Friday, May 4, 2012

28 April 2012

Dreaming of square jawed bearded mickeys.
With gummi ears and teeth marks for days.
Wearing the marks of decision and indecision
questions impossible to answer with words.
But maybe with a scruff of the neck.
A bitten corner of the mouth.
A temporary reminder that we are in fact still alive
through the wreckage
and that we can still find through each other a reason to hold on.
Though we might let go.
Letting go for status quo.
Things we've known and people we can't let go of.
Done for the sake of change
change that is nothing more than
same old same old
falling into place 
with the people that we think we are
and are afraid to be.

I don't know what I want.
I don't even know that what I want is you.

But I hate having the carpet swept away
before I even had the chance to make up my mind.

This time was supposed to be my time (goonies)
though I gave all that time to you
to find
that maybe
you'd find
that you were a different person than you thought you were.

And hoping that maybe you would find yourself in me.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

To say goodbye on a night like this (22 April 2012)

Nights like this
if it's the last thing I ever do.
Happiness I've never known
finally feeling
like I formed my place
between the ashes and whiskey,

Piles of clothes,
the debris of my life,
piled and unsorted.
Las chicas del monton.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

20 April 2012

My bedding smells like you.
A languid reminder of a sexual layabout
that you had your way with
as I wanted you to.
Forcing a reality I chose
to change to my life into something proper.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

Lovers spit (11 April 2012)

Lover's taken.
Out of necessity.
To feel the burden of sin
and the sweet taste of betrayal.
To also feel the sweet pain
of that cock buried deep
in your arse
as his teeth break shoulder skin.
Smooth made rough
with the bitter bites
of a liars lips.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

2 March 2012

None of this will turn out well.
At Tumbridge Wells
I'll cry of love and loss
and dream of a trip to Greece.
Where I'll lose myself in antiquity
and try to leave you in the past.
A relic.
Of love lost.
Le Temps Perdu.
And I don't drink coffee and go to coffee shops.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

Friday, January 27, 2012

The excitement of the rain falling hard on a hum-drum town.
Reveling in the memory of how you felt storms.
Running out. Arms outstretched and giddy. The pounding rain soaking you to the bone.
The golden moment where your mischievous nature met nature's mischief.
And the moment where your eyes met mine
and there was no fury nature could unleash
that could stop my beating heart.

But this storm doesn't just bring in your memory,
but brings a friend bloody and in hospital.
And life suddenly becomes real.
And you are only a ghost.
A ghost that murmurs to me in the sound of the rain pounding the pavement.
Tonight I'd like to run out into that storm and into your arms and never let you go.
But it's cold, and it's dark, and you're too far away to feel this rain.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

Tuesday, January 17, 2012


I miss you everyday. So much.

But I don't call.

And I don't write.

Because you need to find a life that makes sense.

Like I do.

And if I didn't love you as much as I do I couldn't do this.

But I do it everyday without you.

In hopes that when you come out the other end...

I can be there.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne