Making is free Not watched like a kettle Or marked by the hour The art is always there Whether you are or not That there is peace Let you breathe with ease Because you can be still as a rock Grow moss And still not live at a loss.

These cold highways stretch like tired arms Lifting from the concrete sides of that giant That groans from the pain of life Trickling cars and people Igniting themselves for another day To make their appointments Made in haste.

The wind blows my hair. I’m standing on the edge again. Fifth time this week. This is the difficult thing about becoming a superhero, you have to learn how to fly. There is the technical approach, with your wingsuits and jet packs, but all that costs money. I don’t have a lot of that. Then there is the other way - the leap of faith.

Now this is quite a literal leap and quite a risky one, and you either make it or you don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I do have faith, and I’ve got my reasons not having jumped yet. You see I’ve been studying thermal currents and the wind and stuff, just to have the best conditions, of course. Well, today is the day and after this day this city will know me. They will know me as their saviour and they will cheer and smile as they call my name. Brick-boy.

Deal breakers Move makers Charging down the street Shaking down all they meet And now the ways run red After all that they said “Cut them up, cut them up!” As they filled their cup Up to the brim The lights got dim And the big man stood tall And made the others seem small Children with knives Snatching at lives.

There is a rotten thing That lies at the bottom of the hill And inside I hear them sing

There is an old man Who listens to the birds They have big wing spans

The thing is a shed A wooden church so unholy Within it is only one bed

There is a rotting thing That lies in that bed And I don’t know what it brings

The old man breathes his last Flinching from his lungs What was present is now past

If victory had a taste, it would taste like honeyed ash. A sweetness to cover up the bitterness, something to make up for the nothing of it all. For victory is not a celebration, but a devastation, and it leaves no winners. Victory pours down your throat and down to your burning lungs, ignited by the effort of killing - and for a moment is quenches. But the fire revives and year after year you blacken inside until there is nothing left to feel. Victory has a taste that lingers and insists on its stay.

Funny how someone can be more than a person But a colour too, the sort that warms and grows And brings about these daily smiles. When life comes undone They know the stitches, how to sew Not just a fixer but a maker aswell. They outline a life and you’re there too Part of the picture Sketched and carefully painted. They give it movement This art of ours And we live there together.

I have a spot Not our usual one No it’s somewhere you’d never think To look You might find the clues in my face If you pay attention For more than one wasted night If you make your tracings Reveal my footprints that drag Because I’m tired of hiding And I’d rather be found now Clinging to a branch or stuffed in a box Please figure it all out I’m getting bored and lost.

Still Watching Dark coats march Through my home town Barking in old tongues And strangling the red sky With whipping flags, painted black Icons of their dreadful rule hang high A silent taunt to the remaining few.

“I love you, Kevin! I think I’ll always love you, no matter what happens!” David shouted up at Kevin who was now leaning over his balcony to see who was making such a obnoxious declaration at four in the morning.

“David? What the fuck are you doing?” Kevin said, the reply coming out as a stifled yell as to not alert his neighbours to the bizarre scene.

“I’ve come to declare my love to you! I’ve been hiding the real me for too long now, and I’m tired of pretending!” His voice was louder now and carrying to the other flats above, Kevin was sure of it.

“Yeah, okay, but what did you mean when you said ‘no matter what happens’?”

“What?”

“You said ‘no matter what happens’ and, I dunno, it sounded kind of ominous, y’know?”

“Well, I meant broadly speaking, like, no matter what happens in our lives, I’ll be there for you - yeah?”

“Yeah okay I get it but, David, mate we hardly know each other and if I’m honest it’s kind of fucking mental that you’re here right now and doing this. I literally met you last month at work and we’ve been for one beer…and even then I think that was just a work thing?” Kevin said, his eyes adjusting to the darkness outside so that he could see David clearly now. Clearly holding a bouquet of sad flowers in one hand, and a dripping kitchen knife in the other.

He spoke slowly, as if talking to a possibly feral dog, “David, sorry to have to ask, mate, but is that a bloody knife in your hand?”

“Yeah.” David said, plainly and without any apparent acknowledgment of the situation at hand.

“Right…well have you hurt yourself?”

“Nah, I may have hurt someone else though.”

“Someone else?”

“Yeah, namely the doorman for your building.”

“Fucking hell! You stabbed Tony? What the fuck?” Kevin exclaimed, wanting to pull away from his balcony and into the safety of his flat, but compelled, by the bizarreness of the situation, to stay.

David’s voice was a bit quieter now, and Kevin had to strain to hear him.

“He wouldn’t let me in to say hi to you and deliver these,” he waved the smashed flowers around “and so I did him in.” David said, in the same tone that you might tell someone that you’d jus taken the bins out.

Kevin, against his better judgment, asked, “Did him in?” He was reaching for his phone now.

“Yeah, did him in, gave him a few stabs, sliced him up a few times - whatever you wanna call it! Anyway, that’s not important right now! What’s important is that you finally know how I feel!”

“I’m calling the police, David, you’re not well and I think you need help. Please just stay where you are!” Kevin shouted with as much confidence as he could muster.

David looked up at him for a moment, then to his left and right, eyeing up the whole street before turning his attention back to him. He had an expression, not sad, not even angry from what Kevin could see - he looked disappointed. David shrugged and dropped the knife with a clatter.

“Fuck this, you’re just like the others, always calling the police. Prick.” He said, and then launched into a brisk jog, striding down the street as if resuming an early morning run. As he disappeared from view, Kevin stood on his balcony, mouth slightly hanging open, phone pressed to his ear and the dial tone ringing out into the night.

From somewhere above him a voice called out.

“Close your fucking window, I’m trying to sleep! Who makes a call at this time of the morning?!”