Monday, 30 March 2015

Tinder Negative

I put a picture of my dead daughter on Tinder. Obviously she's not dead in the picture and when her matches turn up to meet her and are greeted by a middle-aged man with a box of ashes instead, they're confused. I try and explain to them that she never had the opportunity to go on any dates before she killed herself. I was a very strict father and I'm trying to make it up to her. Give her the life she always wanted but never had. A few of them are gracious enough to accompany me and take her out on a date. They often seem to choose Burger King. I don't like to mention the fact she was a vegetarian, it seems ungrateful and rude. Instead, I ask them what made them swipe right for her. They don't ever give me particularly articulate answers, but it's heartening to hear them say nice things about her all the same. If I feel the date has gone particularly well, I'll give them a little handful of her to take home with them. I'll continue doing this until I have nothing left of her to give. And then I'll join her.

The Butchery Of Love

I'm a despicable coward. Scared to be happy. She was everything I needed, more than I had any right to hope for. We fell in love one semester at university. For some stupid reason though I'd told myself it was all happening too fast. My head was in a spin and that summer, without a word to her, I dropped out of class. Changed my phone number and moved to Scotland to serve drinks in a bar. I'd pick arguments with customers just in the hope that one day I'd get glassed. Then after she graduated, she found me somehow. Inexplicably she still loved me and wanted me back. At first she'd knock on my door and beg through the letterbox for me to let her in. Nowadays she just parks outside the house after work and sits in her car looking at me. I know she knows I'm peering through the curtains at her. I do this until I can't stop myself from crying any longer and collapse to the floor, pounding my fists and cursing myself.

I won't ever open the door for her. I don't deserve her. So we'll continue to waste our lives like this, and deprive ourselves of a chance at happiness, until she either gives up or one of us dies.


They lock me in a cage when they can't be bothered with me. They take me out when they want me to make them feel better about themselves. They put a premade noose around my neck, onto me their suicidal ideation they project. They drag me through rain, wind, sleet and snow to godforsaken places I don't want to go. Just to take a shit. Gives them time to reflect. And yet, they never seem to reflect on how cruel it was of them to bring me into their mess. They think I'm lazy because I'm always sleeping. I'm not lazy, sleep is just the closest I can get to being dead.

Sunday, 29 March 2015

When Rock Bottom Is A Step Up

He died from SIDS and I fell. I tumbled down a bottomless pit. Until all light disappeared. Each moment deeper and darker than the last. No one was there to catch me, no one was there to comfort me as I fell. I reached out, in my own way, but no one reached back. I called out and nobody responded, not even an echo. What friends and family I thought I had turned out to be a mirage. I fell right through their safety net as if it was made of smoke, dispersing and dissipating before my eyes. I could curl into a ball, sob myself to sleep, and still wake up and be falling. Sinking lower and lower into the blackness. I could rage and scream and yell, I could punch and kick and dig my nails in until they tore off, and nothing would change. Nothing would bring my baby back. Nothing can take the pain and loss away. I beg God for rock bottom, so I can break my neck.

Child Sex Abuse Victim Grows Up To Become A Promiscuous Teenager, Slits Her Wrists And Then This Cunt Here Writes About It

As you slit your wrists, think of all the many, many boys you've kissed and yet not by one of them will you be missed. That should give you some incentive to dig a little deeper. You've never been a keeper. Passed from pillar to post, not once would any of them have received you and thought "I want to keep her." But death will keep you. Cold in his arms. You'll have an eternity to warm up to his charms. He'll take away your pain. He'll chase all those upsetting thoughts from your brain. Your living body has become nothing but a stain on the landscape, your remains will make you pure and beautiful again.

Living because you don't know what else to do

You come home for lunch and spread nothing but mustard on some bread, because you don't really give a fuck and you'd rather be dead. Of course you don't want to die in pain, like drowning whilst kayaking up a drain, or dying due to some cunt's shit effort at flying a plane. But still you're ready to breathe your last, as long as your death is unforeseen and fast. Because at the end of the day, living life becomes pretty lame, when you're struggling to smile every day, struggling to get paid enough to keep the bed's made and the table's laid. Life is supposedly just a game, but if it's all the same, I'd rather just abstain.

Saturday, 28 March 2015

The Hollowed Out Man

Women turned me into a misogynist. Men turned me into a misandrist. People turned me into a misanthropist. But you? What you turned me into is far more complicated. In some ways I got better, in some ways I got worse. You made me want to go joyriding in a hearse. Meeting you was a gift and a curse. Now you're gone, I need a nurse. I'm broken and every inch of my body hurts. I haven't got what it takes to go chasing skirts like the other perverts. So I just stay at home ironing shirts and quoting T. S. Eliot and Colonel Kurtz.

