Saturday, 31 December 2016

Two Thousand Sixteen Going On Seventeen

They all just want the year to end, so that everything that's broken can finally be made to mend. Except, the possibility of reprieve is a delusional blend, of illusion and hope and the failure to portend that at some point everything gets worse for everybody here. Old people die, and young people age and become the beneficiaries of their fears. Just because a number changes on your phone doesn't mean the slate is cleared. Every year is just another equally or increasingly shitty year.

Image result for 2016 party

Friday, 23 December 2016

Give It Back (I'll Take It All)

Well I decided to live. Tell no one. Because no one will give a fucking shit. Let me just quietly take the razor blade away from my wrists and brace myself for what life has left to give. And if it proves to be a pile of shit (it will be a pile of fucking shit) then that will only serve to make the brief moments I transcend it even more fucking glorious.

Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Take It Away

Well I decided to die. Tell James, tell Nadia, tell Tim. Tell them to cremate me and pour my remains into the nearest bin. Let me be carted to the garbage dump and smeared throughout the landfill, let me ruminate, let me be distilled. Let me putrefy, let me be congealed. None of this was really for me, childhood was where I wanted to be. That was the only time I really felt free, being fascinated by flowers and leaves and trees, looking at bugs, mantises and spiders and pulling apart bees. Who in their right mind would want to be adult me?

Sunday, 18 December 2016

Train Coming Soon

I wake up and dream of becoming rich. Instead, I miss the train to work and for my troubles get a fucking stitch. I wake up and dream of falling in love. But I scroll through my choices and it's just a cunt, bitch, and another cunt. I wake up with an overwhelming urge to find someone to punch. But as usual, I don't have the fucking guts. They're too busy getting twisted up digesting another lacklustre and unsatisfying lunch.

Thursday, 8 December 2016

Audio Coming Soon

One Australian, one Englishman and at least one thing in common - the seemingly perpetual pursuit of hitting rock bottom. And yet perversely, their optimism must stink something rotten if they think people will want to listen to their fictionalised problems.

And I ask myself - if I had the time to read, would I have the time to grieve? And I ask myself - if I had the time to watch TV, would I have the time to wallow in my misery? These days I only have the time to go running with Kelly MacDonald it seems.

Sunday, 4 December 2016

Recite

Why now? Why not then? Why can't I move from here, to there, and back again? Why can't I be whenever I want to be, progressing only when the future is something I want to see? I want to be trapped in the past - instead of here hurtling forward and fast. I want to travel back in time and live in that memory, of pitch black nights with bright city lights bathing us in yellow and blue and green. I want to see everything I didn't quite see even though I was looking around ravenously.

I want to live there a while, back when you and I were we.


Brobdingnag

In that respect it was all the same, we'd assigned positions and taken blame, we'd turned our lives inside and out again, we'd taken what life gave us and made lemonade from all the pain. We'd built stairs and walked up them and down again, between descents into madness and ascending back towards sane - of course we'd never found ourselves quite the same. Not since the day that man came, and brought news of winning that numbers game. We were just moths flying self-destructively at the fame, and now our lives were so empty beyond the vastness of our shame.


Happy Fetal

We reach out in the night, fingers stretched to the length of their might, but all the tips touch is not there, just the swirling nothingness of the air. We recoil in awkward, self-loathing spite. And turn inwards. Searching for respite.

Unfinished

What could've been is what haunts her, when she's looking at your daughter. All of what's unknown and unsaid, a million words left unwrapped and trapped inside her head. She said that she never thought it would be like this, that loneliness and misery is an uncelebrated bliss. That the whole world is just one giant terrarium of piss. That half of her life would be spent thinking about an unfinished kiss.