious or not, both resulted in the same sequential destruction; blood vessels in their throats slit and then left to bleed to their mortal demise. 

So here we are, born on death row. I don't know why we are here or what we did wrong. I don't think there is anything I could do to change this outcome or to escape my fate. It would seem my life has been overlooked, translucently insignificant, and my death commissioned before I was born. 

I never understood the anger. The force of which was so torrential I could only imagine it came from a heart of disturbed evil, but then, I'd remember the stranger and the embrace of genuine love. 

I once heard a warder scream, "Shut the fuck up! No-one gives a shit about your squealing 'cause you'll taste so good when you're dead!" He said they'd cook our flesh and feast upon our lifeless bodies.

The stranger: a dog. 

Me: a pig. 

So very alike with four legs, equally affectionate and intelligent, capable of feeling love, fear, hunger, loss, stress, and pain. One adored, the other ignored. 

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then... you're invisible.

When you meet someone, 

and your words instantly melt 

into chorus, 

a conversational orchestra, 

a flawlessly conducted symphony. 

The meaning within the exchange 

paints a picture of colours 

so intrinsic, so unequivocal in morality, 

you can't help but take their hand 

and want to hold on to it 

forever. 

A natural flow, a warming glow, 

your lives suddenly entwined 

in this precise moment of perfection. 

Eyes fixed, souls clicked, 

the unneeded translation of a thousand languages, of a melody

so precisely interpreted in the unspoken.

A million beating hearts striking

each second of unbearable, 

Earth-defining time 

together. 

Lit sparsely by the 

dim glow of a lamp, 

I look up at the 

ceiling of this 

unfamiliar room.

I can't stop thinking 

about our shared night 

sky, the creative high

and sudden goodbye 

from that early time.

Imagination 

infinite, expanding

with you. The music,

the games we'd play 

those dancing days.

Naked essence, raw,

the core of your being

draws - the stars - closer.

Two pieces, soldered,

so beautifully present.

It's 2am and your 

last sentence is stuck,

between my conscious 

day and soon to be 

unconscious night. 

This space, between the 

mattress and the beams, 

is filled with dreams, 

leading my thoughts to bleed. 

I can't switch off that light.

He watched her in her deepest sleep. 

Nail marks scarred her fragile cheeks. 

Her breath so gentle, her body weak. 

Even in rest she depicted tragedy. 

Crying in the bathroom, she scratched away the sadness drowning her face. Staring at her own reflection, a beckoning insanity, coruscating. She’d watched him, these last few days, and wondered whether he had any awareness of his consistently communicated self-sacrifice, his adamant certainty of annihilation. The deepening torture hollowing out her organs, dragging her to a hell she so effortlessly graced. Elegantly waltzing the flames, like the devil itself. She laughed through the despair, at the acceptance of belonging, at the recognition of wanting to be a part of its kill, briefly, dancing with its inimitable, endearing force of lost.

Somewhere between outer space and terra firma, I float. The past four days perfect in initial memory, until I recall the half dozen times my heart fractured. Four days, so simply quarantined, pristinely segregated from every other touch of intruding life, of veins connected pumping tainted blood into the thick of it, barricading the purest form of just - being. Without the eyes, the thoughts, the work, the judgements, the family calling, paths crossing, impacting, changing, distorting the course with an array of agendas. Four glorious days of just... being.

And with that came the dark. The death. The tears. The fleeting, lightening strike of now, of happiness that quickly tore away, back to what was known. 

She wanted to scream through the storm.

The turbulent shake, troubled forlorn.

His smiling eyes so full of grit. 

Unaware of his compelling beauty.

Dying.

His love for her 

unrestrained.

He'd rage 

against her doom.

It's only what 

she makes it.

And make it 

she will…. soon.

I went to this

invisible 

art exhibition 

and walked into 

an empty

room of white

walls and a fine

vapour mist

that gently

moved as I 

breathed it in

the space

and depth that 

inhaled eloquence

an elegant sheet

of satin and a 

skip of playful

freedom we

joined the

sound of the 

mill cascading into

the flow

below

the fields and

splendour of

night’s parade.

It wasn’t until

I left the room that 

I saw the sign 

describing the blind 

piece of 

   ….art? 

It said the 

mist that 

kissed 

my lungs was 

formed 

from water 

used to wash 

the bruised 

abused 

bodies 

of murder victims 

in a Mexican 

morgue 

following autopsy.

Death inhaled and 

experienced as light 

when viewed 

in a place 

of visionless 

sight. 

The deceased 

connected to 

life through 

pores and cells 

embracing 

the living 

recycling 

the dead 

the existing 

carrying 

history from wars 

as the fog of 

the corpse 

soars 

and creeps 

and penetrates 

deep 

into bodies 

of observers 

the emptiness 

full 

the dirtiness 

clean 

at an 

installation 

I’ve

never seen. 

An empty 

deathly room of 

white 

of struggles 

and drugs 

that forced

violent 

fights 

a place that 

conflict could

not resist

a cause to find

peace with

those

that are mist.

Inspired by the ‘Invisible’ exhibition at the Hayward Gallery where I discovered the work of Teresa Margolles and her installation ‘Vaporizacion’.

I was tired, exhausted, but anxiety dominated and rendered the escape of sleep redundant. My feet, cold and crippled on the floor of my concrete cell. I was so used to the pain that I'd discarded my cries after an eternity of being engulfed by darkness. I could hear the whimpers of others rising up into the already dense fog of despair.