Thursday, 26 March 2015

You All Drove Me To This

Maybe you're simply so boring or they're all just so interesting, but have you noticed how you're only ever the supporting player in someone else's act? You ask them how they are. They tell you. Then nothing is asked back.

The more people I reach out to, the lonelier I feel. I'd sooner believe in aliens than accept true, mutually beneficial love is real. So let me climb into an oversized coffin of steel. No grand journeys planned for me. Not Falmouth to Gravesend. I won't even make it from Dover to Deal. It will take me less than eight miles to find a reason to let go of the wheel.

Being Us

Lazily we pushed forward without a reason but with a rhyme. We never fully reconciled that Creg was a part of who we were inside. Every time we laughed and joked at his expense, we cried inside as recompense. His woes were our woes, and his fears were shared. His feelings were incinerated so ours could be spared. Every word was abreaction on tear stained note pads. No one could claim to be as gloomy and cynical as us two young lads.

A year ago this month I was in a hotel in New South Wales, James messaged me and said it was time again to tell tall tales.  For four years we'd waited and quietly stewed, bottling it up until it all came unglued - into 12 months of misery and 12 months of regret, week by week we'd served it up for the universe to neglect.

Let Unexpected Things Into Your Heart

A man came to my door and I asked him what he was selling.

"Nothing," he said.

"What do you want then?"

"You looked like you were in need of a friend."

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you in town earlier, trying not to cry."

"How did you know where I live?"

"I followed you."

"That's kind of weird, isn't it?"

"Only if you make it so. It doesn't have to be weird at all."

"Look... what do you want?" I asked, becoming exasperated.

"What do YOU want?" came his forceful reply.

We looked at each other for a few moments before he stepped forward and boldly put his arms around me. My instinct was to push him away but I ignored it for some reason and let him squeeze tighter.

"It's okay. I've got you," he whispered, as he stroked the back of my head.

He held me like this for fifteen minutes. The best fifteen minutes of my life.

Wednesday, 25 March 2015

Were- the Wendi go

Sometimes when I go to my fridge to get a drink at night. A silhouetted figure outside gives me a fright. It crouches on my carport, and peers through my window, never moving, even when the wind blows. Sometimes it's closer and sometimes it's further away, but no matter how close, I can see it's breathing induced sway. By the time I grab my torch it's gone, even before I can turn the light on. Sometimes I freeze in panic, thinking it's somehow gotten into the house. Other times I wish it would just hurry up and tear me into shreds the size of a mouse. Often I wonder what does it want from me, to sit outside my window so eerily, is it love, or is it hate, or did it make a whitepages mistake?

404 Not Found

I long to make a tangible connection. I tried to make one with my reflection but recoiled in abjection. All my attempts at affection end in rejection. "Message could not be sent"... but I'm sure it's not because of my internet connection?

Silly Love Love Love

Do you think love can move mountains? Do you think numbers dream of being caressed by accountants? Listen to this shit you've got me spouting. All this time, I told myself I wasn't thirsty with desire. Oh, what a liar. Now I could drink a whole fountain. Every night to distract myself from you, I'm counting and counting. Watching the sheep, jumping and bounding. And every morning, I wake with nothing but my pain mounting.

Snuff Movies With Dad

When I was young, Mum only ever used to let me visit Dad once a month. She told me not to blame her and it was because some bloke in a funny wig had said. Either way, Dad always made sure to make my visits the best.

He'd ask me which girl I fancied at school and we'd go to their house and take them for a drive. Once we reached a secluded spot, he'd tell me to get out. When he let me back in, the girl would often be crying. He told me now was my chance. If I could cheer them up, they'd fall in love and want to be mine forever. Funny, I always believed Dad, but they never.

Tuesday, 24 March 2015

A Sole Soul Selling Solar

He said that he was selling solar, I said there was no chance of that. You can't sell something that belongs to everyone, plus if solar's so good why are you wearing a hat?

Monday, 23 March 2015

What I Left On Her Voicemail

Solitude doesn't deserve you, and you're too good for Loneliness. Give yourself to someone else. You're far too special just to be left on the shelf. You should be the centre of someone's life. I should be your husband, you should be my wife.

Sunday, 22 March 2015

I Searched Down To The Pit Of My Stomach And Found Absolutely No Comfort

I sent you a text and just gagged a bit. Then I sent you an essay masquerading as an e-mail and I could definitely start to taste my vomit. By the time I got through to your voicemail, I was a fucking wreck. Just for once, I wish I could take a rain check on all my regrets.

