Thursday, 28 December 2017

Never A Full Stop With You

When you're staring at an empty page
When there's nothing new left to say
But even so you've got so many feelings you want to convey
Because the longer you keep regurgitating the pain
The longer in your heart they can stay.

Monday, 25 December 2017

Depressing xmas #9

Sometimes I feel like they only wheel me out at Christmas. All year I'm left to rot, convalescing listless, calling out to nurses who ignore me from a distance. Twelve long months I wait just starving for attention, and then my family take me home but all I do is ratchet up the tension. After being alone for so long all I want to do is talk. They act as if I won't shut up, as if I'm just hard work. Eventually I give advice that makes someone else upset, I fall asleep and they maneuver me into the car like a stale old baguette. I wake up in the morning and I'm all alone again, in another year they'll come around, I'm sure they'll talk to me by then.

Depressing xmas #12

Misery once exuded from me, now all feelings elude me. Christmas dinner is a frozen microwaveable meal for one, eaten on a stable table inherited from my recently deceased mum.

I've been waiting all year for this to be over, I sold my mum's house, and her old landrover. I called up the charity stores and let them come in, traipse through the house, remove all her things. Now the only place my mother resides is deeply in my head, so I've taken steps, I'll soon make sure I'm dead. 

What a fitting send off than the flick of Christmas lights, shepherding me like a rainbow into this long night. 

The Gift No One Wants From Christmas

Congratulations, you've got a dick
I guess you must have been so proud of that fact
And the depressing averageness of it
That you wanted to send me a pic
Well I'm touched
But thankfully not by it.

Wednesday, 20 December 2017

depressing xmas #13

I bought another present for you and left the box by your front door. I was watching from across the street, I heard you as you swore. I felt the bile you projected all the way from there, I felt the jolts and every thump as you hurled my present down your stairs. When you heard it whimper and you rushed over to see, I felt sick. I felt positively beastly. It wasn't meant to go like that. You always said that all you wanted was a cat.
Well that cat must've used up one of it's nine lives, without a scratch it somehow miraculously survived. You clutched it to your chest and rushed the poor wretched thing inside. My love was like the box, forgotten, crushed, and left behind.

Depressing xmas #10

The muzak version of pa rum pa pum pum
Is currently chiseling away at my ear drums.
I came here for a coffee and respite,
Not to listen to this god awful shite.
My kids are at home with their dad,
I should feel guilty but I'm so ridiculously glad.
I just needed a fucking break,
Even if it wound up being a watered down pumpkin spice latte crap shake.
Christmas in the southern hemisphere - yet another scorcher,
Sitting here in this cafe melting, thinking 'life is torture'.

Depressing xmas #14

Your sibling has been harassing you all night, waiting for you to bite, all they want is to provoke you to fight. You can tell by their eyes, their over-embellished lies and that nickname you despise. All you want is a friend, but you're in the wrong place for them, this is Christmas, and you're the sacrificial lamb. Like the Christmas ham, you will be carved, roasted and chewed, everyone will be tearing a slice off of you. All year you built a shell, to get you through this hell, but it never lasts. Just like in the past they'll huff and puff and blow that shell down, everything you've built will be spat on and kicked to the ground.

Depressing xmas #15

Merry Christmas to me. Wanking alone in misery. Each pump another self flagellating thump as I ponder life's great mysteries. Like why my wife left me, when all I said was I preferred our old tree. And then refused to get up to help her carry in the groceries, when I'd just sat down so latterly. Fuck her I say, well, retrospectively. Certainly not literally. Not anymore.

Depressing xmas #3

I only had fifty dollars left in the bank, I could send them presents or gift them presence by refilling my gas tank. I decided to visit, and dressed in my finest clothes, I drove to the service station at the end of my road. They'd be disappointed that I was empty handed, of that I am sure, but at least we'd be together, and that's what Christmases are really for. I filled the tank and put my card into the ATM, I punched the code of my son's birth date in, and then a second time when it asked again. The code I used for everything, suddenly it was failing, panic gripped as I punched the keypad but it's help was unavailing. The machine said "wait", the card slot clanked, a message flashed up saying to contact my bank. My card was gone, and so was all hope, and yet now I couldn't even afford to buy a length of rope. The banks not open Christmas day, I said to the attendant it'll be OK - I just live up the road you know, I'll quickly duck home and get what I owe. He made me leave the car behind. I walked home, poured a drink, and got completely blind.

Thursday, 14 December 2017

Depressing xmas #5

I bought her the iPad she wanted and she thanked Santa, being overlooked has become my mantra. I pass out the presents, as good daddy's must do, soon to become unloved junk that the children eschew. As the rubbish piles of wrapping paper accrue, and the Christmas tree stands slightly askew, all I can think of is being with you, my first love, the one who got away and broke my heart in two. Now with half a heart I love my partner and my brain reminds it to stay true, but the other half aches and all it wants to do, is get out of here, and run away with you.

Monday, 11 December 2017

depressing xmas #7

Positively enraged as Jingle Bells plays, you wish these days were your last.
You pack some crap into a santa's sack that you've shoved festinately into your cart.
The counter clerk, with elf clothes and a smirk, wishes you a cheery "season's greetings!".
But all you can think, is that you're about an inch from raining upon someone a fistful of brutal beatings.

Depressing xmas #6

We revert back to our childhood selves. Insecure and attention starved thinking only of ourselves. Picking at each other's wounds we open up old scabs. We treat each other with disrespect as our mother nags. I cannot believe it's Christmas time already this year, my stress levels have not sufficiently recovered to allow me to be back here. I'd like to say that I can cope, that this will be A-OK, but somehow I know I'll be chewing someone out and drinking alone by the end of the day. 

Depressing xmas #11

Your partner is moaning at you to go around again, the carpark's full, you're being driven around the bend. You left the Christmas shopping until the last minute yet again, you're going to rush, panic and overspend, on people you're inexplicably keen to have keep calling you a friend, even though you never see them and their love is just pretend.

Friday, 8 December 2017

Depressing xmas #8

I wish I could be here forever, but these years keep coming so fast. All I can think each Christmas is that this one could be my last. My kids have grown and all left home, they don't need me any more. I'm tucked away in the old folks home, I'm suffering behind closed doors. The photos of me have found their way from their mantles to their drawers. There was a time when their love made me feel rich, but now all I feel is poor.

Tuesday, 5 December 2017

Through Your Despising Eyes Reprised

You look at me
 and you see cold,
you instinctively tug at the cincture of your jacket
 and the collar folds,
as if you could catch the frost from me,
as if you can see by my face what it's like to be me.
Your eyes barely even rate me a mention,
the footpath is taking up the majority of their attention.
Your brain will rapidly delete me,
if my love was a virus, the world would be disease free.

Depressing xmas #4

The only thing I want for Christmas is you.
For you to walk the earth again would be my wish come true.
And just in case, we still set a place at the table just for you.
Christmases are not the same unless you are here too

Depressing xmas #1

You bought them everything their hearts desired, but when push came to shove,
You bought them everything they could ever want, but you couldn't buy their love.

Saturday, 2 December 2017

All So Wrong

God, it's all so wrong. I was meant to be strong. I wasn't made to suffer through and carry on. I wasn't made for mediocrity and being dull. I was supposed to twinkle in the sky, just like mummy sang until I turned five. I wanted to be a contender, but somehow I ended up a phone mender.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Depressing xmas #2

"Please pass the butter," my daughter smiled, bread roll in hand.

"There is no butter," I reply, unable to service her demand.

"No butter on Christmas? What do you mean?"

It meant her mummy left me but I didn't want to make a scene.

"Um, sorry, I must have just forgot."

She checked the fridge and saw it empty, she saw that quite a lot.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," I wanted to break down and cry,

But she didn't want to see that, so I kept it all inside.

Monday, 20 November 2017

Saint Peter At The Pearly Gates, Gave Me A VHS And Told Me To Self Evaluate - But I've Only Got a Blu-Ray Player Mate, Guess I'll Just Give Myself An Eight

Be kind, rewind, record over all the shittiest memories that are clogging up your mind. Press slo-mo, take some time, to enjoy the things that make you happy and then fast forward over the grime. Press pause, at sleep time, take all the rest you want, let your mind re-prime. Take a look, see what you find, let all your most treasured memories unfold in real time.


