Rhythm of Sorrow

The rhythm of sorrow made me swing. It makes you fit into tomorrow. I was made from a Manhattan sky-line. In dangerous light. That fellowship of cleft. So many who you rely on fly up into the sky. Like a bomber jacket that once wrapped around you, now ice cold. That porpoise flitting across water, it dived down and drowned me. I packed away all of the things that were in the light. I tried to suck in a pillow.

Pressing buttons that take you nowhere.

James Joyce on the Spice Girls Reunion: 'I was moribund and found my legs wrapped around a tree with it. I prefer the merry widows.'

James Joyce on Leona Lewis: 'She alright.'

James Joyce on the Christmas Number 1: 'Hoping that Kanye West will come up with thar thar summat.'

James Joyce on life: 'Well it this there nothing right. Snowstorms, corks and bottles.'

James Joyce on friendship: 'You didn't meet me in the tower, you were with Boylan.'

James Joyce on suicide: 'You are stook in that thar middleum. You will be pulled and tighter and then your nex will thar be soor. You won't pool that wire tight tho my darlin' meeting with them all.'

Sometime in the future. She had two children. She had a child, who was dead on arrival. She feted that underwater death was quite right and fitting. In 2009, friends were sorrowful of that moment when they shouted. In 2010 someone found a green covered book belonging to Grandma and held it to their chest. In 2011 someone thought about you when they looked into a flower. Remember how you once were.

James Joyce on shoes: 'Take my shoes and wear them Sammy. They'll hurt you like buggery.'

James Joyce on love: 'Yar, I told ye it was only a cork and a bottle, they get so lardeedar boredom with it, do they now? Like when you wore your red shift and sat in between his thar knees with his smile, but soon his feet with kicking your red bloodied nose against that wall thar. D'ye not see the scar on yer cheek thar? D'ye not see that grey mark on the wall where yer feet pushed against it, him pulling yer hair thar? D'ye not hear that mouth-shout gritting against your cheek. You'll remember that hot breath as if it were love.'

James Joyce on Westlife: 'Him thar with the spike hair, he might have loved.'

In 2012 someone regretted not taking a chance with her. Her hair, her eyes. The touching moment of a letter. Print out your dreams, with one of those £269 gadgets and sit it in your portable dock and leave it there. Place it by your bed-side and realise that the grey-faced, washed out woman was a cup of warmth, like you'd never known.

James Joyce on tea: 'I left you in Paris that morning with your china tea-cup. You shall see in leaves the future.'

It has been said that Christmas brings out the best in people. In 2013, someone gave their family a good time. It was one of tinsel and baubles. It was one time of forgiving and I went away for a while, but I brushed up my mess and I wrapped it all up.

In 2007 at approximately 4.15 sometime in Winter, the police found a girl by the side of the road. So lovely, fair. So unfair.

James Joyce on suicide: 'Oh she were lovely.'