Mr. Eons came to sit with me for tea
I confessed to him that I feel like he’s always there
Mr Eons shook his head and said, ‘Always, there is a sad melody that underpins the webs i weave’
‘I don’t really like tea’ I told him in between the tocks of the ticking clock
I turned to look Mr. Eons in his many eyes, ‘why do you never leave, always harvesting the flies in me! If i had buttetflies it would be a sign of motion. But here I sit. Here I waste away, and yet, I can see it in your eyes, it is not a waste when there is no waste to be!’
‘It is true, my friend’ started he, ‘you’re not even worthy of being waste, which is a waste you see. In your space another could be, but alas here you are, that I surely see.’
And the clock ticked, the wallpaper peeled
And his lips sipped and his legs slowly crept
And I cried and begged for breath untreacled
Mr. Eons wrapped himself around me
My teeth chattered in the dark
And my ears picked up the melody
as he dragged me into the darkest periphery
A gorillas existential crisis
Anhedonia
These things I carry
empty baggage
Having not been through enough
To feel the way I do
Yet my empty heart is heavy
and nothing fills the void
To lighten the load
And that’s what loads the smoking gun
my skeletal cage can’t bear the bones
inside my skull
I can’t contain this insipid home
with treacled webs
of shallow deeply woes
Humour me more of my letters from Mammaroon
Dear, Friends
Another letter in such quick succession! I know! But there is much more to report on, dear friends!
I must be going crazy! There is no other explanation!
I awoke today to find that the mannequins were no longer standing hand in hand. I initially thought they were nowhere to be seen in my sleepy haze! Till I opened my bleary eyes further, looked around me, and realised that they were now lying down, each mostly submerged in the sand but for their knees jutting out. One had its legs spread open, the one I had drunk from the other day; the hole was visible as if trying to entice me. The other one, whom I had never seen the front of, as I never dared go near where they stood, as there was an ominous energy about them, had a phallic-like column jutting out of the sand. Yes, You read that right!
At first, I didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to think anything more about it. Frankly, my skin was itchy and sore, my lips sore and dry, and my stomach aching so I rolled over and started to doze again.
When I came to again, I looked back at the Mannequins, who were still lying in the same position. It was then I noticed some sand had since blown off their torsos, and I could see little beads of sweat on their chests. I crawled and slid across the sand, parched as I was. The journey towards them felt like it had taken forever, and it had taken me a while.
I curled up next the mannequins and went back into a hazy sleep.
When I awoke, I painfully crawled closer and started licking at the little beads of mannequin ‘sweat’ with a great thirst.
‘Oh, thank you!’ I found myself saying, ‘I need this!’ I said, every bead tasting like heaven to my tongue. I followed the mannequin’s body with my tongue till I reached under its knees, and then I was between the legs and licking up any moisture I could.
It hadn’t occurred to me, Dear friend, in my thirsty haste what this looked like! I was just so glad of any water! No matter how little the baubles!
But as I reached closer to the hole, a thought startled me!
‘No!’ I shouted or instead tried to shout from my wretched throat, ‘No, I will not!’ I felt my nails dig into the sore skin of my hands as I made fists. ‘Fuck you!’
See, it had occurred to me that this was what they wanted; this was what they were counting on! They were breeding from me! They were trying to get my sperm! I know how crazy that sounds, but is that so crazy after all I’ve told you? Alice and my daughter flashed into my mind, and it all made sense. They’re using me to breed!
Then, another horrifying thought entered my head, does this mean, dear friends, you no longer exist? Are we near extinction? Were trying to conserve us, using me? Am I the last man alive?
No. No. No.
No, I will not have it! If that is so, I shall die here. I shall die out, and I shall not be giving them anything of mine!
Yours faithfully,
Holden Mcgroin.
Author’s note: I think these letters have essentially become my creative outlet for writing practice. They’re hit and miss, but I’m sharing them anyway.
A mundane moment with secretive silences between teeth
The world holds on around us
While we fall apart
still, we falter in this dance
not allowing one another to ever change their stance
we shrug, palms up and say, ‘Fuck knows, eh?’
and we smile knowing smiles
a joke that needn’t be said
the birds sing
as if the world wasn’t broken
as if we didn’t yearn for slings
to support us with our aches
and we listen and we say, ‘That’s a blackbird, advertising for mates’
then we smile sheepishly
Secrets between our teeth
‘If you were a bird, which one would you be?’ You ask
And I reply, ‘a bittern so I can hide away in the rustling of the reeds and boom and bust with secretive laments, where no one really knows where I am or what I meant’
But, no, I don’t really say that, I shrug and say, ‘I don’t know.’
because this is part of the game
always holding back the little parts of ourselves
when we’re not sure what should be shown
Mr yellow sun
Fuck your horizon
this teacled air I breathe and eat
The sun only makes it heavier
I hate that ball of fire
there he is
Mr yellow sun
fucking shining
while I watch you dying!