I'm pretty sure I'm the only one alive. I'm pretty sure if everybody else suddenly died, I'd be the only one left who survived. I'm pretty sure if I drove my car into a lake I'd somehow find a way to miraculously escape. I'm pretty sure this is all just make believe - I mean, how could there be a world as miserable to perceive, a species so intrinsically hateful and diseased, and then to lump them together with me? As if I could possibly conceive that I was just growing here on the same trees as ordinary as any of these other slowly dying leaves. Please. No thanks, I will continue to disbelieve. On every one of your whacked out philosophies we will have to disagree.

Thursday, 16 November 2017

I Fell In Love With Your Instagram Bot

I wrote my deepest thoughts and posted it up
You wrote "heyyy nice" with red hearts in triplicate
I wrote thankyou so very much
and you returned a quick thumbs up

I thought my life was really changing, everything suddenly felt amazing, where previously I'd spent most of my life lazing, now I was positively blazing, due to your unprecedented praisings.

I began to feel new things inside - a small lump of undeniable pride, a crush that swelled up like a rising tide, and a joy that my face failed to hide. And then, thereupon I spied, a comment on a friend of mine:

"heyyy nice ❤️❤️❤️ "

A comment exactly the same, written under your same name, and - oh! - there on another friend again! What on earth is your game? You follow and you unfollow me, I thought you actually liked what you see, but it turns out you're on a follow spree. Did you ever even bother to read, that post that meant so much to me?

Seven thousand five hundred follows on the clock, when will you ever stop? Will you ever turn it off, this mass liking, generic commenting automated bot?

Wednesday, 15 November 2017


I was crushed. Watching you from the kitchen in disgust. Your tyres spun and kicked up a swirl of dust. It lingered in the air like the silence after you first cussed. A last 'up yours' to my broken trust. I grabbed the kettle, hand shaking, noticing the rust. "Stainless steel" I scoff, nonplussed. I remembered my words when our lips first brushed: "take my heart if you must, but always treat me just, don't make me feel rushed, please understand that I am slow to trust." And away you charge, flippantly as I combust.


I give up, it looks like you win. I cut the branches back, let's begin again. Let's burst forth from our grafted stump, let us bloom from this wasted lump. This time, let's do it all the way we planned: careers, kids, house, a car that cost fifty grand. We'll spend up big and our love will grow, we'll hone it into the perfect topiary hedgerow. Our bark will heal, where sap once seeped, when I hit us with the cleaver. The cuts were steep, for our rot was deep, but our love was surely deeper.

The Eternal Battle Still Rages in 2017

I love her so much I want to strangle her to death. Watch as her eyes go pale as they beg for another breath. Why should anyone else have the chance to end her flesh? Bad drivers, serial killers, or cancer would only make a mess. Only someone who loves her could have the right finesse, everybody knows that fingers play their best when they have someone they dearly wish they could impress.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Guilted Lily

All she wanted was a hand to hold, but my hand was busy, tapping on my phone. Now she's all grown up and I am all alone, my fingers are too arthritic to even message her to come back home.

Tuesday, 7 November 2017


I'm aware of how annoying I can be, there's no need to tell me. There's no need to avoid me. There's no need to go out of your way to destroy me. I'm already under so much pressure on my own, living by myself, hating myself, all alone. I already know what it feels to be distressed without you going out of your way to make my life a mess. I already know well this feeling of desperation, of drowning devastated when I get stuck in quiet contemplation, I know I'm too awkward to hold up my end of a conversation, I don't need you to laugh at and point out my consternation. I just want to die when I'm with you, I feel like you're keeping me inside a zoo, like I'm a freakshow made just to service you.

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

Life is rough.
You have to be tough.
The hardest part is dealing with all of humanity's dandruff.
The flakes, the hangers on,
The desperately un-sprung.
They all add up to a life that's so decidedly wrong.
The angry and depraved,
The Facebook commenters who can't behave,
The car drivers who are completely and utterly deranged.
How the world would be a pretty place,
A lovely, desirable, gorgeous space,
A globe without any trace of prejudice about a race,
Without sexism and celebrity disgrace,
Or cars who can't park in their own space
A world of people who are loyal and chaste,
Without the after taste of the poison laced toxic waste of these two faced lying sacks of shit based human garbage paste.

Monday, 6 November 2017


"ARSEHOLES DON'T HAVE ORGASMS, DICKHEAD!" screamed Creg as he charged down the hill, one hand raised above his head, the other formed a fist out in front of him. His eyes squinted tight as he charged, which gave his intended target plenty of time and opportunity to move slightly out of the way, turn side on and trip Creg over as he passed. Creg hit the ground and all the air went out of him.

"HUUURP.......I'M..........HUUUUURRRHHHHP.... DYING.......HURRUPPP" Creg gasped as his lungs tried desperately to refill. He rolled on his back, staring up into the cloudless sky. If this was TV one of his heroes would be jutting suddenly into his vision, performing CPR, or pulling him to his feet to held fend off the bullies. "Tell...huuuruupp... Charlene.... I love.... huuuurrrrrrppp..." Creg felt a sharp pain in the side of his bum. Instead of a hero, someone had instead kicked him in the arse. A final indignity as he felt his life drain away.

"I ain't never seen no-one give up on life at bein' winded 'afore," said Nigel the Janitor. He had been watching Creg's flailings as he pushed his cleaning cart about, looking for the post-lunch rubbish. Creg had gone still, not even bothering to try and breathe anymore. "Ah wonder if aI'm meant to do somat?" he said, before kicking Creg in the arse again to try and restart his breathing. "Ahm not putting mah mouth on his," he said to no one in particular. He lifted Creg up by the arms and folded him over his garbage cart. There's a certain heart racing panic that only being upside down in a rubbish bin can bring. Creg discovered his will to live as he kissed up against a half sucked strawberry roll-up, a smelly egg sandwich, and a half eaten tub of expired yoghurt. He gasped deeply and drew in all the foulness of his current prison. "WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?" he yelled.

"To the sickbay you little blighter, jus' sit still."

Creg paused his thrashing. Perhaps Regina would be at the sickbay still. Perhaps this was all going according to plan. He relaxed and let his chariot carry him to his queen. Besides, at this stage the fumes and lack of oxygen had all but overwhelmed him, he was slinking in and out of consciousness.

"Creg? ........... Creg?" a voice was calling him. A voice that seemed to be everywhere and coming from no place in particular. Creg looked around the whiteness, "am I in hospital?"

"Ah Creg, you're here, with us, you're safe now." This time the voice came from one place, Creg wheeled around and came face to face with an old man in white clothes.

"I'm here? Where is this? A hospital? Am I OK?"

"You're fine, now, my child," spoke the old man with a surprisingly deep and commanding voice. "I called, and you answered."

Creg began to panic, he suddenly came to the realization that he had died. He was in heaven. This was an arch angel - or maybe even God himself judging him on his sins. The thought of sins suddenly threw all the horrible images back into his mind, of all the horrible things he'd done over the years. The dimple in the doorframe. The killing of his grandmother. The horrible things he'd wished upon his god-fearing mother. "I-I-I'm sorry!" he stammered. The old man smiled.

"All is well Creg. You will soon be fit and ready to return."

Creg let out a long sigh. So he wasn't dead yet! But he'd be damned if he let this opportunity slip him by. "God....wh-what's your real name? Why am I here, why are any of us here? What's the point of all this?"

The man smiled again. "Ah Creg. I am Jáim Sandom. You're here because you needed me. Without me there is no life. There is no resurrection from the garbage cart of humanity. There is no... how do you say... blessed... beloved... sorry I have learned most of my English from the catholic mass. I will tell you though, regarding the point of life, life is pain. Life is suffering. Either you suffer, or you make others suffer. Happiness is a lie. It's a fake emotion that sweets and greeting card manufacturers sell you. It's not a feeling at all, it is just a moment of neutrality between sufferings."

