Saturday, 28 May 2016
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.
Saturday, 7 May 2016
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!