Monday, 25 December 2017
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
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'.
Thursday, 14 December 2017
Monday, 11 December 2017
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.
Friday, 8 December 2017
Tuesday, 5 December 2017
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.
Saturday, 2 December 2017
Wednesday, 29 November 2017
"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.
Wednesday, 22 November 2017
And you see old
You don't see anyone full of life
That you want to hold
I'm not the dream you and your friends have been sold
To you, my affection and yearning probably just smacks of desperation
And leaves you feeling cold
As far as you're concerned my stories have already all been told
You look at me
And you see regret
You couldn't possibly consider a man my age hasn't yet reached his best
I am not to make memories with, I am to forget.
Open Reflections On The Reoccurring Illness I Have Suffered From And Have Self-Diagnosed To Be Unrequited Love
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
Thursday, 16 November 2017
Wednesday, 15 November 2017
But then I wake and there we are, at our edges of the mattress, our backs facing each other I reach backwards into blackness. I stretch my hand above the coils and along the fabric, the centre of the bed is cold, the outcome predictably tragic, a no man's land between us that says our love has lost it's magic.
Sunday, 12 November 2017
Tuesday, 7 November 2017
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
"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. 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."
"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."
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Thursday, 2 November 2017
Whatever we say
It's laden with past mistakes and hurt
I wish we could rewind
I wish we could meet again for the first time
To when you first took my breath away
And to when I could make you smile
I've been so clumsy
In trying to get closer
I pushed you further away
And now I fear you think there's nothing really left to say
Despite my heart and soul telling me there's still everything.
So with a mind of its own
It was you my heart did choose
You ticked all the boxes
Yet painfully obtuse
In hindsight I can see now that you were never going to belong to me
But these words will always belong to you.
Tuesday, 31 October 2017
Monday, 30 October 2017
Friday, 27 October 2017
Wednesday, 25 October 2017
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.
Monday, 23 October 2017
Friday, 20 October 2017
Thursday, 19 October 2017
Wednesday, 18 October 2017
I miss you (sort of).
Sunday, 15 October 2017
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
I wanted to be the veins to your blood
I wanted to be the clarity to your mud
I wanted to be the diversion to your floods
I wanted to be the question, answer and full stop to your love
But whatever I was, I was never enough.
Thursday, 5 October 2017
Wednesday, 4 October 2017
I won't make your Insta page a place where your followers come to be regaled
My face is probably the very definition of a Snapchat fail
But I promise to love you
And I promise to cherish you
At least until
You lose your looks
And you lose your charm
And become as average as me.
Tuesday, 3 October 2017
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
Friday, 22 September 2017
Thursday, 21 September 2017
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 4 September 2017
Wednesday, 23 August 2017
That even my emptiness left me
And now I think I can float
No drawbridge will be needed
To cross my moat
I reside in alone.
What the fuck happened to us?
There's a whole world out there to be discovered
And I can't even find something as small and trivial as love.
Sunday, 20 August 2017
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.
Monday, 7 August 2017
She's the emptiest, shallow, most ugly of things
It's hard to believe she's made up of the same stuff as me
Underneath her skin
From her skull
All the way down to her shins
Sunday, 6 August 2017
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 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
Saturday, 29 July 2017
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
Wednesday, 12 July 2017
Tuesday, 4 July 2017
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.
Monday, 3 July 2017
Thursday, 22 June 2017
Sunday, 18 June 2017
Friday, 16 June 2017
Thursday, 15 June 2017
"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.
Wednesday, 14 June 2017
Thursday, 8 June 2017
Tuesday, 6 June 2017
Sunday, 4 June 2017
nor does it matter,
nor does it care.
Wednesday, 31 May 2017
Sunday, 28 May 2017
It doesn't seem to have ever been reciprocated much
And this latest one
She's somehow got so deep underneath my skin
It's like I can feel her very essence running through my blood
The begrudging time she affords me an unhappy substitute for her touch
But even if she returned my love
Would that be enough?
Her embrace won't stop me from turning to dust
Maybe my pain is just too much
Just ask Kirsten Dunst.
Saturday, 27 May 2017
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.
Saturday, 20 May 2017
Friday, 19 May 2017
Saturday, 6 May 2017
Thursday, 27 April 2017
Wednesday, 26 April 2017
"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
Sunday, 16 April 2017
Saturday, 15 April 2017
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.
Sunday, 9 April 2017
Saturday, 1 April 2017
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
wishing that as a baby you raided the kitchen cabinet and chugged some disinfectant.
Thursday, 30 March 2017
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
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.