Languidge

Gobbledegook, higgledy-piggledy, piddles out of diddles and cats and their fiddles
Are all gone
The fanciful rainbow of language I used as a child has been replaced by a stark contrast

A vast cache of black and white text mixes together creating large clouds of linguistic grey
The very fabric of this rigid worded suit suits you but not I
Job applications
Vehicle registrations
Endless cv’s and all the shit in between

I hate it all

For me it is a horrible structure of rules and reading between lines

I rarely venture outside them for fear of failure, or cultural castration
And I can ill afford that

I must keep my literary balls intact so that I can one day breed contempt within your mind

But until then I stare skyward at the cumbersome cluttering creative less cloud and the tears of frustration within it like some kind of lamenting sucidal ex lover

If only I can hit those droplets at just the right angle and with lightness of word then the rainbows will return

But it won’t be today or even next week
The forecasted future is considerably bleak

But wait
That’s a rhyme
Maybe it’s a short time
Before roygbiv wording begins its arc climb

I look like an ass, hind sight

The precursor to becoming a pre curser presented itself like this
At first it was an observation
Then it became a thought
Ten seconds later it had descended into a judgement
A condemnation

I didn’t like the way that man confidently swaggered in the distance
A hundred metres away
Before I could even know him

Profanity spat like venom from my tongue
F you
S you
You filthy C
Or something along those lines

Fifty metres away I strode towards him like a beast
He gained pace
He came at me like a Minotaur on acid
It was on

Twenty metres
We both slowed and dropped our heads
Claws and horns withdrew
We morphed instantly back into our shameful human shape

As I passed my reflection in the shop window I hoped nobody had seen us

In hindsight and upon further reflection
I hate my eyesight and shop window reflections.

Not a care in the world

I sit here and write in desperation
The weather is warm, but not pleasant
Humidity sits at around 77 percent, but that’s just a guess
My blood runs thicker than the water that is trapped in the air
This mammal needs a cooler, drier climate

And sadly, it appears I have become so uninspired with my thought that I am describing my surroundings
It is a bleak day indeed
Except it is midnight
This is not poetry; it is swiftly becoming a rant

I have no real problems and that makes it worse

I feel awful for writing this way
Perhaps it is depression
Maybe it is the inner Brit complaining about circumstance

The family cat Buttercup seems to understand the situation
She hops on my lap and rubs my face as if to say it is okay
In her infinite wisdom she jumps on the keypad and slaps my hand away from the keys
I get up and feed her and she agrees to leave me alone

I sip on a cup of rum, red wine and coke
It is horrible
But not too bad
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I think of the bleak prospect of three years under this National government
They sleep well knowing that all I will do to fight them is write words
I hate myself and the misguided sense that I am achieving something by text
It is no more than apathy that stops me from forcing change in measurable amounts
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

The fridge is too noisy and the clock is cruelly mocking me with each tick
Tick
Come on think
Tock
Go on write something worthy, you’re bloody near thirty
I remove the batteries from the thing and time still doesn’t cease
I light a cigarette knowing full well I’m cutting my life short and screwing myself out of years of potential
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I think of my brother as I stare into space
What am I doing?
I still don’t know
I am lack lustre
Empty
Uninspired
Capable of something good
But too scared to achieve it
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I miss friends who aren’t dead
And hate myself for not making the effort to see them
I despise the fact that I consider it an effort at all
What is wrong with me?
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

The hedonist in me considers it a pleasure that I have gotten to know myself
The rationalist sits in the queue behind Mr Hedonism silently shaking his head
He knows full well that I am alien in my own body and have barely scratched the surface
The dreamer in me isn’t even in the line; he is busy writing obscenities of ideas on the grey walls of my brain
I come to the safe conclusion that it is far past the time of reasonable business hours
So I turn them and their thoughts away
The dreamer is still oblivious and continues to scribble away into the night
He knows he has no real problems

But this makes it worse.

