Thursday, 27 December 2012

Spin, spin, spin

The golden thread bursts forth in mucilaginous fury. Until the mouth is sewn shut, and the jaw can no longer clutch wildly at another scream. Dangle, wait, and bide your time until your innards gush forth from the holes in your head. The shell that you once called home becomes a maculate mash messing up the floor.

You live, for now, motionless in an above ground grave; just past dying, but not yet death.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012


I don't know what I'm doing any more  I'm floating in a sea of sputum, face down, struggling apathetically at someone else's behest. What's the point of treading water, when you're just delaying the inevitable? What's the point of anything? Just go with the flow, submerge, and let the stream of waste carry you in its stinking wake of sick.