I know it’s a self centred thought
to think the universe should tremble
for you and my breaking heart
but fuck, I cannot fathom
the worlds indifference
and how that fucking sun
shines on him
all while the light goes out of him
It feels as though you, you Mr yellow fucking sun
stole it
with your fucking heat bearing down on us
I hate your promise of such light
after winters afflictions!
But he falls now!
He falls now! While you rise!
And it all goes back to that feeling
where I want to shoot you
you fucking cunt
I hate you, Mr yellow sun
I hate you, Mr yellow cunt!
Melancholia
The machines outside whirred and buzzed like flies, and I noticed how with every spoonful of soup some dripped back into the bowl.
The air was fetid with melancholia as the wind drew dancing shadows with the branches of trees.
The machines outside carried on with their hums.
‘Life is just a liminal space between death.’ A voice in my head said. And I nodded.
It was a mundane Thursday, and the dust was making me sick, along with the melancholy which burdened the air with its treacle.
‘The world eats us all in the end.’ The friend in my head said.
The nausea rose from my guts, and my head started to ache.
And I ate the treacled air till I was empty inside.
The floor under my feet was no longer solid. I needed the talons of a predator to grasp the moment, but vertigo had me in its clutches.
It should have been a Sunday; it felt like a Sunday
This melancholic disease is the defining symptom of a Sunday.
But alas, it was Thursday.
and melancholy on a Thursday goes deeper
I sat and ate that treacled air until I was empty
Sunday Wordle: The constellations were scribbled in the sky
The constellations were scribbled in the sky
a scribe for reckoning with the here and now
history ablaze
blows our future to old beginnings
renewed for our narrow minds
always running us in circles to what we shall become
ashes to ashes
and to dust, we shall return
Slaughter house of rage
There is a haunted house where something innocuous, like a painting or a shoe, is moved every day. And there is the sound of a dripping tap. Drip. Drip. But every time you go to look, the drip is gone, but as soon as you turn your back, Drip Drip it goes.
When the night comes to pass and you’re lying in your bed, the washing machine is spinning and spinning like all the thoughts in your head. And it spins and spins, and the swill in your head rinses the same old lines all over again.
And your skull is beside itself with its smug grin, laughing in your sleep; that’s why you grind your teeth.
And when you go outside, you see that your skeleton is wearing someone else’s fucking skin! And the man laughs, he laughs like your skull in your sleep, and you want to grab hold of that fucker and bleed your wrath all over him!
Semantic satiation
Freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedooooooommm freeeddddooooooommmmm
freeeeeeeedddddoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm
non-conformity
non-conformity
conformity
conformity
conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity
conformity
Con – Formity
Con con – formity conformity
The freedom for non-conformity
the freedom for non-conformity
the freedom for non-Conformity
the new conformity
It’s all been done?
The bible
it’s up to you how it’s sold?
The bible? Bible
Bible? Bible? Bible? Bible?
it’s up to you how it’s sold.
We’re always living
always
We’re always living
in 1984
George Orwellian?
George Orwellian?
We’re always living in
1984
George Orwellian?
Take a moment
any moment
and pull it out of a hat
and it’s
George Orwellian
if….
George Orwellian?
If you don’t like that?
The new criticism
new
old
new criticism
is George Orwellian?
It’s always 1984
We always live in
We always
We always live
in 1984?
1984? 1984?
It’s up to you how it’s sold
1984? 1984?
George Orwellian?
It’s up to you how it’s sold.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
I’ve never meant it more than this
I want to crawl out of my own skin
traverse the earth and watch it burn
a skeletal aftermath
of my all-consuming wrath
the monsters I created in my head
are all the people I have and will ever be
caught in this emptiness
this machine that cradled us
I could never be good enough
to break free from this space
I’m becoming the monsters
the smug face ripped off my nemesis
is mine to take
basking in his out of this world place
where I own the world
and you’re all just pawns in my game
Fuck it.
Holding up this glass, half-empty
a toast to the monster I became.
