Thursday, 27 April 2017

Minor Key Musings

It's funny to think there was a time when you didn't occupy the empty spaces in my head. It's strange to think one day we will both be dead. And what then of us will be left? It won't matter if I tried my best. If I still failed, people will only mention me in passing with an air of regret. I try to console myself that it's harder to forget our regrets than success. But really that's no consolation at all, my legacy an example in how not to live your life.

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

Incrustation

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.



Sunday, 9 April 2017

She Hurts My Withering Heart The Most

Remember the time the love that you felt for me inside of you died? I went to bed that night knowing my company was no longer desired. And remember the time the patience that you still afforded me died? I went to bed that night knowing my company would no longer ever even be required. And though I've been sleepwalking through life ever since, I'm now forever tired. 

Arthur's Return

Well despite all evidence to the contrary, I still come here often. Perhaps with age my emotions have softened. And can you actually believe how old we've gotten? How many new dawns have we now watched blossom, only to then see them turn rotten. It gets so tiring. There's only so many times you can find disappointment inspiring. There's only so long you can keep striving. There's only so many words you can keep rhyming.

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.

Confused,
                you die,
                             generally disaffected,

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