Deal

If you scratch my back
I’ll scratch my chest
A perfect symbiotic relationship that I am keen to invest
Initially and Indefinitely

Selfish, not at all
I heard you complain that your fingernails are too long
So let us scratch
And exist perfectly, knowing we are fulfilling each other’s requirements

Sound like a deal?

Account of a recount

The words didn’t leave me
But the magic did
The poet in me had temporarily gone mad
And it seemed the sane part of me had shot him dead, for now at least.

As for my physical being, I was left writing utter crap
Something like a five year olds forced recount of a summer holiday
Worst of all, I had become the sadistic prick teacher that was making myself write it

Why?
Because it was too hot and the start of the year
I don’t get paid enough to go the extra mile.

As soon as the sadist looked away, I got distracted
I stared out the window, looking at sparrows,
Wishing I could be outside, pecking at the scraps of invisible food left by faceless strangers

As I gazed on I was swiftly reprimanded by the harsh adult that I have become
I was forced by him to write something
I came up with nothing

In the holidays I went to the shops
It was fun
It was not fun and I never even went to the shops
But I had to write something.

“Trevor has a lot of potential, but is easily distracted and frequently finds himself off task. Perhaps it would be to his advantage to do extra homework, or take up a sporting activity. Hopefully by the end of the year we will have killed off any creativity he has left.”

Regards

Mr Reive

What's your problem

I believe I don’t believe a word you say, or care
So believe me when I say
I believe you are
The Sun
The Moon
And every other false light that radiantly shines out of your own asshole as you speak

Wait a second
Assholes don’t smile
That’s your face

My word, by gosh, oh dear
That seemed a tad over the top.

Fuck you
It’s early
I haven’t had coffee
And you have a face reminiscent of a scrotum with eyes, which I saw once in a dream
Perhaps it was a nightmare
Either way your being offends me as much as that
Hairy
Sweaty
Wrinkled
Skin pouch with eyes, which I hoped contained two infertile testicles
We don’t need more of them
And we don’t need more of you!

I hold you directly responsible for your stupid face and demand you say sorry
Failing that I will accept an apology from your parents for breeding.

Oh, I’m sorry
Perhaps I was a bit harsh
Please come back later in the afternoon
It will be closer to the end of the week, and a two day respite from your being awaits me
You will surely be upgraded in the dying hours to a tolerable dickhead
I will even fake pleasantries

“Have a lovely weekend”

Three Years of Phonologic Confusion and Terror

‘Partava Nashul’
Party vote National.
‘Rababul cup’
Rugby World Cup.
‘Cawdun stisdix this guvmind iza strawdree wun’
According to statistics this government is an extraordinary one.

I don’t understand half of what you say.
I can’t comprehend the policies you rush through in the middle of the night.
Even if you told me directly I would not understand your slurs.
Your colloquialisms offered to quash fears in the minds of the people, becomes further distorted by your drunken sounding version of a kiwi accent.

Was this stupidity?
Perhaps mild brain damage?
Was it truly a brilliant strategy?
Confusing people into submission with your post stroke words seems to have worked.

I fear your roundabout way of talking will leave this country emaciated.
It gives me the shits thinking about it.
I grow thinner with each coming day.

I fear your jokes when asked serious questions about asset sales will result in a country of sad mimes
Trapped in a box that is shaped like New Zealand that we no longer own
Completely caged and utterly voiceless, inside our own home
Like whales in an aquarium waiting to die
Owned and kept prisoner by the interest of foreigners who want to make money out of us.

I am truly nervous
When they believe when you say
‘Resashaw thus cundrees un sayf vans.’

I am not so sure it is in safe hands.
I will not sleep easy for the next three years at best.
At worse, I shudder to think.

How far? Too far.

Give up now
Turn around
Run in the other direction for a good Thirty years
It is still not enough

We have ruined too much
Come too far
Learnt too much
And forgotten much more

We have erected
Buildings
Towers
Aerials
Monuments
And our own egos to the top of the food chain
We have fucked everything that stands beneath it all

Thanks to our superiority
Not even impotence can save the planet

We stand with great smiles on our faces
Pissing into the wind with flaccid genitals in hand
Safe in the knowledge that science will breed for us

We don’t seem to realise
Or care
That the effluent we expel from ourselves, is rapidly filling our lungs and bodies to capacity, with a cumulative toxicity of thousands of years

This ignorance is perhaps our only saviour
And it scares me that I have had this thought at all
If I have had it
Who else has?