Slow Sipping Shandies

Can I sit over there? In that comfortable looking chair. And stay there, until I've lost all my hair. It won't take long, I'm on the homestretch now. I've stopped fighting with my body. I've stopped fighting with my past. I've accepted my heart is too fragile to go the distance, it wasn't built to last. If everyone had been more gentle with it, the possibilities could have been vast.


I have less than ten more years until I'll be all alone. Until I'll have no guilt for all the missed calls on my phone. Until there's no one to callback whenever I need something. Until I've got nothing, and all the misery that brings.

Reasons to Never See Someone Again

You asked for another ham sandwich. I handed you what was ostensibly a meat coffin for an embalmed pig. You ate the remains and sucked each of your fingers from the second joint down. My face scrunched into a sour lemon ball. I hated people who sucked their fingers.

Even the Windscreen Wipers Couldn't Wipe Away the Tears

The sadness drains me every time I sit in that car. We said that we'd go far. All along the south end, from Falmouth to Gravesend. But after I said those silly things, I never heard from you again.


She kept a baby skeleton under her bed. Gave it clothes to wear, kept it watered and fed. There were no selfies on her page, just baby questions instead. "My little boy still wets the bed," "what's a good balm for when they've bled?"

Gallus Gallus

When you turn away from me, that hurts the worst. When you say you can't give me what I need my heart bleeds.

But you could if you tried. If you weren't so indecisive. So desperate to cling to a little boy's lifestyle.

You don't know what I could do for you or how happy we could be.

As Seen on TV

Remember when life had a meaning. When the little things meant something. Except for time. Time meant nothing. It was endless. Though every little waste was painful, like being stuck in church on Sunday. The world was greener, and things were better. People were nicer. The world was kinder. Or perhaps I'm just seeing the past through amber tinted shades?

Friday, 20 March 2015

No Wings To Shelter Under

I'm a good man, and Mother always said you can't keep a good man down. Actually, she didn't ever say that, she was never around. But if she had been, I know I would have been the apple of her eye. I know she would have held me tight all those evenings after school when I wanted to curl up and die. "Shush," she would have said. "Everything's going to be alright."

Thursday, 19 March 2015

We Had Everything

Oh, to be sixteen again. Stealing kisses during lessons we were skipping. How utterly, utterly foolish of us to think our lives were depressing.

A Promise

I won't ever be the one that haunts you. I won't ever be the last one you think of when you turn out the light at night. I won't be the face that flashes before your eyes on your death bed. But I'll be waiting in hell for you.


We used to run down the backyard with ice-cream buckets on our heads. Frantically ducking and watching our steps. Then we found it, laying on the grass. A naked pink baby, gasping it's last. It's eyes weren't open and it became dead. We never had to wear those buckets again on our heads.

Not making senesce

This is not real life, this is not reality. This is a snapshot of much larger picture. This is not normal. Nothing you could possibly expect is normal. You have no grasp on what normal is. You have not enough collective experience to judge normality. What's normal is something else entirely. What's real is utterly subjective. If you're not a mountain, you're not old enough to know anything.

A Little Break From Me

"I'm going away for a few days," I said.

"Where are you going?" I said.

"I don't know yet, but I'm not taking my phone with me so you won't be able to contact me," I said. "See you when I get back."

"Okay," I said, trying to hide the hurt in my voice as I watched myself walk out the door.

Wednesday, 18 March 2015


I want a dog to cuddle and a wife to walk with. I want the sun to shine forever but the snow to never melt. When I leave you, I want my absence to be felt.

Flushing You Out Of My System

I hobbled down the stairs at 6am with a renewed sense of purpose. The rain gently splaying itself across the windows. Fuck the sunshine, it promises me things it can't deliver. The clouds and I have an understanding. I don't ask for much, they give me even less in return. I never asked them for you. You took me by surprise. And I should have known such a thing was too good to be true. You're not beautiful. You're far from perfect. You probably wouldn't have even been worth it. But you captivated me fully and on my heart you kept pulling. I've been here before though, my heart's not broken, just bruised and sore. I'll hobble back up the stairs for more. On love, we're only ever pretending when we close the door.

My Fertilized Love

I always remember to forget to shit before I leave the house. It gives me an excuse to visit your garden, which of course I always happen to just be passing. I don't think you even realize it's me. Though that's nothing new. When we were together, you never appreciated all the things I did for you.

