Wednesday, 23 August 2017

The New Trend: Snuff It

Put it all in a rope - your past, your future, your neck, all lingering hope. Maybe this time someone will take seriously something you wrote and not dismiss you as a fucking joke.

Looking To Trade Black Metal Cassettes From The 90s

I woke up so empty
That even my emptiness left me
And now I think I can float
No drawbridge will be needed
To cross my moat
My soul
A castle
I reside in alone.

Spelunking For James

I'm really something.
You really tore up
The pit of my stomach
I'm really sick
Of feeling loveless
I'm really tired
Of searching caves
Without a compass.


Sometimes I walk by our old spot, there's nothing like looking back to speed up the rot.

There's no echo of us down there, time doesn't care for what you were, the grass is bare, all the birds have flown elsewhere.

I don't believe in ghosts, it's only regrets that haunt you, it's only the things you can't forget that taunt you, the knowledge I was too weak to have successfully fought for you.

We may as well have never been, we made no mark, although God knows you left a fucking great big scar across my heart.

Photographs From Last Summer

Walk out and close that door
Don't turn back
There's no point you even hanging on to the keys any more
The locks were changed
Before you even left.

Brother we used to have dreams
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


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.

Monday, 7 August 2017

Depression Literally Comes Before Recognition

He said he'd be lucky to get paid what he's due
And I said, but brother don't we all eventually get paid what we're due?
Be patient
And It will come to you
I just hope you get a decent view
And not the grey stone colour
That for $25 a month your conscience
Spent its whole fucking life streaming to you
Now you've got the time
You've got some dreaming to do.

L Isn't For Love (Mosquito Season)

She's the most beautiful thing
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

I'd like to hold her forever close
Like a bird
Sheltering its newborn
Underneath its wing

I'd like to take a hammer
From her skull
All the way down to her shins
Obliterate everything.

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 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.