Saturday, 28 May 2016
Thursday, 19 May 2016
Crawling through my life like an unseen ghost. Lingering uncomfortably like an ill-judged joke. She fucked me, then she fucked all my hope. I'd dump her body in the river, only it would be a waste of time to then see it float. I wear her rejection like the heaviest of coats. After they reject you is when the memory of them clings to your bastard brain the most. She fucked me, maybe if she'd then loved me, I wouldn't want to see her choke. I dream of my hands wrapping themselves around her throat. With all my heart I'd beg her to let me love her, only it would be a waste of time because she won't. If you're thinking of letting her fuck you... don't.
Wednesday, 18 May 2016
Worst day of my life. I learnt that her love was a lie, or at least can turn on a dime, and a shared surname and the title of "my wife" doesn't make her mine. And then someone stole my treasured bike. I trudged for miles and miles until I could no longer remember what it was I was trying to find. The only thing I couldn't shake was my self-hatred and the torturous grind as I felt it slowly snake its way down my spine. My whole body now as infected as my mind. Why can't people just content themselves with being honest and kind? Years destroyed in less time than it takes to watch a fucking Vine.
Sunday, 15 May 2016
Best fucking day of my life. Fucking fucked your fucking whore of a wife. Stole your useless clapped-out piece of shit bike. Cycled all the way to Fife. Posted a selfie and got double figures in fucking likes. Met a girl who seemed real nice. Gave her my number and Snapchatted her until our phones died. If every day was this good, I could die almost satisfied.
Thursday, 12 May 2016
It was the worst thing I ever saw. Beyond decollating deaths and morbid gore, but death and somehow something more. A lack of hope from the wretched poor. Eyes that were caverns into the core, of emptiness they'd somehow bored. There was nothing in there, nevermore. There was nothing at all left to live for. And all of us were in the fore, splayed naked on the floor, and we were all of us whores, and the fat ones bayed, for our encore.
Tuesday, 10 May 2016
When you walked out of my life
You became the wall to my bike
I became the flesh to your knife
I wanted to drop you a message
Nothing out of spite
But something nice
But in the end it seemed easier to close the window
Put on a smile and continue
Than try to find out if there was any love left within you.
Monday, 9 May 2016
If I could say sorry and stay sorry, believe me I would
Even though it was you that was wrong
If that's what it would have taken to keep our love strong
I would have played along
I would have continued to have sung your stupid fucking song
But even that's not good enough for you
You'd rather destroy something new.
When you entered my life, I thought it a blessing
Now I can't seem to see a way out through the wreckage
It's so depressing to go from being someone's everything
To losing the courage to even be able to send them a message
I'm left wondering, I'm left guessing.
Saturday, 7 May 2016
She'll come back one day, that eccentric baker. We'll write something that will awake her from underneath that pile of study papers. Suddenly, out of nowhere that extra like - the difference between hitting that brick wall or sailing over it on your bike. With or without it though, I'll keep myself up late into the a.m., searching for that elusive perfect rhyme again and again. I haven't found it in the bottom of my pen or Fakenham and I doubt I'll find it floating along the River Thames.
The Choice Between Going It Alone Or Partaking In The Horrible Fanfare That Results From Swiping Right On Your Cellphone
So I look back on women I previously liked, and I find that most of my affection towards them has been wiped. Now I wonder why I ever liked them at all, what possessed me to act such a desperate fool? Because right now there's nothing more I abhor than my pitch-perfect impersonation of a loving man that I wasted upon those fucking whores.
I've thought about it for days and nothing comes to mind. I thought something silly at least would shake its way from my spine, and yet here we are and I've nothing to show, the festering resentment has failed to grow. The scar has long healed, and I'm perfectly happy - just one regret, I didn't make this decision more snappy. This is easily the best its been in all our years: no more stress, no more fights, no more tears - I don't even think of you - my mind is totally and completely clear. If you came begging down my street, sure, I might throw you a buck, but I wouldn't waste a single word on you again, and thank fuck. How could talking ever make it any better than this? This is silence, and your silence is my fucking bliss.
Thursday, 5 May 2016
Sometimes there'll be someone there to help pick you up. Even if you've been a shitty fuck. But if there isn't - then buck up. There's plenty of middle aged ladies out there who want to rut. And plenty of cunts to laugh at who can't control their guts. At the very least you're not a dolphin with an indescribably huge butt.
It'll come back one day, that thirst. It's always done so in the past. Suddenly, out of no where the blast - a bolt of desperation you recognize at last. Keeping you up late in the PM, writing furiously in your den, conjuring up stories about Hen, or pulling out another Creg (or ten). Here's to it then... well, if it ever comes again.
So I look back on albums I previously hated, and I find that most of the hate has genuinely abated. Now I wonder if I ever truly hated at all, or was it simply myself that was rubbing me raw. Because right now there's nothing more I abhor, than myself, certainly more than when I put those albums back on the shelf. So do those merely seem like old golden years, in the face of my ever growing pile of fears?
Tiny little chicks thumping their peroxided tits, thrumming furiously against calloused slits and taking coffee liquefied shits. My thoughts have crumbled into chits - both the female and the tiny scripts - little inattentive snips, that look like endlessly repeating gifs. I just wanted... I just wanted a little kiss. You've never known me - but knowing me is... is fucking bliss!
Tuesday, 3 May 2016
Sometimes there won't be anyone there to help pick you up. Sometimes that will be just your shit luck. Sometimes there won't even be any point in picking yourself up. Sometimes it will just be easier to give up and lie there because sometimes will and effort won't be enough. And nor is love. It doesn't save any of us. It just makes loss an even deeper, bitterer cut.
Monday, 2 May 2016
Terrible things we burden each other with instead of bestow. Terrible phone reception everywhere I go. Terrible effort to lift myself up when I feel this low. Terrible fucking songs on the radio. Terrible deal I made with Time... all the years I gave him and in return what little I have to show. Terrible pains in my heart as I search for your footprints in the snow. Yes, these are my terrible tales of woe.
Sunday, 1 May 2016
Buy a bit more. Useless junk I grow to abhor. Cry a bit more. Die a bit more. Say goodbye a bit more. Lie to myself a bit more. Pine a bit more for the bitches I silently adore. Curse the sky a bit more and ask God why a bit more. Try a bit less. Make my life even more of a mess.