"That's it?"

"That's it. What more could anyone want."

Creg was astounded. Mother would never believe that he had met God, let alone knew his real name. Mother would, however, definitely believe about the pain and suffering part, that part made sense. If there were two things his mother knew well, it was about either inflicting or being afflicted by pain.

"Thanks Jáim Sandom," said Creg finally, but he was gone. Jáim had wandered back into the whiteness.

Footsteps approached now, this time a woman came toward him. "Craig?" she said sharply.


"Okay Craig..." she shrugged, "roll over it's time to insert the hose for your enema."

"Enema?" Creg wondered if he'd fallen back to Earth.

"You don't have to repeat everything I say. Wait, you are Craig, right?"


"Oh? Creg? Right. The bloody hospital is out of beds so we're sharing space with the mental health unit. I thought you were a different patient. This is bloody typical, they don't give you the info and then when you get it wrong, it's you neck on the block isn't it? They don't come down here and lend a hand do they, the bastards."

"Well, no I mean, I'm sure you're probably right," said Creg not wanting to make a fuss. "People often just get my name wrong and write it down as Craig."

"You're right Creg, I shouldn't second guess myself. Thanks. Well, roll over then. Try to relax and imagine rabbit trying to fit down a mouse hole."

I'm Aware I'm Wasting My Life

"Dad, what did you choose to do with your life?"

"Well son, I married my wife, I had you little shites, and I came to the conclusion that lemon squash is better than Sprite. I could tell you son about how hard I worked one night, stayed back till late and got something over the line, how I swelled with pride, how I'd felt more accomplished then than I'd ever felt in my life. How I came to realize that regarding that achievement no one gave a flying kite, that the only way to be recognized is to write a book about your Everest fight and how you had to chew your own frozen fingers off on account of your frostbite. I don't know where I went wrong son, so its hard to tell you where to go right, I've always felt separate from the world as if I'm a satellite, doing my best to hang on and help out but I'm always out of everybody's sight. I'm sure I've helped someone somewhere but nothing really comes to mind, the only advice I can probably give to you is about your hairline. Flaunt it boy, whilst you've still got it, one day it'll be gone and you'll have lost it - everything about you that makes you attractive, make sure you marry before your follicles become inactive. Once your hair decides to stop growing on your head, it'll grow out your ears and out your nose instead. And no woman wants a hairy nosed koala, it won't matter how flirtatious your palaver, you've got one chance my little man, marry fast whilst you can."


The melancholy mists roll in and begin to fog my mind. They make me wander aimlessly and lose my sense of time. My enthusiasm for life suddenly is obscured by all the haze, and so I shift and shamble as I slip into a daze. All my goals that were before me now have gone concealed, I let my body rot, fall down, and congeal. I'd lift my head and drag myself atop the tallest tree, from up there  surely I could see, if only someone was up there calling down to me.

Saturday, 4 November 2017

Don't Be Afraid To Catch Feelidaes

I wonder what is wrong with my cat - every time I let it in, it just wants to go back. I guess love is a bit like that.

Thursday, 2 November 2017

I Don't Want Anyone To Come Between Us (Especially Not Somebody With A Penis)

He was here with you whether I liked it or not. There was no way now to make it stop. I'd told you I was fine with this, that I was happier alone, that loneliness was a bliss that I could savour on my own. You laughed, and said that you'd figured out that fact, by the way you'd pulled at me and I had just pushed back. I wasn't quite ready then to simply accept your ardor, I needed you to pull me just that little bit harder. But how can I blame you when you at least tried? When all I did was turn away and force my love to die.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017


I don't know if i'll ever get it out of my mind, whether the world contains enough cheap and nasty cardboard boxed wine. Whether I can turn against the inner workings of my mind, lance away the memories and make my brain become blind. I don't want to resee their little rag-doll bodies unwind, as the disease unfurls and plucks them apart like tattered twine. I saw it once and now every night when I recline, I see it all again, I re-watch their swift decline. I just want to remember when times were kind, before my children left me behind.

Monday, 30 October 2017

Sure I Will Not See You Again Any More

Nothing thrives here anymore. Everything is dead. Even the weeds are gone, the dust blows in its stead. All around the trees fall down, the leaves have all decayed. The trunks are blacked, the earth is cracked, this place became a grave. I travel through this wretched place as quickly as I can, yellowed creeks like poison seeps its way across the land. I feel myself grow weaker in the presence of its sprawl, the boundless death that takes my breath and whispers life can't conquer all.

Friday, 27 October 2017

We Will Never Be Depart

Can we just for a minute take a breath. Open our mouths, let the air press about inside our chests? Can't we just take this moment to enjoy this repose, lie long, loving the feelings of our fingers and our toes? Can't we just slow down, wind back, and hold onto this sense of being alone, let the world fade back to an insignificant background drone?

Image result for white noise

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Hollowed Houses

There's a hole in the ground where your house used to stand. Where the walls once stood proud upon that hill made of sand. There's a history gone, wiped out, and smashed. The empty space is quiet now besides the distant waves that crash. I wonder if you watch from the cemetery there, out across the road, and see the earth that's been bared. I wonder what you think of it, if anything at all, I wonder if you think my nostalgic feelings are pointless and small. But I miss your kitchen and its brown linoleum floor, I miss your cow hide rugs, and the club you kept beside the door. I miss the knick-knacks, the curios, the randomly placed treasures, the red cordial and biscuits you kept for your grandchildren's pleasures.

I listen to the birds you once fed as they call, they carry on and dart about as if you were never here at all. And so will all the people as they walk on by this place, a new unit block will be pushed into the sky and your house will be replaced. But I'll remember this, and you, until the day that I die, I'll carry this beautiful melancholy burden all my life with a heartbroken pride.

Image may contain: sky, grass and outdoor

Monday, 23 October 2017

2001: An Instabot Oddysee

How long have I been standing here, stripping away at myself, laying myself bare, waiting for applause but only getting hard, disapproving stares?

Friday, 20 October 2017

Acrimonious Armor

I can't do anything to peel them off, these layers of crusted on misery slop. I walk around stupefied most of the time, dragging my bitterness along for the ride. I never wanted to do anything ever to harm her, but my heart is impenetrable inside this acrimonious armour. Chisel away all you want, you'll never break it, it grows back, all you can do is mould or shape it. I'll make it fit to look at, using a knife, make myself presentable enough to carry on with life.

Thursday, 19 October 2017

Oh mother, let me be free. Let me be free to love and free to leave. Let me see who I want to see. Let me pour the paints and make a shape - the one I want it to be. Unclasp my hand and let your fist fall free, let me walk alone and please understand that not every one will want to love me.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Nothing Hurts Like The Day You Died, The Giant Wreck You Crashed Into My Fragile Pride

Jim Jim go away, "Have you thought about my cock today?" I just want to talk about real things, not your STD infected ding-a-ling. Every second of every day you pulled me and then you pushed me away, gave me drugs to treat my depressed malaise, then talked behind my back about how I was permanently dazed. Well I'll show you my true love ills, like Juliet I'll poison myself with your prescription pills, though I'll not wake, forever I'll slumber, and as I die you will call my number. We'll talk about the fact I'm dying, the fact that you were always lying, we'll talk about how desperately I loved, whilst you, free, like a loosened dove, fly off and infect again, like a plague cursed upon women.

Image result for jim carrey fake

Have You Thought About My Grave Today?

Cat, can you believe it's been a year? Twelve long months since we last held each other near. You wouldn't believe it, but they're still fighting, taking me to court with your last writings. It's not what you wanted I know, and deep down they know too, they don't understand what you meant when you wrote "I love you". They weren't there, so how could they know? They didn't live our lives or feel our love grow. They think that I was somehow just a prick, that I texted you whilst you were miserable asking if you were thinking about my dick. I mean, sure, yeah, I did do that, but love is not something I can take off like a hat. It can't be trodden down and wiped off on the mat, it's like an STI that you can't give back, it's real and I feel sometimes that I want you to come back. I liked those days, back when we were free, even if my stress levels and follicles were aggravating me. Now it's all just court cases and smear, it's hard for me to find the faintest bit of cheer without you here.

