Saturday, 22 August 2015

The "Once I Turned 50 Display Picture (or lack there of)"

I carried myself off to bed any chance I got, because sleeping had become far more preferable to being awake. I picked at the corner of my sheets trying to distract myself from thinking about insomnia. Whenever it entered my mind I began to stress and could never get to sleep. I wished I could just stop breathing. I used to kneel by my bed and pray to god that he would take it all away. But I am old now, and I have no time for make believe. No one can take this away except for me, but even Blind Freddy could see that I am not strong enough.

Sunday, 16 August 2015

If I Wrote Love Sonnets To Jesus I'd Be Famous By Now

The anger takes shape around the root of our tongues, and pushes its way out, on the breath of our lungs. We can take nothing with us, not even these words, which were once wrapped and twisted, yet now are unfurled. The life that we had, that we fought for and won, was being packed into boxes marked over & done. I held onto nothing, since nothing was left, my heart was still beating in a bared open chest.

Friday, 14 August 2015

What It's Like With Your Head Off The Pike

I was all that was left of us. Alone and lonely, insignificant. I was at the end of a cul-de-sac, listening to the roar of life out on the highway. A distant rumble as everyone else passed me by. They all felt they did enough after they dropped me quiches and said cheer up soon. A small deviation from the expressway of their life and then back into the fast lane. A few weeks was all they gave me to grieve, and then came an unspoken cut-off. Suddenly I was hanging onto it, being weird about it, I should move on already. They grew impatient, became short with me. They said I should see someone, a professional, and stopped coming around. Told me I was toxic. I was bringing them down.

Everything is easier out there, when you're hurtling down the motorway, making great time. People don't want to stop by to see the hermit living in his rut. They want to keep going, blinkers on, headlong into a dizzying array of jejune distractions, that fly past, and never stop.

Tesco put me in the munchy mood with ten tasty tea-dunkers

I was pretending to care again. I'd been telling myself I shouldn't. That I should just tell people how I really felt, or I suppose, more to the point, how I didn't feel. Instead though, I kept nodding along to the seemingly distant hum of their voice, as they went through the vast list of their various grievances about whoever it was they were talking about. My eyes had glazed over, but I had a knack for keeping a face that portrayed itself as if still listening.

I'd made too many biscuits again, clearly that was weighing on my mind. I'd written a complaint to Tesco to tell them off - recipes these days just don't understand the realities of portion sizes for people who aren't morbidly obese. And so I have two or three tins of biscuits wasting away in the cupboards, probably being eaten by maggots and weevils and every other various thing... every other thing except for my guests. They never ate them. They were all too busy telling me about their boring lives and tedious troubles. My mind was running up the bill of all the ingredients and coming to various figures that made me feel sick to my stomach. Do they know how much it costs to feed all these maggots? The outside corner of the eyelid above my left eye began twitching rapidly. Just like it did the last time. Just like it did when it all boiled over.

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

Jeb's Journey

She told me about her desire to buy more toilet paper. Up until that point I'd never considered it. The idea that women had functioning digestive parts was a completely earth shattering revelation to me. Somehow I'd just figured that food went in and only nice stuff came out. Suddenly my head was swimming with various ideas and images that became less and less unpleasant to me, instead crossing a hitherto uncrossed threshold from repulsive to intriguing. "How.... How many..." I coughed and looked at my feet. My laces were untied, I bunched my toes up to swell the tongue out the top of each shoe. "How many times do you go to the toilet per day?" I finally gasped. "Well," she said, without missing a beat or being put off by my nervousness, "I couldn't stop pissing last night. Couldn't get a good stretch of sleep at all. I think I drink too much herbal tea."

I gulped and relaxed my toes.

Wednesday, 5 August 2015


I thought I'd punch them in the head. I thought I'd punch them until they bled. Until eventually they were dead, and I felt good inside instead of this morbid scratching ulcer that has spread itself along the lining of my guts. I'd spread myself thin with a series of tiny little cuts, as life pulled away my caring outlook with a constant barrage of cunts. What's in it for me, you runts? You squeal and beg and demand from me an increasingly difficult series of stunts. Jump through the hoop and take a punt on health insurance for once - it covers rectal shunts and cancers of the morbidly obese cunt. I looked at today's fifteenth PDS, under extreme duress, and now, thanks to you, I'm far too angry to be depressed.

Sunday, 2 August 2015

What Cecil Said As He Was Shot Down

Life is short, and hearts will break, and bodies will rot, and bones will bake, and crumble to dust in the burning sun, but I will love you forever my son. Your hand in mine and your smiling cheeks, have lifted me up and torn a hole in me. I get a lump in my throat every time you speak, I'll be waiting for you till the next time we meet.
Remember the time that we ran in the rain? I laughed so hard that you thought me insane. But I was so happy, just to be alive, with your little feet matching my stride. Your face flushing red as you kept by my side, I felt a father's pride warming through my insides.

So, my son, I'm sorry I left, I wanted to watch you grow but instead I've left you bereft.
They say that love is just a feeling, but I find that notion unappealing - love is sometimes right, but always left.