writing

Malaise

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A sense of malaise had set itself into the stone of the building
The clouds pregnant with promise of storms
Everyone inside held their breaths
Waiting for the first pin to drop
But it doesn’t come
Instead it builds up
A dreadful space filled with cigarette butts
The air acrid with sweat

And we persist
In spite of them
Our shadows a crowd
Crawling out from the walls
We think aloud
And the ears that pry litter the halls

And in our breath, the air is rigid and stagnant
Our lungs sensing only absence

A mundane moment with secretive silences between teeth

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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


A mundane moment of shared indifferences imagined

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Look at us
pretending we don’t care
with a shrug
inside I’m thinking
I want to fall to my knees
and dig, and dig, and dig
rub the dirt on my face
then just lay there, like it’s my grave
playing dead
But I just smile instead
take another gulp of chilled beer
and point out a bird perched on a branch near
we both share the moment
but behind our eyes, we’re so very different
perceiving what we can
but missing something, each
alone in each other’s hands.

Mr yellow sun

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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

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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

and was just liminal space.

Clown Show

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I’m one carnival ride
from breaching through the circus
rage broiling beneath the surface
It’s all been said before
semantic satiation
got me dead
and I’m done with these thoughts inside my head
taking me away from all I’ve ever believed and said
I want to burn the world to the fucking ground
I’m done being the jester to you fucking clowns
the zeitgeist is under my skin
amorphous clowns snaking their way in
intercepting algorithmic spin
hate is the new order
empathy the sin
all these serpents folded within
the scales never fall far from their eyes
before they’re drinking the venom in
praising false idols
standing at their podiums
spewing prejudice
animus animating contempt
that got their teeth grinding in their heads
and all our skulls smiling behind the dread
all while they paint the world in red
whose blood will run then? It’s not them
they’re war lust scroungers, not men.


To The Drum Of Slain Beasts

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the blush of autumn since passed
the world lay naked
since life found its place in death
seeded with that which will spring
redressing all the ruin
when the earth puts on her blooms
and swathes us all in her scent
while we make smoke of the summer
as if burning incense
to the Gods of hell
and what comes rushing
but the blood of slain beasts
as our hearts beat to the drum
of this machine
we’re surely cradled in

Life is a terrible thing

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It is a terrible thing
this thing we call life
we forget we’re part of a whole
when the music plays
and we’re in the moment
all the while time kills another
and we’re all just dancing in times waiting room
‘Enjoy it while you can’
but I was never like you
strong and able to weather the storms
I could never believe life is worth it
with all it’s faults
I’m an all or nothing kind of guy
I never could worship heroes
showing us growth comes from pain
I’m stunted
because I don’t bend to the storm
I stay rigid
and frankly
I’m angry I was ever fucking born

Only read this if you’re angry: Another semantic satiation experiment

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Only read this if you’re angry

If you’re not, this may tickle your brain into
Semantic satiation
Semantic satiation

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

The only world that still fills

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
The only word that still thrills
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate

hate. hate. hate. hate
hate till it means nothing
hate till it means nothing
hate till it means nothing
it always means something
the word can’t be satiated
hate can’t be satiated


Slaughter house of rage

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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!