I miss you (sort of).

Jim Carrey's ex-girlfriend Catriona White penned a note on her iPad in April 2013 - two years before her suicide - which blamed the actor for giving her herpes and accused him of ruining her life 

Sunday, 15 October 2017

Fam Bam No Thank-you Mam

My friends and family are wholly unsupportive of my writing habit. The last time they read any of my work they looked at me as if I was rabid. A coworker asked if he should call the cops, my mum said my work wasn't much chop, and said that we'd all be better off if I just stopped.

I assume they're all jealous of me, and like Jesus you've got to flee the Nazarenes and go to somewhere new. Somewhere where the people are not predisposed to be jealous of, or inclined to be hating on you. Somewhere far from facebook, somewhere amazing and grand. Or failing all that, how about Instagram?

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

No More Nice Things

I want to write about all the nice things, like the flowers that bloom or the birds that sing. But all I can think about is that final sting, when you walked out the door and abandoned me within.

Thursday, 5 October 2017

How Low Can One Go? Well, I'll Let You Know

I float around the house looking miserable all day, like that half-deflated "congratulations" balloon you couldn't bear to throw away. There are people dying in evil and horrifying ways, but I just can't seem to shift this cloud of misery that I have somehow made. I want to get angry, desperately to shout, to tell everybody to just get the fuck out. But all I can manage is retreat. Sitting alone in darkened rooms staring blankly at my feet.

Tuesday, 3 October 2017

Okay Sera

Nothing makes me madder, nothing makes me sadder. Nothing makes me gladder to kick away the ladder. As my feet lose purchase and they kick away at space, as I swing free, perhaps I'll find my happy place. It seems I can't find it here, certainly not with you. Certainly not with anybody I've ever spoken to. There's no one out there for me - I get it. I understand. I won't shed a single tear for any of you as my head is hanged.

My Pet Rock Came To Life, It Is Still Living, But I'll Bash It To Pieces Before Next Thanksgiving

I used to ask myself what more could people want from me, what more could they need, which would adequately explain my unpopularity? But it seems the question is how much less could they want, there's nothing I can do, it's my very existence that's the affront.

Piling on more of myself in larger, kinder doses, is the opposite of what they want, it's an incorrect diagnosis. The real problem here is just with who I am. The one thing I can't change. Can't pull apart. Can't reprogramme.

Sunday, 1 October 2017


I noticed him coming over this way, I felt a panicked, dark dismay, I'd seen him point at me from far away, and now he approached with a hobbling sway. His friend slipped by and boxed me in, his eyes lit up with want of sin, and I was trapped amidst the din, of techno music, laser lights and turntable spin.

Friday, 22 September 2017

Live With It

They look upon his money and despair. The passport to freedom is teasing them from all the way over there. There's the smell of desperation in the air. Tied up teats and equally exaggerated hair. They flaunt their wiles as if they could catch him unaware, but he's too busy boozing on his bamboo colonial chair, his tongue slurring excitedly slapping on about his nightmares: the left has won and coal is dumped and Trump will never get there. He speaks of his works but none of the expats around him care, no one is interested in anything but flesh at this meat market fair.


They say there's nothing more rare in the world than astatine, well the jokes on them, for there's nothing in the world more rare than me. Can't you see as I pose against the bridge truss, perfect leg poised ready for my close up? Can't you see as I lie on the sand, oblivious to the waves with one out stretched hand? Can't you tell from the way that I move and I shift, that I really am truly God's greatest gift?

Thursday, 21 September 2017


I returned to places that used to be mine, the long absence had done nothing to shake their memories from out of my spine, but the feelings were wrong, no longer sublime, I was feeling lost and uneasy as if I were walking somewhere unkind. I tried to shake it, shake her, take it all back. But the pull was now gone, the thread had snapped.

Ding Dong Dell

I get the feeling that one day I'll be listed as one of her known associates. She'll be gone and I'll be the one with whom the police negotiates. She used to be so innocent, so kind and worried for the world, she believed in demons, ghosts and the white-washed Jesus with the golden curls.

Now she's scattered, unkempt and worried about cash. She's worried that the crumbling cliff she's wandered onto might suddenly collapse. She's flaking and discasing, peeling and desquamating, her whole body's disintegrating because she thinks there's nothing left worth saving.

Sheila's Chela

He looks like he could dislocate his jaw, and shove the whole kebab into his maw, using the pincer like grip of one of his claws.

She looks like the tip of a dick, the way her bulbous head sits, the way her hair grows bob-like with the middle split.

She seems to think that he's the shit, she said his Tindr profile was the tits, but that she couldn't meet him earlier as she had the squits.

So in this reasonably priced food court they sit, her a look-alike prick, and him unable to ponder anything but upon the firmness of her shits. 

Separating Love In The Bin, So At Least You Can Say You've Recycled Something

"Fuck this life for a lark," he said, before drowning his sorrows with a bottle in the dark. "If no one wants me anywhere else, then why shouldn't I be here guessing at the strength of my belt? As if I'd ever ask for any body's help, as if anyone ever cared how any sad person actually felt."

He took his bottle and held it up to the moon, Spotify played yet another droning, melancholy tune.

"Do you know the one thing that would make me happy?" he asked. "Neither do I." and from consciousness he passed.

Rone Wasn't Built In A Day

I just want to respect your body, nuzzle into you and cry, have someone love my shattered psyche and appreciate how much I want to die. I want to love you softly, kindly, lay on you and wish and sigh. I want the world to fall away when I look upon your eyes. I want to feel that I am floating, floating on your fattened frame. I want to feel that I'm corroding, peeling off my scales of shame. When I'm with you I won't be anxious. When I'm with you I'll be unchained. When I'm with you I'll be the person who was never made to be mundane.

Monday, 4 September 2017

Put Your Hands On My Manus

I'm there, upon the edge of the cliff, just standing. Wishing there was someone by my side hold handing. Wishing someone was on my side understanding, why I'm here and why I want to be crash landing. The wind against my face leaves me screaming and demanding - "WHY DO I NOT WANT TO BE OUTSTANDING?"

No Better Place

They say she's in a better place. I guess they're saying she's lucky she's escaped. Because what could be worse than feeling like an eleven stone mistake?  Feeling that, from the world around you, you've somehow accidentally been misplaced. Feeling stuck upon a hamster wheel when everyone else is out enjoying the rat race. Well when I found her, I thought I'd finally found my space - like a jigsaw piece finally snapping itself into it's rightful place, where previously it was hovering all alone in the void of space, never quite fitting in, not able to find another to embrace. She was the lifeline to my deep, uncomfortable disgrace. She left a mark upon me now only spirits can erase.

Sunday, 20 August 2017


Sometimes I drive by our old spot and wonder if the past is really truly in the past.

Whether there's an echo of us down there right now, your hands gripping mine as we walk our way through the tall grass.

A ghost with your face that flicks it's eyes and catches mine smiling and admiring you, your face grins, you laugh, and we forget all the tumult we've been going through.

I wonder if the mark we've made means anything at all, or if we may as well have never been, as if we were never here at all.

Sunday, 6 August 2017


"BAW HAW HAW" bellowed Uncle Morgan, "Creg my son, you are taking the piss." He guffawed again and slapped Creg on the back. "When you said you had something you wanted to talk about, I thought it was going to be ladies. I thought you were going to ask me..." he trailed off still smirking and wiped a tear from his eye. Uncle Morgan wandered back to rejoin the rest of the crowd and left Creg to sit by himself. It was his grandmother's funeral. Despite her claiming to know every this person and that, the overall turnout had been underwhelming. Creg wasn't sure who half the people here were, and he was fairly sure his grandmother wouldn't have known them either. He had just finished asking Uncle Morgan what it all meant - 87 years, and this is it? Morgan had laughed, pondered the question a moment, and the entirety of his own 50 or so years of wisdom had come out with: "well, you know Creg, arseholes don't get to have orgasms."