I thought I knew what I was doing

He was the kind of guy that referred to his wife as "wifey" and she for her part would reciprocate with "hubby". He was the kind of guy that would take your childhood toys and sell them on ebay and not give you a cent. The kind of guy that thought he was exceptionally classy driving around in a sunbaked, thrashed out, old sports car, flaunting his penniless vain attempts at appearing fabulously wealthy. The kind of guy that went to church and put on facade after facade of pretence, and then went home and pushed his step kids through the drywall. A scumbag, basically. A scumbag who thought every thing out of his mouth was either profoundly intelligent or ridiculously funny. As a guide to which of those two he was currently aiming for, he would helpfully either pull an all-knowing earnestly wise face, or a silent mock-laughing face.

It was one of those silent laugh times, with his head tilted back, open-mouthed, head shaking up and down like he was retarded, or as if he had just stubbed his toe and snapped it in fourteen places - the unbearable searing pain somehow stopping all noise from escaping his lips, but leaving his face to contort as if it was trying to eat itself. I looked at him, unbearably aware of how much of a tool he was. He'd just finished making an unfunny, vaguely racist joke, before his voice-over came through on the home-video he was playing, making the exact same joke word-for-word again. His face contorted again, at the sound of his own echo, and this time he literally slapped his knee.

He'd asked me round to try on the 'genuine' Armani suit he'd sourced from some 'genuine' tailor somewhere in a third world country for $100. Except instead of trying on a suit I was compelled to first watch three full hours of shaky handycam footage and still photo slideshows of his latest trip away. I was feeling physically nauseas by the end. I tried the suit on hurriedly, said it was perfect despite it not fitting quite right, bundled it up and left. I ended up having to get the trousers and cuffs shortened. It was a thin, cheap looking suit, but I stood by quietly when he told everyone it was a genuine Amani. What else was I to do? The best man has to be accommodating. On the drive home I felt sorry for him, that he'd had to ask his own brother to be best man; we barely spoke and had never had a good relationship or any interest in each other. The poor bastard mustn't have had anyone else to ask, so I said yes. I was far too timid to say no, even if this was the man who had rung me late one night, two years before, to apologize for hating me all my life. I briefly considered the idea of going over to his place more often, having a beer, finding a common interest. Then I remembered he exclusively drank a skunked out lemon-lime radler, and thought better of it. Even so, on the long drive home I made a promise to myself to try and forgive and move on, every male wants a brotherly brother to bro it up with after all.

I didn't have to throw a bucks night, my task for the big day was merely to collect sand. There was to be a sand ceremony (whatever that was), and I was to bring sands in various colours, as well as some sand from the place they first met. For those who don't know Brisbane, there is a fake beach built along the river in the centre of the city. I turned up there looking like a turd in a $100 tux, carrying three old empty chinese containers. They'd been through the dishwasher so they were warped and the lids didn't fit right. He never specified quite how much sand he needed, so I thought I'd play it safe. I scraped up the sand whilst children and parents watched me with suspicion. There was a bit of speculation on our part at the time - how could this open public space, where little kids go to swim, be the first place they met? It doesn't make sense, not when they claim to have met in a coffee shop whilst she was somehow reading his self-published book which no one bought copies of. Who meets in open public spaces besides e-daters looking not to get murdered? There are no coffee shops along this fake beach at all. Regardless, I turned up with three half spilt containers of mucky looking sand. Looking at the carpet in my car, I wished I'd just brought a bag of the gardening sand that I kept under my house and passed it off as the real thing. In fact, it probably even comes from the same place they get the sand for the fake beach.

The ceremony was to be at 3PM on one of the main beaches in Caloundra, but god had different plans. He tried his best to stop the whole disaster by brewing up a storm. We watched out the window  of the hotel as the palm trees bent at 45 degree angles. That was 2:30PM. The future 'hubby' still hadn't turned up. He was supposed to pick me up mid-morning to go have lunch and a chat about what would happen at the ceremony. To go over things, to prepare, to do a dry-run of where to stand and what to do. Instead I got a call to say he'd be there soon and the 'other best man' would be coming up to the hotel to get ready. An awkward conversation ensued:

"Other... best man?"

"Yeah, you're both the best man. I can have two best-men you know."

"OK..." I couldn't be bothered to argue or ask how it was supposed to work.

The other best-man showed up, took a seat on the sofa and got to chatting. He asked in his Greek accent for embarrassing stories to say in his best-man's speech. At least I got out of having to come up with one of those, I thought. My sister tried her best: "He used to eat luncheon meat slices with peanut butter on them..." The best-best-man wasn't impressed.

