There is a storm brewing. In my mind I hear the wild roar of the wind, The waves crash upon the shore, The shouts of the unsuspecting. The air is heavy.

It is only in Autumn that the world is on fire A blanket of golden flames, Wrapping the streets in their warmth, Whispering goodnight before the cold darkness that lies waiting.

What is a dream? A hope? An aspiration? So what do I dream about? What do I want? I dream of beauty, Of soft skin and golden hair, Of being what others want, What others are.

She’s so beautiful. Just look at her. Why does my best friend have to be so damn pretty? Come to think of it, why do all my mates have to be so stunning?

Why did you do this to me baby? Why? I saw you and everything was fine, You gave me no warning, You gave me no sign. A year. It's been a year. Thats how long you wanted me. You chased me.

Smooth lips concupiscent curves Nestled within an inner body Musky tingle of electric nerves As forked fingers shear scalps By Patrick Mackeown http://www.bookscape.co.uk/poems/index.php

Hounslow. For the dead.