Friday, 27 February 2015

Being Something I'm Not

Life was so cloudy, as if the sun had drawn all the colour out and faded it into a mist of hippie nostalgia; like watching a slideshow of photo slides from the 60's. A parent holding each hand of a baby that's on the cusp of becoming a toddler, as it takes a tentative step toward the camera. Bicycles built for best buds who beam smiles from their shiny metal Schwinns, lazing against their elongated seats and their curved back handlebars. A man in a moustache holding a wooden oar and posing in front of an impossibly out of fashion, dated looking canoe.

It was naturally abnormal and abnormal in its naturalness. A reality that existed and yet never could have existed; never would, nor ever would again.

Being Lovelorn

She slipped through my fingers, and whilst her memory lingers in my mind, I'll never be fine, and the sun will never shine again. The end.

Sunday, 22 February 2015

I saw you soar

I was sitting on a vinyl chair kicking the linoleum. They'd given me some time to sit with your body. To say my last goodbyes in this room neither of us had ever been, in a place that meant nothing. I couldn't bear to look at you laid out on that uncomfortable plastic stretcher, so instead I looked at my feet and waited for it to be over. You weren't here anyway. You were gone. They thought I'd need time with your shell, as if the hermit crab or the snail is the shell, as if you were nothing more than just another body.

When the helicopter landed, I saw your soul escaping. Whilst the paramedics pounded you, the windsock was flailing.

Saturday, 21 February 2015

Quondam of Solace

There's only so much time. A finite window of opportunity. Just a few years pass and you've missed the boat forever. Here, no one dares to tend the barren hen-pecked ground. Sun-scorched, and drenched in dust so desperately. Under the surface, the once lush crops have all drooped and withered on the yellowing vine. Here, you could go to bed with a grape and wake up with a sultana.

She smiles at you on her way down the bell curve. But how much love is there left to give? I look away from her, turning my eyes to my watch. There's just not enough time left for us.

Give It a Little Pizzass

"Just push it through the mail slot!" I called. I could tell he was hesitating. "I know the box won't fit, just push them through one slice at a time."

A few horrendously long seconds passed before I heard the noise of a cardboard pizza box opening. The metal flap lifted on my door. Gingerly a slice teetered over the threshold. I was wheezing in starving desperation. Breathing heavily, my man boobs straining against my XXXL shirt. I grabbed at it before it hit the floor, throwing it inside my mouth, swallowing mostly, biting but never chewing.

It wasn't long before he'd pushed them all through the hatch into my hatch. I put the money through: a 20 note for an $18.95 delivery. I told him, between gasps, to keep the change. He'd fed me like a baby suckling at a teat. He'd never know what he meant to me.

Being Nothing

Nothing was here to stay. Nothing would never go away. I dialed her number the old fashioned way - on the walkie talkies we'd shared back in the day:

"Come in, come in, it's me, over," I would say. And she'd respond in her own funny way, like "roger, Roger, hello 'it's me', hey!"

But no voice came back to me today. She was dead, and I had left her behind in yesterday.

Wednesday, 18 February 2015


We're all hurtling headlong into the grave. An unrestrained Gadarene rush, with very little flailing. And then, it's only at the end, when we look back, wondering briefly what became of us and all that we missed on our festinating charge down the hill.

Dogs don't care. They don't think twice why they're here, what they missed, or what could've been. They don't wonder why they're giving birth in a world that's dying, whilst starving, surrounded by other starving members of their species. They just are, they just do. And then, here we are, achieving the same results but worrying ourselves sick about it.

If I could play violin,
I'd put that thing to my chin,
Play the most mournful song and sing,
Until everyone was dead.
Until it all was dust instead.

Sunday, 15 February 2015

Taking Your Crown to Town

He looks at me through sullen half sunk eyelids. Blaming me for every single thing that I currently feel guilty for. It's possible he's asleep. It's possible his eyes have leaked from his unconscious skull, detached themselves and begun operating under their own volition. How many blinks before it all goes black? How many seconds will you suffer, or will you not suffer at all? I find it quite unappealing - all this savagery. The untold agonies. The atrocities, which we sweep under the rug so children don't didder and wet their beds.

I think I'll use you as a cup, a ball, or a mask, the options are vast.

Friday, 13 February 2015

Licking His Lips, He Begged For More Chips

Even when I'm breathing, I have a desperate need for breath. But when I watch her I forget. She grips my heart to death, and pesters my regrets.

Even when its beating, there's nothing in my heart. But when I see her it restarts, I fill with feelings and remark, that even I can feel a spark.

All that's in her is a poison, and she sucks it in her bones, her leather skin and sexy flesh is filled with terminal groans. She stays out in the sun too long, sucks cigarettes and wears sarongs, but I want her for my own, so that we can be alone, and she can bounce upon my bone.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

The Greatest Autobiography of Jemz and Dom and Goodbye.

We'd been at it again for nearly a year. Taking parts of our lives and rearranging them here. This time was different though, not nearly as clear, we lacked Eastbourne Pier; our lives were like a halved sphere - descending from top gear, toward our nadir, with no safe harbour into which we may steer.

In the old days our 'friends' would all jeer, when our words first premièred, but now they won't even sneer, because they won't lend an ear, as our hair disappears and our deaths linger so tantalizingly near.

