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?

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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.

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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.

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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.