Poetry: Selections from Adam Paxton

I haven’t known intimacy in so long
I’m afraid they may have changed it. 
I’m a rough-shorn shape
Resembling my old reflections, those
Various collections of left behind selves,
In little else but name. What a waste.
This isn’t chosen loneliness
All charming and chaste,
Nor am I some skittish prisoner 
Of innocence and good faith. I’ve known
Lovers; perhaps less than I’d like,
When I rue the truanted parties
And their attendant potential partners.
I passed up on them all, preferring 
The words and the wine and the
Violent nightly quiet. I always wanted
To believe I wasn’t missing out,
But I couldn’t quite buy it.
You still come around every now and then,
Bringing all but the intimacy in.

Still with your swaying hips and music mouth,
Your lust for life and lack of doubt.
And you say I’m someone different,
I’m not who I used to be.
The Truth is my future never happened,
Or the past took its toll too soon,
Look how little it left of me,
Look how much it has to you.
Did I say Truth? I’m sorry,
I’m talking shit again; I turn the reasons
For what happened into what I need
Them to have been.
I need to find a way to hate you,
And if that means I have to lie
If in these waking dreams I debase you
I’m just playing games with the why.

Last words of a tomorrow borrower
I sleep-in beyond the bounds of reason
In solitude, I hardly see the change of seasons
Only ever followed shadows on the wall
How could you ever think that I’d follow you at all?

I need chemicals, chemicals, to restore the order
I’m a head full of hammers and blunt force trauma
Battering, battering the doors of perception
Your self-reflection works best as a registered weapon
Anything it takes to buy a few more fucking years
It’s never getting any better but it can’t get any worse
Leaving is easy when you’ve got somewhere good to go
If the bricks you built your life upon at least resemble a home
And not speaking is simple when you live your life alone
And situations never shaped themselves so you could say
‘I told you so’
You never really understood my nihilistic sense of humour
All tomorrow’s parties met the man with no tomorrow
While all my pretty prophecies meant nothing to ya
You knew as well as yesterday I’m a man with no future
I am the twinkle-toed silver-tongued made to measure tragic figure
Rough and ready head unsteady twitching-twitching trigger finger
The little-known skin and bone pawn of pleasure tragic figure
I can always hit the spot but somehow miss the bigger picture

There’s nothing, at the heart of it all
She said she loved the way
I’d alliteration in conversation
I played constant passive games with the words
Now she thinks that I’m pretentious
That my apathy is endless
It’s not effortless in fact its endless fucking work
And I can’t say she’s wrong, after all.
I’d love to say those lips were lying
But what I present as coming off au natural
Lies in an agony of trying
I’m insecure and undersexed
I’d leave my greatest fan unimpressed
I’m unemployed yet fucking stressed
In a battle with myself I’ll always come off second best
And I’m witty if you give me enough silence to prepare
Try to express my inner-self but found there’s no-one fucking there
In the depths of my depravity 
This dance with death I do,
Petrichor of calamity,
Of disaster, darling isn’t it
Ever so pretty?

Golden Boy
See me stumbling, bumping
Banging into everything I pass.
See me wobble when I
Fumble my way to the nearest place
To piss.
I only ever worry the lows
Won’t be worth the highs.
I’ve lost so much weight,
My stomach aches, 
My friends avert their eyes.
I fall asleep just as the light
Comes crawling from the sun.
And I wake up late and ask
Myself just what the fuck I’ve done.

Daily Admissions
I still trail off mid sentence
I fetishize failed transcendence
Commit the crime and fake repentance.
I boast such bad defences
Don’t flinch at my offensives
Don’t die on my directives
I live on instant ramen
Creeping up to storms
To see if I can sneak some calm in
People used to seem to find me to be ‘quite charming’
My life has not quite went right
I’m as unfulfilled as the next guy
I’ll wear a hemp-rope neck tie
I’m a self-inflicted hate crime
I am a walking landmine
A child up well past his bedtime
I languish in the long light
I’m gonna be awake all night
Nothing seems to have quite gone right.

Adam Paxton is a poet from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. He finds life generally challenging. Twitter and Instagram: @TheSuicideJones.