I was researching what Depression is called in other languages and for some odd reason, the Spanish, which is ‘depresión’, sounds so soulful and sympathetic.  Like a warming oil massage or that sigh when the sun curtsey’s deep into the horizon.

But for me, it feels like this.



Trapped beneath the weight of waves

not glass blue

or sea grass

but a grey, gulping mass

of hurt and sulphur.


Ten tonnes of misery redux

champing at bits of me

taking pleasure in

the cracks & fissures

of my clear, night sky.

Relentless bickering sod.


I would turn up the music

and let rum soaked

jigs pour quiet on the cold

of your curse. Breathing

helium air, heavy like

new mourning.


Five days feels like five

thousand in this locust

storm. Past hurts snicker

from the sand, the

peace of night is ruptured

by inconsiderate grief.


I stand at the Hauptbahnhof

waiting for a fast train to

somewhere else. Nothing

fancy, just straight roads

and an orange blossom

dawn with promise.