What if they find a way to avert this disaster?
What if they find a way to squeeze the last of the blood from this dry globe stone?
What if we don’t die?
What if we take flight to some other place?

I have one message, if you are listening

Dear Universe,
Please invest in a chastity belt,
We come not it peace,
We are here to fuck you beyond comprehension and indeed recognition.

Champagne astrology on a wine budget

Dear me
That wine was swift
The stars spin in the night sky like they usually do
But faster

By my eye they don’t seem to be concerned with gravitational pulls, or orbits
Alarming?

No, not at all
They dance to the rhythm of my booze thinned blood
The same poisoned liquid that flows through my giddy grey matter
It entertains me and the stars alike.

It’s consumed them like madness
They wobble uncontrollably, swaying in front of my very eyes
Like moth vision, erratically trying to fly into numerous light bulb moons.

I will lie down for just a moment
Surely such astrological marvels come around only once in a weekend
I guess I am spoilt, or perhaps have a drinking problem.

The tar seal is still warm from the day’s radiance
I nod off for a moment
I am rudely awakened by an inconsiderate driver trying to use my bed as a road
What a prick.

It’s cold now
And the birds are welcoming the morning in the darkness
I must get home before the sun rises.
Until next time madness
See you next week.

In a nutshell

Like watching paint dry you’ll eventually go insane.
Walk past it with periphery appreciation.
Feel glad you no longer live in a time where off white is the over saturated colour of choice.
Take solace in the notion that your palate of life is vibrantly coloured.
Worry not that it may not be refined enough to fully appreciate.
Know that you like or dislike and let that be enough.
For the paint will eventually dry and then crack, then they’ll sand it all back and start over again.
As the dust specks of old paint blow away and take flight
It will be as if you were never here.

The only Krisening I require

My brother Kris
I loved you
I still do

Your toothy straight grin is clear as day in my mind’s eye
Like your grin I remember it cleaner than you probably were

A beautiful perceiver of human nature
Soft and warm like the morning sun
I want to be angry but the radiant splendour won’t allow such thought

I miss your eyes
We never hugged
I hope you knew I loved you
And still do

I have little concern for your homophobia these days
I even kissed your cold forehead in that pine box
I hope you weren't offended

I respected your person in terms I can’t explain
I hate thinking about your own self disbelief
It slices my stoic fabric with a cutting and haunting queasiness

I never got to tell you
Or make you believe you were your own version of a genius
You couldn’t write or do math
It didn’t matter
I count you amongst one of the most eloquently skilled, one liner, simplistic shit talkers I will ever meet.

I miss your stories
But I can’t remember your voice.

You were immaculate
Simple and perfectly alien in your environment
Much like that bare pine box that we carried out in
Your presence is still felt but your definition splinters away from memory

I have one picture
It isn’t enough

You’re still around
Don’t leave again
I love you

Your brother.

The day Gadaffi got what it meant to be human

Isn’t nature beautiful?
Is it?
It is.
Oh is it?
Yes it is.

What about Gadaffi?
And his iron fist
The fist that crushed to death many of his own people
A fist that displayed one of our most natural of traits

Poor Gadaffi came to understand this all too well
Sadly a little too late
Reduced to nothing more than a frail old man
That viewed the killing cycle coming full circle
The very murderous wheels he put in motion
Swallowing him up and continuing on its unceasing way.

Beaten and shot to death by his own kind.

Natural yes
But ugly
So very ugly
Distorted to such proportions that it seems normal
Acceptable
Deserved.

I hated all he did
I wish nobody had died
But adding sons, daughters, uncles, aunties, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and friends bones to the growing pile only makes the number larger.

I am not defending that monster in anyway
But at his end I watched on a screen
An old man
Gripped in fear
Begging for his life
Like so many he killed
All scared
All people
All perfectly natural
And so disgustingly sad.