Creg sat a while wondering if his grandmother had ever truly had fun in her entire life. Whether she'd ever once let go of all her crotchety correctitude and had a single genuine laugh. Not that it mattered now of course, now nothing mattered. The whole situation had numbed him, the number of emotions that were trying to fit through the door of his tiny heart had jammed it up. He wasn't sure if he should be sorry for his grandmother for dying, or angry at her for leaving him; sorry for himself for losing her, or angry at himself for his role in seeing her off; or whether he should be sorry or angry at the futility and finitude of mortality in general.

Everyone else appeared to be dealing with it by laughing, sharing jokes and stories, drinking beer and reminiscing. Creg was sitting solitary, absentmindedly pulling at the doyley-like hemming of the tablecloth. His phone tinkled. An SMS. It was his girlfriend Cindy. She was cancelling tomorrow's date. And cancelling the part of her life which had Creg in it.

Everything comes to an end, Creg. Arseholes don't get to have orgasms.

Friday, 4 August 2017

The New Trend: Buck It

Put it all in a bucket, maybe this time I won't fuck it up, maybe this time I will suck it up and see what I can be.

Saturday, 29 July 2017

Misery And Desperation Wrapped In A Shell Of Isolation, Self-Deprecation And Ultimately Mutilation.

When I was young I naively thought that someone might find me when they wracked their brain and thought of who they might like to be. Then I grew up and thought that maybe, at least someone might find me when they thought of who they might like to see. But these days I'd be lucky to be found even by an auto-dial machine, even by a government employee looking to chastise me about book returns or unpaid fees. I struggle to breathe - well - metaphorically, as I weave through life despondently not making this world any better for anybody. Not even me.


You were purple when you popped out and I thought that you were dead. The back of my mind had been awash with a sucking sense of dread, and then there you were laying motionless, all blue and blotched in red. I looked at your mother and very nearly said - 'for all the tears and sweat and blood that you've just latterly shed, was this all some horrid joke where we leave alone instead?' At least, I guessed, we'd had a crack and we'd soon be home in bed, because we'd been here twenty hours now and we felt like walking dead. But before I got to air my grieving, capitulating sigh, your mother stopped her screaming, clung to you and said "oh! Hello! Hi!" and then you opened up your eyes, moved your head about and cried. You were both so amazing, so strong, and so alive. I felt so alive that I very nearly died.


Marry hard and marry fast, because those looks of yours aren't going to last. Marry soon, marry now, get yourself hitched to that mad cow. Take the plunge, right off the cliff, tie the noose knot, become a stiff. Marriage is a sleeper hold, be brutal, resolute and bold. White dress and finger crowned, it's the ultimate take down.

Sunday, 23 July 2017

When You Can't Even Be Bothered Grasping At Perfection Any More, And "Nearly Good Enough" Is The Only Thing You Can Be Bothered Aiming For

I feel bad for those pretty girls with their perfectly plucked brows, their ruby lips, mascara'd tips and their foundation laden jowls. For the hours that they must spend alone and early preening for perfection, that they waste it all to come to work and see me in the reflection. My unwashed face, and unloved hair, my disheveled clothes. the way my face isn't quite right and the ugliness of my nose. The way I can't be bothered to even make the time, to find a way to fix my skin or exfoliate all my grime. And those girls stand and smile all the while pretending I'm not disgusting, is it any wonder then that I have grown up so untrusting?

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

The Only Way Out Is With Me

Who is your favourite pepper? The pig, the food or Pepper Steiger? I just want to share my spark with you like your cigarette does as it dangles over my lighter. I'd flick and lick away at you, just like it does too. I'd warm you up inside like the smoke you suck inside. I'd burn myself away for you, and like the nicotine I'd burrow into you. Make a home in you. Make you briefly feel as good as new. Then make you hate yourself like I do too. A guilt you can't shake. A life you can't take. A scrambled batshit cake you can't ever hope to escape or unbake. Here I am, a rolled gold, great mistake.

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

No Sausages On Your Last Day

No sausages for you old friend, you're one step down the ladder. You don't share a farewell party, nor does anyone cook you any cake batter. The halls are empty now of all that would see you go, you poured your heart into this place, but that's something that the walls will never show. You take your petty trinkets and carry sadness in your tow, nothing is ever so hard as leaving when you don't want to go. Perhaps I'll see you round sometime though your future's bound to be brusque, I remember, I witnessed, I appreciated your efforts as you became a husk.

I Never Thought That I'd See Glue Every Time I looked At You

Let's keep trying. No giving up. No leaving our love to lay dying. pushing up the buttercups.
Let's keep fighting. No giving up. No acknowledging the wall's handwriting, no getting stuck.
Let's keep going. No giving up. No slacking off or to-and-fro-ing, let's never break this up.
Let's keep together. No giving up. No throwing it all away untethered. No such fucking luck.

The View

I'll like it some day, when I'm on the other side from you, as the synapses snap shut as I forget all I knew. I'll look back on this time that I'm hating, with a wistful head full of nostalgic contemplating. Everything looks better from a distance... even you.

Thursday, 22 June 2017

Tripping On The Milestone

You can steal my hat and beat me too. You can make a joke about no one wanting to take me to the zoo. You can tell me any number of lies, abuse me, spit on me, tell me how much I am despised. But you can go cluck in a hole, go buck in a hole, you can watch me quit my job and live in Yoevil on the dole. I'm no longer Being Scared of the fact that no one ever cared. For you can all get fucked, it's true - because there's 1000 microstories in us - what the fuck's in you?

Reprise Surprise

How many times have I brushed these teeth, pulled shoes on these feet and walked down this same street? How many times have I said today's the day, everything's going to be different - everything will be OK? How many times have I repeated myself, lied to and cheated myself? How many times will I still be here, looking in the mirror greying, increasingly filled by fear? Never again, never, This year is my year. And if not, then, maybe next year.

Surprise Reprise

How many times have I brushed these teeth, pulled shoes on these feet and walked down this same street? How many times have I passed you by, too scared to look you in the eye, too scared to ask if I could tag along and walk with you a while. None of that's my style. My anxiety has been heaped and piled by bullies ever since I was a child. Now my nerves wouldn't dare allow me to even return your smile, no matter how bad I want to be sucked in by your wiles. Perhaps death is dreaming, consciousness severed and freely streaming, eternally lost, stretched and pressed in the black swarming mess of our collective psychic minds, the universal thoughts disconnected and connected throughout all of time. Perhaps I'll see you there then too, in that pool you'll feel my mind drawing itself to you.

Image result for black square

Thursday, 15 June 2017

London May Be Burning, But My Family Is Churning Over Membership In Facebook Groups

"Katy Perry's hair really got me there," said Ellen to Portia as they lay in bed discussing their recent rutting. Portia stared at the ceiling in silence, she found the remark to be cutting.

"What do you reckon about doing your hair that way, hon?" Ellen asked not noticing Portia had become dumb.

"Fuck you babe," Portia finally caved, "I'd rather wear my hair like Abu Ghraib than give you what you crave, you just don't get it for fuck's sake, thinking about someone else is basically rape!" She stood and stormed out from the room whilst Ellen looked longingly at a threadbare broom.

Image result for old broom

Sunday, 4 June 2017

The Lifeternet Sux

The old train just keeps chugging on, though it's best days have been and gone. Occasionally it fires steam into the air, reminding everyone that it's still there, but otherwise it makes its way, deviation is not within its métier, it grinds right by the pull of l'appel du vide, and shields itself within a chassis of roman-à-clef. It powers on, I know not to where,
                                               nor does it matter,
                                                                          nor does it care.

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

Tin Cans And String

"The signs were all there, and in our hearts we should've known" - that's what they'll say, that's the drivel they will drone. But not a single one has checked or asked if I'm okay here all alone - when was the last time anyone ever called me on the phone? Fuck your lazy shuffle, this mortal coil I'll make sure is not so feebly thrown. Go do your thing and sigh over my old weathered bones, but don't think that you're doing it for me - those tears are for you alone.