"You know, when I first met him, I thought: "this guy is such a wanker. This guy is such a dickhead." He paused and my sister and I looked at each other wondering if we were supposed to laugh or if that was the end of his story. I started laughing out of surprize at how completely accurate the statement was, but he wasn't done.

"The first time I met him I punched him in the balls," he said. I laughed harder. "I grabbed his balls through his jeans a-like this," he said as he acted it out, "and then with my other hand, I punch him, right in the balls, I said to him, stop being a dickhead, or I will do it again. He cried. He had tears in his eyes."  If only I'd known that was the way to get through to my brother, then perhaps I could've been using the technique for years.

The man with the punching bag goolies finally strode through the door at 2:50PM in a world of carefree self-involvement. His suit was un-pressed, and he hadn't showered or shaved. My nephew-in-law began scrambling about trying to get him organized, grabbed his suit and started ironing it. The storm outside had died down slightly, God obviously hadn't got the memo that we were running late and to keep it up a bit longer. It was futile in the end though, as they had made rain arrangements. There was a fifties-era retro diner that had been booked for the reception, the wedding would simply happen there a little later. He'd not deemed it necessary to pass that information on to anyone else up until 3:30PM though, after all our frantic panicking to rush him out the door.

We arrived at the vinyl seated, linoleum floored diner. The walls were strewn with 50's memorabilia, and there was a neon rainbow jukebox in the corner filled with LP's. This was the wedding venue for the so-called super wealthy, self-made millionaire who tells others what to do with their money. For a few minutes we milled with the other guests who arrived, after finding a notice posted at the beach. And then the wedding began. Sand was poured. Things were said. People cheered, and then the bridal party left. Whilst we were gone the whole room was seated and then there was a shake-down for cash by the emcee. On the RSVP there was a "no gifts" clause - but it now seemed that in lieu of gifts there was apparently a mandatory $50 or more per person 'donation', to be handed into a bucket on the stage. This was claimed to merely be a cover charge for the cost of the food. But why we had to cover the cost of food for the town's own self-made wealth guru was anyone's guess. There were grumblings from people saying they wouldn't have come if they'd known. People who didn't have cash looked around, frantic and embarrassed. Humiliation, resentment and awkwardness abounded. Luckily I wasn't there to deal with it. But I had a much worse job.

I ended up being the bride's umbrella carrier. The bridal gown's train carrier. The running around general dog's body whilst the photographs were taken. Sploshing through puddles and sacrificing myself for the dress. I hadn't eaten all day - expecting to be having lunch with the new 'hubby', which he never showed up for, I'd decided to skip breakfast. The photo shoot took over an hour due to the bad weather. By the time we got back, it was 5PM.

The normal downtime between wedding and reception didn't exist for the other guests due to it all being at the one venue. For some reason, only drinks had been served whilst everyone waited for the bridal party's return, appetizers apparently were not covered by their $50 'donation'. One of my sisters had been drinking the entire time without a single bit of food. She was drunk. She was loud, and shouting obscenities. It wasn't her fault. The whole place was a mess.

I was sitting quietly amongst the chaos that was unfurling around me, thinking back to the time we moved house as a kid. I was seven years old and had never ventured very long or far from the family home. We were moving interstate, I'd never see my best friends again - I'd never see my regular friends again, nor some of my cousins. My brother was 20. He'd come back to help us pack, and for the one rare time in my life he included me in something, asking me to join him on his walk with his best and, as far as I was aware, only friend. We walked across the town, they talked about things I didn't understand but I was happy just to be there. One of them bought me a spearmint lolly. It was the first time I'd ever had spearmint. I didn't like it but I ate it anyway and pretended I did. As I walked I heard a voice shout out behind me. It was his friend, "hey! Remember this?" he'd called and I became aware he was some way behind us looking at the footpath. My brother laughed and nodded. He'd written my name in the cement 7 and a bit years ago, the day I was born. I felt for the first time in my life that maybe he liked me. It was a strange thing for a 7 year old to think, kids normally implicitly assume everyone loves them, or don't really understand what exactly love is, but I always felt nothing but resentment and jealousy from my brother, interspersed with a fleeting interest whenever he wanted to impress me. That day shook my belief that he simply didn't like me. It was a far cry from the previous time I walked with him and his friend; back then I was 6 and they left me at a park to go and get McDonalds without me. I have no recollection of how I got home. I just remember the annoyance of being left out as it slowly faded into terror and panic.