Isn’t nature beautiful?
It is.

Is it?

Room for change

Naked and unashamed
Minus these shoes
No shirt
Managing without pants, shorts, or underwear
Negative of fashion
More concerned with self than a fad

Clothed and completely self-conscious
Positively disgusted at the old cow skin on my feet
Correctly fitted with a fitted shirt
Preoccupied by my own shape in trousers, togs and briefs
Concerned with trend
Perplexed by keeping up with this season and my poor choices

Shit, where did it all go wrong?

Under the influence of outside

I live alone cerebrally
Quite happily
Or so it seemed

I took a walk the other day
I saw a mother yelling at her child
The whole time a dog pissed on a tree without concern of decency
The park existed and swayed in the wind in magnificent beauty
Completely removed and un-annoyed by the noise and urination

I in turn sighed with relief as I came across the light bulb notion of an idea
Exodus
Escapism
External influence
Stark and obvious in this moment
But seemingly evasive until right now.

All I need to exit my mind is to open the door and step outside
Well fancy that.

Garden under a microcosm microscope

I admire obsessively the normalcy of nature
The things akin to regular, spectacular everydayness
Physical attractiveness seen only by the interested parties
The sparkling glints that sit at the fore front of lovers eyes in the exact same way as they always have

We are a repetitive, regenerated generation of seed self-managers
Like ingrained insurance policies ensuring the propagation of our species
We buzz around like flowers with legs
No need for the bee middle man
We cross-pollinate wildly

There is no need, or room for colour blind xenophobes in this garden
The whites, browns, blacks, yellows and hues in between will eventually merge into various versions of the same colour.

Dear John

Dear John
Small minded solutions
Shields the future pollution

Deflecting all voices that may contain reason
Defying all logic of National treason.

You are warm and safe
And oh so secure
Spoon feeding yourself with foul mind manure.

Unpalatable produce fuels your brain contortion
Tis a shame your beliefs won’t allow self-abortion.

But that is you choice
I can’t revoke your voice.

The idiot box
Has your mind under locks
Old John has the keys
But you do not want these
I hope that one day you’ll descend from the trees.

Should have gone to law school, but I couldn’t afford the intuition

Illusions
Confusions
False thoughts of self-grandeur
Handshakes and pancakes
And breakfast, false candour
A whole social structure that won’t understand your
Need for a kind eye to read the next stanza.

I erase jotted scratching’s with my rubber sander
The words breed in your mind like a limp dick old Panda.

Shooting literary blanks between publisher thighs
You watch on with amusement and curious eyes
Wondering ‘is this it?’
Yes you’ve seen the demise
Of a man chose words
Over suits and silk ties.

Do you have a spare dollar?

Please don’t lie in our simple exchange
Or I will not part with my jingling pie change.

I know you don’t need it to catch the bus home.

Your hard crusted feet give away ill crafted lies
I can see the deep sadness encased in your eyes
I don’t mind giving money to hold at bay your demise
Buy your glue and your booze, maybe some fries.

I’d do the same
If I were in your game.

Beaten down at some stage by the human condition
I sure as hell do not envy your shitty position
But I do not believe it was a conscious decision
I despise hurtful eyes and their cynic incision
Clouded by their ill judgement and societal vision.

Ask for it directly
My name is Trevor you can be frank
“I just need some cash to fill my booze tank”
I’ll part with my coins in my back wallet bank
It hurts even more when you give me your thanks.

It means lots to you to me it’s a pie
Just give me a nod and a simple goodbye.

Come down from your bigot tree

You reminisce of far gone simpler times
A time of wide divided lines
When black was black
And white was white
When this viewpoint was still alright.

You remember when gay was having fun
Instead of hotdogs in men’s buns
When men were men
And spades were spades
Before their kind invented aids.

That was then
This is now
Engage your mind
Put your views to bed
It’s time to mend your frail head.

Let people be
Who they will be
Come down from your bigot tree.