Saturday, 27 May 2017

A Little Treat For The Fury, Baby

TAke hEarT cUntZ, I'vE goNe inTo tHe FutUrE aBouT FoUrFtEEn yeArS, tHrOUgh an MSN chAt wINdoW aNd I'm FinALly hEre.

I can't believe how fucked the world is now - are you serious? Trump, terrorists, and Timomatic - I mean, I must be delirious. I thought life was shit in twenty'o'three, but look at this shit pile and I think you'll agree: that twenty seventeen is just straight up retarded. In my teens I wished so hard the world would end that the universe looks to have bent over and sharted.

Send me back to '03 - give me rest - give me shelter, save me from the islamo-christian helter skelter.

Friday, 19 May 2017

Drudgement Day

I can't help feeling like it's the end of my days, so I keep zoning out in a nostalgic malaise. I can't help but drift, mildly dazed, between thoughts of my youth and the places I've strayed.

Saturday, 6 May 2017

This Much Freedom Was All I Could Afford

This much freedom was all I could afford - my budget only allowed me to buy a Ford. No adventure for me, no Jeep Grand Cherokee, nothing for me but being bored. The ad itself struck within me a chord - how outrageous that I have to live my life abhorred, how terrible that my location in life is determined by the sat nav in my dashboard. I will never own a Porsche I'm sure, I've known that since my first conscious thoughts at the age of four. All the nicest things on earth weren't there as a reward, but as a constant reminder of a life I'll never be able to afford.

Image result for man has sex with cars

Larry The Human Lump

I didn't want to do any more. I'd done enough. I was sick of being rebuffed. I was sick of struggling to keep my life unstuffed. I was sick of the way she constantly acted tough. Everytime I asked a question I'd get face meltingly crushed. I just wanted to walk out the door and find a girl who didn't want to be a cunt, but I was a man completely devoid of front, and so therefore I bore the brunt. I let her walk all over me until I could barely grunt. Until I became so miserable that being walked upon seemed like a stunt - who wouldn't want to be me? Holding up her majesty's favourite pair of pumps. I move grub-like by stretching out and then bending up into a hump, and so I've grown, worn down but comfortably plump.

Related image


She bares her teeth at me and asks me if I want her match, or do my quiet eyes belie a need to glaum her snatch. She rasps at me with fingernails I imagine raking their way down my back, looks away and coughs with a smoker's sickening hack. She lets the wad of mucous that found it's way into her mouth, loose, she hurls it violently at the stoop. "Well," she said, "ain't that what you get. A life of smoking and a mouth full of regret." I couldn't help but think she was still hot as heck, but the yellow fingers put me off, the stained teeth, the way that she stank. "Would you like to come back to my place and meet my cat?" I asked, she laughed, coughed and then said "fuck that."

Image result for smokers lung cartoon


You've brought me to the saddest place on earth. I thought the city streets of San Francisco were bad, but somehow this is worse. This is where tiny puppies come to wither, starve and die, children get diarrhea till death and all their parents can do is cry. I just want to go home and be alone, reclaim the safety of my middle class throne, or give it all away quickly, quietly, by wrapping my neck in the curly cord attached to this old bakelite phone.

Under Grundy

He drove the bus himself, like some kind of magical elf, winding it through the choking bastardry, impressing even someone as cynical as me. He stopped, turfed us all out, he called "see you later" with a shout and set us all free to wander the streets. I looked at my friend and said "this is school right?" he said: "yeah, I guess, I mean, well, yeah, like I mean yeah it's a mess, but we must be totally blessed, he's obviously lost his mind, it's the best!" So we got Mexican, saw a film and had a rest, then rang our parents: "you're in the city? What the eff?"

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Four Walls

He just wanted to be free, to enjoy life, to bask in the sun as it melted into the sea. So I took him, built a box for him and stuffed him in it. I filled it with flotsam and other jettisoned rubbish. Gave him barely enough room in which he could rummage. Then I turned on the tap and filled it with a hose. Let him slowly expire as the water levels rose. All he wanted to be was free, but instead he lucked out and got trapped inside a box called me.

Foxy Boxing

"It was a life that was long and often unrewarding," Tom said as he picked his cardboard box up from what used to be his desk. The younger now ex-coworker who had been assigned to escort him out, tried not to meet his gaze. He shuffled about Tom awkwardly, hanging onto the dream of fitting in a smoke break as they headed into the lift.

"It's all boxes, Jimmy," said Tom as the elevator doors closed. "Four walls, that's all anyone wants. Look at us shooting about in this metal box, with me clutching this box full of twenty years worth of sentimental rubbish that'll only bring me misery."

James, who didn't like the name Jimmy, remained quiet, wondering when it would end. All James dreamt of was the door opening and Tom's scent being dispersed about in a less concentrated area.

"We come screaming into this world out of a box and spend all our time striving for a replacement. A house, a garage, our girlfriend's box. All we want is box until we're dead. All those wasted years striving......... And where does it all get you in the end?"

"In a box," James said.

Thursday, 20 April 2017

He Died Doing What He Loathed

Don't let me die living the dream. Don't let me die doing what I love. I don't want my friends and family to get out of it so easily when finally I get rubbed. Don't let them say: "oh, you know, it's not so bad, he might've been a married man, and a loving dad, but at least he died doing what he loved." I don't want to go down like that, bruv. I want them to go down kicking and screaming - just like me. I want them to be inconsolably irretrievably wrecked due to missing me. I want them to put ashes on their heads and rip away their clothes - because I went down working at my desk, doing what I loathed.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Living The Semi-Detached Life

I'm living a semi-detached life, in a semi-detached house with a semi-detached wife. I have semi-detached friends that never visit nor call, and a semi-detached grip on reality overall.

Sometimes, in my own semi-detached way, I'll come on strong, such as by telling some poor soul to have a nice day. But of course, I don't mean it, and they always look away, hurriedly scurrying back to their fully attached chalets.

Saturday, 15 April 2017


If humanity was a sandwich, well, I'd be the crusts. The unnecessary, unwanted, discardable cuffs. Slightly more difficult to digest but still so easily crushed, the dust of life which one might so detachedly brush.

I think that if you took the time and let us see what we could be, then you would find nothing more nourishing than me.

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Born Too Soon

Because everyone is easy now and no one gives a shit, they're all begging oh so desperately for someone to fill their slits. These days it's just a mechanical reaction, a chemical infraction, the in and out stab action of a repetitive impaction. Just give it a try and if you don't like it, skip that guy next time - to miss out entirely, truly that would be the crime. "I sucked him off for a bag of crisps!" almost coyly she did cry it, well TMI my chubby lass for I've no crisps and I'm far too old to try it.

Image result for bag of crisps

Postman's Sac

The post arrived. He shuddered. He was such a skittish, timid man that the sight of the neighbour's mail amongst his own was cause for crippling consternation. He began to pace his kitchen and mutter, "it's appalling really. Really not my fault," whilst he wrung his hands and scrunched his cheeks into his eye sockets.

He'd long since begun throwing the neighbour's mail in the bin, after coming to terms with the fact he was now no longer a law abiding citizen. He'd fantasized about dropping it over of course, tipping his make believe hat at his neighbour and confidently chattering about the state of the weather. He'd then deposit the mail in the correct mailbox and they'd laugh about how useless Australia Post had become; how obsolete the whole concept of mail even was. "E-mail, that's the way of the future," he'd say.

Except it never happened. He once tried - he walked there, mail in hand, ready to put it in the box, when suddenly the neighbour walked out of her door, eyeballed him, and so in panic he had shoved the envelopes back into his pocket and taken up a nervous whistle as he hurried away. It was his darkest fear that he'd be caught sniffing around, like some kind of post stealing freak. He had a crippling fear that he'd be caught in those few vulnerable seconds as he held the post into the post box - the timing of which would make it unclear whether he was taking post out or putting post in. 

Nowadays, the mail just drops into the bin. Not even the recycling. The pain gets easier each time, though he still grimaces as he pushes another letter down into the bin liner, it mirrors the sadness and disappointment which he pushes down into the bulking sac inside himself.

Some day both will burst.