I realized the day had become a perfect encapsulation of our lives together: a shaky start, a brewing ominous storm lingering overhead, more absence than presence, constant frustration with or without close proximity, always being the third or fourth wheel, and finally where I was with him now: indifference. It dawned on me that I no longer cared. I had broken through the pain barrier and found a formless void of nothingness on the other side. He stood up and made a speech full of crap and lies. I no longer got annoyed. He created his own cult. I didn't get mad. His wife sent me death threats. I pretended to care and cut him off. Just so I wouldn't have to deal with him ever again. People can only take so much out of you before there's nothing left to give. They expect more, even after punching holes through you and letting it all drain out, but it's gone for good. You can't sticky tape it all back together and wait for it to refill. You can't force yourself to love someone any more than you can force someone to love you. My brother died the day he wrote my name in the pavement. His zombie corpse has shambled off to Bali to con tourists out of money, good luck to it. Or bad luck. Or no luck. Who cares?

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

Convo Interruptus

It's always bad when they don't reply. Like they're hoping you'll just disappear or die. Can you imagine it in real life? Stopping a conversation mid


I gave you my heart and you attached leeches. Hollowed it out and smashed it to pieces. I asked you again if you wanted to stay. You sighed, and then you looked away.

Christmas Jumper

Not every time perhaps, but often I will scour the platform railings for the remnants of the solitary bunch of flowers someone left for you. And for a few thrilling, lingering seconds I will think of doing the same and joining you. You are not completely forgotten.


If you actually took the time to read my words. If you actually took the time to look inside your self. If you weren't such a fucking pussy, scared of having any feelings, scared of showing any emotion, except down the pub making a cuntish fucking commotion, then I think you might actually be able to relate to what I'm saying.


I finally did it. I let him crawl into my bed and exorcise all his failures and frustrations through me. Next morning, when he bounded unashamedly into the kitchen, gave Mum a playful slap on the arse and nuzzled her neck, it required all my effort not to heave into my Corn flakes.


I stood in front of that unforgiving sadist, you forever call a mirror. Razor blade in hand, motionless and deep in thought. Eventually, after an hour I put the blade down without using it. I told myself it was because I'm a woman and I don't have any facial hair to shave off. But why did I pick it up in the first place?

The Ellipsis Eclipses My Heart

I finally did it. I sent her a text. For a brief second I saw the "..." in the speech bubble indicating typing. Then nothing.

Maybe she's dead?

Monday, 16 March 2015

When Silence Feels Like An Eternity

Take a moment to yourself. In a dark room, with a damp flannel on your forehead. You start to wonder... are these little victories we seek worth the constant embarrassments we reap? Take a summer to yourself. In a beach hut and in a town, where no one knows your name, and where you talk to no one else. You start to realise... the only difference between this and the rest of your life is that you're no longer wasting your breath, no longer wasting your words. No matter how much weight you impart in them, no matter how much it hurts, no one's ever really listening, they're just waiting for you to finish and thinking of what they're going to say next. So take a lifetime to yourself. In a boat, you can sink with all your regrets.

Saturday, 14 March 2015

Being Otouto

And what am I to do, when I look into the mirror and sometimes I see you? Am I capable of the same mistakes, based solely on coup d'oeil glances of my face? I can never hope to forget, when my own reflection reminds me daily of my regrets.

When I was a kid I never wanted to be you. I never looked up to you. You were never my hero. My wish is for you to go away, but as long as I have this face, you will stay, and haunt me to my grave.

Thursday, 12 March 2015

Burning A White Hole Through My Heart

Love? Lust? Either way, unrequited, it's the same slow drain. Watching and waiting for your pain to dribble away like foam round the plughole. Wasting your life because you're so focused on one thing, you can't appreciate all the beauty passing you by. The saddest generation of all... our ears pressed more often to phones than to lovers' chests. From now on, I will wake up each morning and I will resolve not to touch anything electronic. I will open the curtains and I will open the windows and I will listen to the birds until they drown out every single word I ever uttered, I ever wrote, I ever heard.


The sky blears red. Another nail in the coffin as each day passes. A slow descent into alcoholism disguised by an appreciation of hops and different glasses. A wretched thing, flaunting it's effete irrelevancy like a badge of honour. It languidly drapes itself over a chair, letting you look but not touch. Excising regrets and amputating grime with wads of hundred dollar bills. Life is easy for some. Others cry hopeless tears and barely know what food is.

Monday, 9 March 2015

My Brain Swimming In Grey English Muck

Here I am. A pathetic, worthless shell of a man. I catch the tube to Edgeware every day, with a four-pack of Stella and a list of regrets that goes on forever. Every attractive woman I see, I creep the fuck out, my beard wet with beer, me buzzing off their projected fear.