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

She looked like something I wanted

A thickness inside. A thick sludge. Uncomfortable and foreboding. Clinging at your insides. You try and dole it out to others to ease your pain. But it just keeps coming back, growing faster and faster, no matter how hard you attempt to bail it out. You struggle to breathe. Gasping. And then wonder why you bother to try and live at all. 

Your mind creeps toward the edge of everything. Tickling and toying with the idea of nothingness. Until the sludge begins receding. 

What to do when you're ugly and no one loves you

I don't know, or I would've done it already.

Sunday, 8 February 2015

When your dad strokes inappropriately

I needed to be on work on time. Today of all days. To impress my manager after the previous day's incident, where I yet again made a fool of myself. I seemed to make a fool of myself every single day.

"Dad?" I called. "Dad I need a lift today, I need to get to work early today." At least I would get something right and start off the day with the appearance of being competent.

"Can't right now son, I'm on the toilet and I may be some time!" came the reply thundering down the stairs, a tinge of strain behind each word.

"Come on dad, I might lose my job..." I trailed off, muttering that I couldn't lose my job. My thoughts were becoming verbalized as my stress levels increased. This job meant a lot to me. I only had $20 in the bank, and I was supposed to be chipping in and helping with mum's medical bills. So far I'd barely managed to save a cent, every time I thought I was getting somewhere I had one unexpected bill after another. Maybe I could jog to work... the walk was only 30 minutes, and if I jogged I might get there in 20... still I'd only be just on time, not early. As I began pacing frantically I heard the toilet flush upstairs - dad! - my hear leapt for joy.

"Alright, son!" he called. "I snapped it off early just for you, I won't let you lose your job. Let's go!"

We bundled into the car. He patted his pockets for his keys, found them, and started the ignition. "Off we go, I reckon we'll get you there 10 minutes early at the least."

We'd made it about 8 minutes in silence. I looked over at my father, proud and grateful to have a considerate man like him drop everything, well, nearly everything, for me. I noticed some sweat beads along his forehead and sweat stains on his armpits. "Are you all right dad? Want me to crank the a.c?"

"No I. N-no," he spluttered.

"What's wrong dad? Are you okay?"

"I think I'm having a s-s-stroke. I c-can't see and my arms don't... I feel.... I f-feel..." suddenly the car lunged into the kerb, the tyre flapping against it and making a horrible noise. I screamed as the car veered on and off the road, hitting the kerb repeatedly. Dad managed to hit the brakes. Too late. We smashed into the back of a parked car. The windscreen cracked, but held in place. The driver's air-bag went off, propping my father awkwardly between it and the window.

"D-don't stop for me son. Your work is more important. We're nearly there. Go! Go! I'll be fine" he laboured. "I'll be fine! Go on...without me!"

Tears streamed down my face as I left the car and called the ambulance. "My father's had a stroke!" I yelled at the lady down the line, before listing the cross streets where the accident occurred. By the time I made it to work I was a mess, and only on time. Not early. The whole thing had been a disaster. I told my boss about it, he was sympathetic. Asked if I needed the day off. I refused, cleaned myself up and got on with it, putting it all to the back of my mind. My sister phoned - I told her the whole story. She asked me not to work any over time, to go straight over to the hospital and be with dad. So when my shift ended I tried calling him, he didn't answer. I got a bus to the hospital, but they said I'd just missed him. He'd been discharged. Arriving home I went to his room and gingerly knocked. "Come in," came the weary reply

"Dad, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, I'll pay for everything, are you okay? Please be okay!"

"I really scared you there didn't I son," he punctuated with a cough, looking pained. "I'm okay. but I'll give you some advice the doctor gave to me. Never pinch off a turd, son. Never pinch one off early.It was just a bit of indigestion."

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

Life Gave me Lemons, So I Grew Lackadaisies

If I could push through and leave it all behind me. If I had the energy to make it happen. To free myself. To bite back. To rise above. To seize the day and become whatever I wanted.

Then where would it get me?

Would I rather I'd just never tried?

Crossing back over a burnt bridge

She was living ass to mouth. Puckering all her holes and pumping pickelhauben. The tears rolled down the back of her eyeballs and poisoned her throat. Poker faced but toxic; her hair and bones were built by absorbing copious servings of seminiferous splatter. Coke fuelled. Angrily passive. She kept a razor blade in her purse to remind herself she was alive. To hold her feelings to ransom. She'd pound away all night until the dollars rained down. But it was never enough. It could never bring back her daughter, and it could never heal the part of her that was broken. That thickly scarred callus that allowed her to survive.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

H20 Decomposes The Carbon Frame

"The first time I came here, I saw a man out there, bobbing in the ocean." I drew on my cigarette to punctuate the next line with an introductory silence. "He was face down. Not moving. I stood here, on this very spot, watching him drift by."

"Oh," she said, eyeing off the ledge and finding it a little less inviting.

"Come closer. There's been something I've been meaning to ask you. Will you do me the honour of... will you... will you marry me?"


That small gust of wind that blows, just before rain is about to fall. That's where you'll find her. Her face drifts past, and something she said, as the scent of the rain permeates the world around you. A heart that's still sore longs for lost lovers. Pining for people that twisted it and tore it in torture. If I could throw it all up. The hurt that swum around my stomach. In a hurling healing heave. Then I'd be all better. I'd have my reprieve.