I Postponed Slitting My Wrists To Witness The Return Of Dee Bliss But Now I've Discovered She's Actually Some Bitch Called Andrea Somers It Just Confirms My Opinion That Everything In Life Is Disappointing And Shit And That Like Ragnar I'd Be Better Off At The Bottom Of A Snakepit

And then, that's it. Once you can carry yourself away from your mother's tit, you walk blindly seeking 'it', whatever 'it' is - they don't tell you that bit, they just send you off in search of it. And then when you get lost, and your life is about as great as falling backwards in half rotted compost, they expect you to pick yourself up and carry on. As if this 'it' you'll stumble upon will be the carrot to hang your crown on. So you toil and shape your little world around you, buy insurance and a burial plot to surround you, and then you find out in your final moments before death, that the 'it' has been and gone, it's something you once had and now will end up left.

                you die,
                             generally disaffected,

wishing that as a baby you raided the kitchen cabinet and chugged some disinfectant.

Thursday, 30 March 2017

To Let: Large Semi-Detached, Unfurnished, 4 Chambers, 2 Atriums

There was nothing left to escape. Nothing was left inside. I'd long since spewed every feeling that had wormed it's way from the cracks along the outside of my mind. Day upon day since the day I was hired, all I've gotten is older and more tired. Month upon month since the days I was inspired, all I've done is spun further and further from my old list of dreams and desires. Year upon year since the time as a baby I was so admired, I have lost a part of me that I didn't even know that I required. Decade upon decade until the day I finally retire, I expect all I'll keep dreaming of is the day that I'll finally expire.

The Withering Post

Remember the time the story inside me died? I went to bed that night and suddenly felt inspired, yet far too tired to get up, and so then it expired. A world snuffed out, a spark never fired.

Image result for old post

Wednesday, 8 March 2017


I've scheduled it in. it'll be fine. These few moments are totally mine. I'll sit back, beer in stein, or mull it over with a glass of mulled wine. The words will come, and some will shine, and others will be overseasoned with too much whine. There'll be stories, and banter and ridiculous rubbish, beauty too, and sadness, all of it unpublished.

St. Peter Swore He'd Never Eat Trout, And This Coming From A Guy Who'd Eat Any Bastard Out

I'd never known a girl who sashayed. She was moving in perfect harmony as music made up from bits of older bands I'd never heard of played. 

The summer sun was streaming through the sheer curtains, lighting her golden hair and making me want her all the more. If this roach motel room, which was about the best we could afford, wasn't full of all our mutual friends (and some others I abhorred), then perhaps we could find each other's eyes, hands, and clasp each other's bodies on the floor. Take the grand sexual tour: en-suite, bedroom, up against the refrigerator doors. This wasn't lust though, that's for sure, I'd been pursuing her (as well as a teenager can), for a year or more. I dropped hints, smiles, and worked my gentlemanly wiles. I bought her booze and when she had a blue I even stood up for her too. So finally I got my wish: highschool ended, and all us mates were totally in bliss, we packed up a camper van and ran, to the big smoke, to fill ourselves up on sun and sand.

And then one night she walked in with you. A DJ. A bastard faced asshole douchebag bucket of spew. I always thought that one day I'd wake up next to you, but not like this, not whilst you're using the bed I'm in as a place in which to screw.

Silently I wait for him to finish deflowering you, I wait for him to fall asleep, and I wait for you to snooze. Only then can I allow myself to cry, to sneak out and come to terms with the feeling I've just been sodomized.

Image result for dancing in window


The shrill sound of a crow's sudden squawk, becomes ice water down my spine like fingernails pretending to be chalk. Silent chatter clatters around, surrounding me in talk, the cracks in my mind are no longer muted by this pill flavoured caulk. Life was what happened around me, as numb and dumb I walked forth, and tears were something I once hated but now so desperately I stalk.

Image result for lonely crow

Chicken Soup

You and your photos of your grotesque looking dinners. Food devoid of smell and desire is just a trash pile of colour and pre-digested, pre-fecal gloop. We met that night, dressed up in our rented tights, dressed up to the nines and took photos on your stoop. Your grandfather cried, his crest fell as he laid down the camera and his smile began to droop. "What once was mine I've left behind in the endless self preservation pursuit, when your parents died, I raised their pride and made it well on bowls of chicken soup, but here am I, now left behind on this creaking and lonely stoop. Even if I had no time, no peace in my mind nor strength in my spine, I'd always be there looking out for you."

Image result for old man walking away

Thursday, 16 February 2017

Waiting For The 7:52

I was waiting for the 7:52, I was on the platform on the opposite side from you. I could see your chest heaving heavily in anticipation, of a day that would bring you nothing but deflation. Each intake of breath a fight just to stay alive, and not step forward and let the train turn you out from the inside.

We stand united for a moment, just us alone, our eyes catch each other's and then drain away, back to our phones. The trains whistle in, whistle out, and woosh by, I never got the obituary, but I'm certain I have already died.

Image result for train vs elephant

Leg Jelly Wobblings and Other Jolly Goblins

There are certain moments, stuck in my mind, that are totally potently frozen in time. No matter how desperately I wish to rewind, they'll always be there, making me smile. Like that time that we met at the park by the lake, where you first held my hand and you said you'd separate, all the weight of my thoughts and my heart from the ache. I went along without misgivings, long before spurned, never having had my hopes crushed or my feelings unreturned. I thought that day was freedom, I thought that we were in love, and then I ended up squeezing your neck to death, wearing a pair of latex gloves.

Image result for discarded latex gloves

Monday, 13 February 2017

Dreaming Of A Quiet Isthmus

I had the nightmare again. The one where I'm driving to work. The one where I arrive and spend nine hours sitting at a desk. The one where the boss walks in and tells me that he's going to be putting me to the test. That so far this month KPI's are down and so he's 'sorry', but he needs to be a pest. Suddenly I'm sitting, hunched over wearing an ugly work appropriate vest, my co-worker slaps me and calls me a faggot "in jest", whilst my lunch is finding someone else's insides in which to digest, and everyone is laughing behind my back at every single idea that I suggest. At the end of each day for some reason I'm feeling lucky to be this oppressed, because the alternative in this nightmare world is to be unemployed, and that would certainly make one feel depressed.

Related image

Sunday, 12 February 2017

She Walks Around and Around and Around the Block, How Does She Keep Getting Fatter When She Never Seems to Stop?

Even the bad times gave me that steeped pining pang of nostalgia now. Even the bad times, for all their foul memories, when imbued with the overwhelmingly desperate distance of time, had me longing for something I perceived as lost. Even awkward, stomach wrenching regrets, those that wind a corkscrew through my insides to think of even now, are never the less bobbing away in a sea of timeless youth and of a naivety long lost. Things seemed so much simpler then. Of course, they probably weren't. That's how memories age, fade, and change. The age old spread from innocence to the grave, and everything inside my head that's doomed to be decayed.

Monday, 30 January 2017

Vermicomposting: Can Compost Worms and Black Soldier Flies Live In The Same Bin? Yes!


A while back I bought a Reln 3-tier worm farm from Bunnings, also sold as Tumbleweed Worm Cafe. The info provided was scant, but it seemed pretty straight forward.

Living in a hot climate (Brisbane, Australia), I began an ongoing battle with Black Soldier Fly Larvae (BSF or BSFL) almost the moment I bought my worm farm. I made the mistake of ignoring the advice not to overfeed the bin, and soon the whole thing was overrun. The worms of course hated the heat and acidic conditions, and began digging down and committing suicide into the water at the bottom of the bin. A grim death, but perhaps not as grim as being cooked and eaten by BSF larvae.

Searching the internet it seems most people's experiences are the same - once the BSF's move in, your worms move out, die off, or are never seen again. A lot of people say they just can't live together - and they're pretty well right, the conditions that BSF create are completely different to those required by the worms to thrive or even survive. But they're both so good at what they do - why can't we have both? We need the BSF for processing large amounts of food waste, and we need the worms to turn the mess the BSF leave behind into vermicastings, and we don't have room to run multiple bins!