Can I put nails in your hands? Can I put my lips to your feet? Can you be my Putney Princess? Can I watch you undress? That's not actually a question. I will watch you undress. It's amazing how just two litres of watered-down Belgium piss can make your life feel like a success.

Sunday, 8 March 2015

The Patch of Rust Grows Bigger Year by Year

To know what's coming: the emptiness, the desperation, the heart rending loneliness - and yet to push on. To make the most of what we can with what we have and what little time we've got. To harbour our regrets, to ignore them, to push them down where they can't make us wander down a path of further regret. They feed upon themselves. Make us hesitate. Make us miss the things we shouldn't. So we do our best. Which is never good enough. Which will never be good enough. But always we forget. Time heals all wounds, but only because our memories are faulty.

Being Desolate

I'm so lonely. Why won't someone phone me? I sit by my front door, my head pressed against the glass. I think my reflection must scare everyone off, for I see shadows walking down the path and then disappearing before they knock. I'd send letters to myself if I had anything to say. Even my cat went on her merry way, starved herself to death in some bushes because it was seemingly preferable to my company. Life hurts so much, I can barely breathe. Please, please, please. You don't have to love me. You don't have to fuck me. You don't have to hug me. You don't even have to touch me. Just let me spend some time in your presence. I won't talk to you. I won't look you directly in the eye. Just to breathe in the same air as you. I'm so lonely, I could die.

Let Down the Spinnaker

My older brother had just bought a brand new kite. It was a glossy red and white, the red parts being a Coca-Cola insignia. I didn't really know one brand of cola from another back then, being only 5, but somehow I knew it was cool. And somehow I knew it was coke, despite not even being able to read cursive writing. I was so excited. I begged him to take me along. I hung onto his leg as he walked out the front door to fly it. He kept saying no and trying to shake me off, so I appealed to a higher power - "oh mum, let me go! I want to fly the kite!"

"Take your little brother," she shouted from the kitchen. He sighed and stopped still, waiting for me to get up. I dusted myself off and stood straight and proud. My brother was 12 years older, so rarely had much time for me. It felt like I had made it. I loved it when he included me. It made me feel older, cooler and respected. "It's going to go so high! It's going to touch the clouds!"

I cantered beside him to keep up with his longer strides as he made his way to the school up the road. It had a perfect oval for flying a kite; no trees or goal posts or telegraph poles nearby.

We stopped in the centre of the oval. "Okay" he said, "you hold the kite like this, and when I tell you, throw it straight up in the air." I nodded as he backed up and let some string out. The breeze was slight, but the kite was already feeling like it would go. He'd backed up several meters when he shouted "Okay, go!" I launched it into the air. It flew beautifully but there were no clouds in the sky for it to touch. Just the green grass and the whole blue sky for it to play in. I ran around below it laughing and chasing it's shadow. After a few minutes I asked, "Is it my turn yet?"

"No, not yet," he replied. A few more minutes went by. "Can I have a go now?" I asked again.

Suddenly something awful happened - the string snapped, or my brother let go, and the kite went flying into the bushes at the side of the school. "Wait here," he said. "I'll go get it."

Anxious for the kite's safety I stood and watched him disappear into the distance. I paced as I waited for him to return, but the minutes went by and he still wasn't back. I sat on one of the plank seats and waited for him to return. The minutes dragged on and the sun began setting.

It was twilight by the time my father found me, still sitting on the plank waiting for my brother to return. He never came back for me. He went home or took the kite off somewhere else to fly it.

Dad said, as we walked home together, that I could fly it another time with him, but we never did.

Saturday, 7 March 2015

Being, Just Simply Being (Because God Knows Isn't That Painful Enough?)

Nothing's quite as pointless as this sentence. Except for this sentence. I've reached a level of acceptance. We're cut from different cloth. You look for the entrance whilst I slip out the back exit. Life, for me, is never going to be tremendous. Love is never going to help me achieve transcendence. It's just another word for dependence that's elusiveness is endless. I wasted my adolescence and my death is the only thing for which I'll be in complete attendance. Everything else is just quietly passing me by.

Being A Mere Afterthought To Every Person You've Ever Loved

Oh what a fucking life. What am I to do? Take some fat bitch for a wife? And find myself slowly falling in love with her? And find myself needing her? And when I'm not with her, being scared? A life shared is a heart alone that can never be repaired. A life not shared is a life impaired. So what are we to do? Well if I was you, I'd throw myself down an elevator shaft and as you fall, I'd soak up all their pathetic laughs. Because this is where your pain ends and this is where theirs' starts.