I tried at first, when I still had a soul, when I still felt life; I tried to connect. I remember it once felt natural to be affectionate, it once felt natural to trust. I learned though, quickly and brutally. I saw whenever I dared meet the eyes of our warders, that there was no connection, no friendship, no compassion.

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then, you're invisible.

My pain scorches.

My fear swamps.

My screams pierce.

And my skin bleeds.

I saw a fraction of humanity once. The day I momentarily jolted back to life. Seeing that stranger walk into the prison, a day I'll never forget. That stranger who looked a lot like me, except, he was free. He strolled past our cells with an air of joyful innocence, kind eyes, and a pure soul. He stopped briefly as he passed my cell. He stopped and looked, right at me. His smiling eyes in direct communication with my own. He SAW me. It was the closest thing to affection I ever remember and the jolt it gave me was like a defibrillator to the heart.

The warder came in almost immediately and I feared for the stranger's life. I shouted out to warn him, and that's when I saw it. The relationship. The warder ran straight over and launched his hands towards the stranger’s neck. I winced, awaiting the violence. When I heard no scream I looked up to see the hands thrown around the stranger were in an embrace, of love and tenderness.

My head thudded in an agony of confusion. If the warder could SEE the stranger and was capable of such gentle kindness, why was I treated so differently? Why was I invisible? Maybe soon, he'll see me too… and then I'll be loved like the stranger. It gave me hope. For a while. But it didn't last.

Soon came the dark day.

I'd been allowed outside and I was walking around inhaling the freedom of fresh air, when two men dragged me into a narrow hallway. I couldn't move. I was so choked with fear that I couldn't breathe. They straddled me and rammed something hard inside me.

Twisting.

Tugging.

I screamed out.

They laughed.

That's the day it began and was repeated, more than I allow myself to remember. I killed myself that day, emotionally. The extinction of light, led my mind to black, and I blocked out this hellhole of a nightmare.

Sometime after, I don't know how long, I was brought into this cell. Confined. Unable to move. Pain. Blood. Agonising pain. My mind was so fucked up I had no realisation I'd gone into labour. I can't remember much about it. They took my child, I know that. Of the tiny fragments I recall, that was the most painful.

The attachment you feel after giving birth is so fierce. Mothers around the planet will generally risk their life to protect that of their babies and when that's taken away from you, the grief of loss, the mourning, is desperate despair.

I wasn't the only invisible soul trapped in inescapable torment. I watched as they dragged another girl out onto the floor, whilst she convulsed in agonising seizures and spasms. "Hurry up and die." the warder sneered.

I sensed death. It was near.

We'd heard the rumours, but you can detach yourself from a story. When you read of horrors you don't want to believe, you divert your consciousness so reality remains veiled. Like all diversions though, at some point it must rejoin the road, the intended direction of travel, the highway of your subconscious that remains ever aware of the terrifying truth.

The stories that echoed in locked-away thoughts of being shackled, of tongs being attached to their heads, of huge electric currents passing through their brains until unconscious. And, of the times when the warders fucked it up, watching as the poor bastard writhed in a hopeless, miserable struggle.

Agonising electric shocks.

Paralysed.

Unable to move.

But still conscious.

Regardless of the outcome, conscious or not, both resulted in the same sequential destruction; blood vessels in their throats slit and then left to bleed to their mortal demise.

So, here we are, born on death row. I don't know why we are here or what we did wrong. I don't think there is anything I could do to change this outcome or to escape my fate. It would seem my life has been overlooked, translucently insignificant, and my death commissioned before I was born.

I never understood the anger. The force of which was so torrential I could only imagine it came from a heart of disturbed evil, but then, I'd remember the stranger and the embrace of genuine love.

I once heard a warder scream, "Shut the fuck up! No-one gives a shit about your squealing cause you'll taste so good when you're dead!" He said they'd cook our flesh and feast upon our lifeless bodies.

The stranger: a dog.

Me: a pig.

So very alike with four legs, equally affectionate and intelligent, capable of feeling love, fear, hunger, loss, stress, and pain. One adored, the other ignored.

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then, you're invisible.

Inhaling deep, the voltage

of present, expanding lungs,

engaging blood with consciousness.

Aware of this exact moment,

this existing second in time.

Feet grounded, mind still, revelling

in light of life,

now.

Drifting away, the force

of what was, descends the dog

of black. Tethered hearts,

unsure, in Robert's yellow wood.

Lost in times that don't exist,

diluted by detail,

dragging just being,

to death.

Gazing up, the detachment

of the Universe echoes peace.

A freedom within a lesson

of graceful insignificance,

resting, eternally, effortlessly

besotted, by the acceptance

of energy

evolving.

A portal of uncertain absolute clarity, wistful thoughts, and blinding vision from a furnace of unfiltered light. My blood, flooded. Glass walls overfilled with dark, fuliginous red wine and blissful highs of eloquent, uncensored intoxication.

Mournful warning, striking blows, through somnambulant, repetitive nights.

The sky lit, a green galaxy of affectionate,

dangerous, historical, shades of heaven.

To never know would be a sin, a lie of living, the marvel of... words, four thousand miles of imagination, seized, in a second of elongated moments.

A world darkened by wild swans, tamed. A complex lake of stricken beauty.

In love, I fell.