Problems & Solutions:

P1: Worms don't eat enough. The reason I kept getting Black Soldier Fly in my worm bin was because there was too much uneaten scraps - this was a problem that wasn't going away.

S1: Black Soldier Fly eat everything you throw at them and they'll still want more.

P2: Worms don't eat the kind of scraps I have. I need something that will eat onions and citrus and scraps I can't feed my chickens or dog - worms don't fill this niche 100% of the time. 

S2: Black Soldier Fly eat basically every type of scrap besides paper & grass clippings.

P3: Black Soldier Fly keep infesting my worm bin and killing my worms. At first I fought back - fed them to my chickens, tried to add more soil and wait for the worms to catch up with the backlog - it didn't work, the BSF just kept coming back.

S3: Instead make an environment that supports and benefits both - the best of both worlds!

Final Solution - converting the worm cafe into a co-habitation destination with no extra parts required:

In my frantic google searching to find a solution to this co-existence problem, I stumbled upon a post on a forum by a person aptly named "Sludge Feeder". He had drawn the following diagram as an idea of how a system might look, but there was no follow up or pictures to say whether it had been built or whether it was successful. Well, it does work, so props to you SludgeFeeder!

On the face of it, his diagram looks kinda confusing, but you might notice there's clearly 4 sections - just like the 3 tier bins - just like the worm cafes and worm cans! We don't need the mesh grill because the trays already have fairly small holes between sections. He has in essence drawn exactly what we already have! Great! No extra parts required!

So basically we're using the same bin, but tweaking it from this:

to this:

Let's break it down:

Level 1: normally this would fill with watery leachate, which you would drain out occasionally and use on the garden. However, we want a bit of airflow, and we really don't want water building up, as the worms will sometimes come down to this level when its hot - don't want them drowning!

I tend to put a little bit of shredded newspaper in the bottom of this tray, at least across the side opposite the tap, just to help the worms find something cool and wet when they're hot. There is a raised hump in these 3 tier systems that allow the worms to move from this lowest level back up to the upper levels, and no, I've never had any crawl out the open tap!

Level 2: I used a tray which had previously had BSF through it here, but you could use soil, blended compost, leaves, newspaper etc in here - make it nice for worms. No big chunks of rotting food needed at this level as that will draw BSF into this tray, which we don't want, we want to keep them slightly segregated by level 3.

Level 3: a mostly empty tray - provides an air gap between the heat and acidity of the BSF. I put a layer of shredded newspaper along the bottom of this tray so that the water falling from the BSF tray directly above drops onto the paper here and the worms can feast upon its slimy goodness.

Level 4: BSF home town - throw everything you've got into this top tray, they'll gorge themselves silly. The water and leachate they release will drip down through the holes in the tray and filter through the shredded paper in level3, and then through the substrate of level2, providing more food for worms.

Benefits of this system:

  1. In level 4, you can process large amounts of kitchen waste - with BSF you can process large amounts over days that would take worms weeks or months
  2. You can feed them just about anything, even the stuff worms won't eat. 
  3. Your BSF problem is contained and doesn't hurt your poor wormies. 
  4. You can process worm only foods - newspaper, leaves etc straight into level 2 worm bin (or along the bottom of level 3 if level 2 is full). 
  5. The best of both worlds - in the one bin!


Q. Can I feed the worms also?

A. Yes! My wife does a lot of juicing - so I first freeze the less acidic, non-citrus fine particle waste and then put them into level 2 as an occasional worm treat. The acidic stuff like orange peels etc go in level 4. Freezing helps to break the cell walls of the plant material, which allows worms to eat it sooner.

Q. Well, does it really work?

Yes! Worms are big, and much happier now. The heat of Queensland causes them a lot of stress, even in the shade. With this system there is a lot less rotting going on in their main tray (level 2), which means less heat and less harsh conditions. They now no longer try and crawl out of the trays or spend a lot of time in the lowest tray. There will always be some that want to hang out in level 1, but level 2 will be much more popular. 

Q. I really want BSF - how do I get them?

Basically just wait - if you're adding all your table scraps and waste to the top level like this, and there's nothing else to eat all that waste - they will come. As long as you're in a warm area it won't take long. The adults will lay their eggs on the lid, and in the Reln/Tumbleweed 3 tier system, the top lid has holes in it for air flow, the tiny larvae will hatch on the outside and crawl through those holes. You don't really have to do anything - don't need to leave the lid off or put cardboard for them to lay their eggs in as others suggest. I have gone to absolutely no effort to attract them and they just keep coming. Maybe check if people are selling BSFlarvae on gumtree - that would indicate there is a wild population.

Q. Ok so what do I do when the BSF tray becomes full?

If you're looking to retire the top tray because it's mostly eaten down sludge now, and you can't fit more scraps - great! Make it the new tray 2 - the worms will love 'finishing' it. To get your worms out of their current tray 2, just take the top trays off and expose it to the sunlight, they'll dig down deeper - keep taking a few CM's of compost off the top and wait for them to keep digging down. Eventually they'll wind up in level 1 and you can do the swap of level 2 and level 4 trays and start the process over. At the point level 4 becomes mostly full of composted sludge, you simply stop adding more food scraps for a bit and the current generations of BSF will finish their life cycle and there'll be no new ones.

Q. BSF are getting into my worm tray - nooo!

Make sure there's hardly any food scraps in there. Add more leaves or newspaper - the stuff BSF can't eat and aren't interested in. They'll eventually clear out. Also add your compost conditioner to this tray - this makes it more worm friendly and less BSF friendly.

Q. What about harvesting the BSF - my chickens need to eat too you know!

I've got the legs of my wormfarm sitting in medium sized potplant trays/water dishes or old ice cream tubs. This is so I can top them up with water to keep ants away if they flare up. They also catch falling BSF larvae that are doing their crawl off and attempting to escape the compost to pupate. The BSF will actually climb up the side of your top tray and push their way out of the lid, and then fall helplessly into the trays at the bottom. You could improve the efficiency by creating a ramp in the top level - but it would have to be temporary as you want to be able to swap level 2 and 4 over as you progress. I find that a fair amount fall into the trays down the bottom and then because there's no more moisture they can't climb out vertically anymore and they're simply stuck. My chickens appreciate it. You could also try a tarp pegged to each of the ice cream buckets around the legs, so that when the BSF abandon ship, if they miss the buckets, then they're trapped inside the tarp. This will have the added benefit of not attracting cane toads who like to feast at night on the exiting BSF. 

Saturday, 7 January 2017

Terrible Companions of Vatic

A mote of shadow torn asunder
bearing forth its loot as plunder
lugubrious it melts and fades
into a melancholy haze.
My kneecaps crack and tear a tendon
maître d' and all attending
inspect observe and watch and see
the terror that lurks inside of me


Is my life meant to be so boring?
Vacant, void of all but snoring?
Unfulfilled and aching always?
Trapped in ever darkened hallways?


Glitter glitter,
Cold and bitter,
Sea of grey,
And streetlight flicker.
Ebbing out like lifeless breaths,
Consuming and consumed by stress
There goes one, and then another,
Replicas, as if twin brothers.
Swimming in a sea of suits,
Drowning in waves that sadness sluiced.

I see the glitter on the street,
And watch it shuffled under feet,
Ignored and trampled all it's life,
By lifeless husband and lifeless wife.
Noticed only by their stifled child,
Who still has a flicker of the wild,
Soon to be snuffed by education,
Law and order and arbitration.

And so the cycle begins again,
And if it ends, I know not when.
The winds of change will never blow,
As long as suits maintain their flow.


She was looking lovely in the elevator, I said "I'd love to see you later", and that I'd dearly love to date her. She said "Well this must be fate or, perhaps you're just a little late or something, 'cause, well, I've already got a date, he asked me out for drinks tonight at eight - just this morning, I think he's one of your mates," she stopped, dropped her eyes and waited, awkwardly she hesitated. "Plus, what would a girl like me want with a guy like you anyway?"

The doors opened and we alighted, and I was glad I'd kept so quiet, only picturing all that awkwardness inside my mind. I'm so lucky not to have a spine.