Being Ichthyophobiac

Even though I can't remember your name and even though I can no longer picture your face, I want you to know that I'm always thinking of you. You're that nagging pain at the back of my brain, you're that dull persistent ache that I can't seem to shake. You're the one that got away. And I'll carry you with me forever. Every footstep will be a little heavier, every breath I take will require a little more effort. But will I regret meeting you? Never.

Being Forgotten 2

Nothing's as free as being forgotten. Nothing feels quite so liberating as being ignored. When you live and love selectively, and leave your manners at the door. When you listen to other's ramblings as they explain their woes, they list the reasons they're depressed, and you stare blankly at your toes. When they claim that you're a good friend and that they'll invite you places. You secretly love it later when they forget, and you get to stay at home in stasis. There's a great big wide world around you, and you don't give a shit. Because speaking to people is the worst, and being productive: it's the pits.

Being Forgotten

Nothing's as cold as being forgotten. Nothing stings quite so much as being ignored. When you live and love and try your best to treat others with kindness. When you listen intently to all their ramblings without so much as an interruption. Then, when it's your turn to speak, they interject, change the subject, check their phone. They shunt you out into the cold and hold you down in the snow. They don't respect you. They don't wait for you. They don't value your opinion. They only speak for the sake of hearing themselves talking. It makes them feel good about themselves when they let someone else listen to them. They gift some poor pleb like you the opportunity to bask in their glories. They claim to be your friend and then don't speak to you unless you initiate the conversation. Don't invite you places and don't include you. So you sit at home living off old milk straight from the bottle; all your cups and utensils having been piled stinking in the sink. You sit on the part of the couch not covered in rubbish and laundry and wonder how long it would take anyone to find you if you just slit your wrists. They itch because you think of it so often.

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

Being Despondent

I looked inside myself and I found nothing. My fighting spirit had slipped away unseen sometime in the past. No one had ever updated me. There was no message, no forwarding address. I lay on my bed barely conscious, unwilling to get up. There was nothing left to draw upon, he'd taken all my energy with him, he'd raided the larder of my last couple of fucks that could possibly be given.

I'll wash myself under this drip falling from the ceiling. And, I'll drink from it too. When I need food I'll eat my socks. And when I need to go to the loo... well I'll just do what I have to do. 

Monday, 2 March 2015

Being One Footstep Away From Something

I knocked on the door. Upon knocking I didn't know who was behind it. But there she was. The woman of my dreams. Literally.

Last night we'd driven to Dieppe. It had rained the whole journey but we'd distracted ourselves from the forlorn tapestry being woven outside our car windows with Chris Watson's back catalogue and talk of the scallops we were going to eat upon arriving there. We parked near the castle, clambered onto the back seat and made love clumsily until rudely being interrupted by a torchlight.

"Do I know you?" I managed to splutter, confused.

"I don't think so? Come in."

I realised I hadn't even told her why I had been knocking on her door and here she was smiling warmly at me and inviting me into her house. I could be a serial killer or a Jehovah's Witness for all she knew. She ushered me towards a chair and then when I sat down, it happened. I realised where I was and immediately started crying.

"How did I get here?" I asked.

"We can discuss that later. First, I think there's some people you'd like to meet..."

Sunday, 1 March 2015

Being on the Stage of Life and Fumbling Every Line; Unpracticed, Unassisted and Unprompted

Even when I had all the time and freedom in the world I chose to do nothing. Even with all the money that I'd require to do anything I wanted, still I chose nothing. Hating myself and desperately wanting to die is easier than trying. Easier than putting on airs and socializing. Easier than doing the laundry and the dishes that need drying. There was nothing I wanted more than nothing. Except... except for something.

Being Human

What was it like when you took human skin? When you stalked through the night pretending to be him? He killed himself and no one else cared. Now his figure forms silently in the air, collecting itself from the darkened void at the end of the pier. No one ever prayed for him. Now it's teeth shine mistily beneath an esurient grin. It calls to me at night when I'm alone, by dragging along that rope tied to a stone.

Being The Poison To Your Blossom

Just let me live in peace. Spare me the humiliation of love. Spare me the misery of work. I don't need a woman or payslip to make me feel like a jerk. I manage that just fine by myself. I'll spend my days skimming stones. Walking over long-forgotten bones. Hiding from phones. Paying back student loans.

And let me die in peace. Spare me any platitudes. It's every man for himself. You don't need some plagiarist poet in a dog-collar to ease your pain. That's why they invented alcohol and Vicodin. I'll spend my death how I spent my life. Being walked over. Rotting. Being forgotten.