My friend in a rut

Two pairs of eyes
And mine makes three
These tiny things
They do perceive
The very same things that do deceive

One pair wants him
The other me
I like them both
And that makes three.

My Kingdom for a smoke

Give me a cigarette as tall as a minaret.
But I don’t want one.
“Yes you do.”

I can see the nicotine, it does its best to intervene.
“Whatever do you dopamine?”
I don’t like it.
“Yes you do.”

“You don’t like it?”
Yes I do.

Here comes the smoking train
I open wide and don't complain
The dopamine has hit my brain

But I don't,
Fuck it.
Yes I do.

Hold on, timing is key

Men’s public toilets require impeccable timing
Get it right
At all costs
Make no error in judgement.

Get it right
And you will enjoy the pure bliss that comes from the emptiness of yourself
Marvel at the pearly white porcelain
It is fit for a king
Don’t feel bad for messing it up
You have earned it.

But get it wrong
Oh dear God
I try not to entertain the notion
You poor sad fellow.

Get it wrong
You will be consumed by the rancid depths
A residual ether from a stranger’s poor diet
It fills your nostrils to capacity
You can almost smell the bowel cancer hanging heavy in the air.

Or worse yet
Here comes a muscle clad
Homophobic
Sport fan
Staring at your dick for competition.

I think I can hold on.

Stain at the end of my street

You’re a self-confessed millionaire .
You drive a shitty white station wagon.
You ride a shittier scooter.
You wear a helmet and painting face mask when you ride it.
You make me laugh.
You make me want to punch you in the face.
You tried, and failed to get the phone number of my female flatmate.
You tell them you’re a millionaire.
You are not.

You are A
Lying, wonky wagon driving, scabby scooter riding, race car painting mutation, of hilliarious proportions.
I want to beat you,
Just a little.
Stop perving on my flatmates!

Strangely enough,
Fat deluded old men aren’t their type.

As Mad As The Guy Next Door

My face looked like shit in the mirror this morning
Hopefully I smell better in the afternoon.
At twelve my conscience wept as it realized my moral fibre isn’t strong enough to hold me together
I beamed a face of pure ignorance to keep myself at bay
At 330 It only served to send me awash in a sea of self-disgust.

It’s all very poetic, but it doesn’t have the balls to kill me.
At least it appears that way.
At 1 am
Is this madness?
or just intervention?

Do you feel the same?

A day in the life of a strangely normal person beginning again.

Just For An Evening even

Just for an evening
Allow me to flounder in the heavy weightlessness of my dreams.
Drowning here I’m happy forever.
Deny the buoyancy of my consciousness and the urge to breach the surface into the promise less heights of the new morning.
I dread the sadistic peaks that lift me up
They only do it to give a point of reference to how good it can be as I wallow in the troughs
Up there I survive on a diet of melon and cauli
It’s enough to sustain me
It makes my gut heavy
But it won’t fill my heart

Let my lungs inhale to capacity, the warmth of your memory
Allow me to float here within myself with you.

Just for an evening.

A wee ditty

Dance with me inside my mind
If only for a while
For I can live here happily remembering your smile
For me.

The cigarettes are killing me
It’s so plain to see
I still smoke them everyday
It keeps the nerves
From me.

I hope that I don’t end up
With some form of lung cancer
I don’t want to pay the price of a nicotine romancer
But it’s me.

Tiny love contusions
You leave above my shoulder
Promise to be my neck romancer
Until we grow much older.

Wallow with me
In my pity
On this earthly Crust
I will give you all my love
If you give all your lust
To me.

What a wonderful world

Anyone can live
But not everyone can change the world forever.

Everyone will live
And all they do will change something.

But wouldn’t it be nice
If no one changed anything

If only
If

Oh, if no one made their dent
Or mark
Or blemish

And if we lived in a world where we didn’t have an overriding sense
To kill our trees
To spread disease
To kill ourselves
To stock our shelves
To make our mark
To dis embark
From ourselves and everything we have come to know
For just a minute.

But we can’t.
And we won’t.

I wish it was as simple as living in Louis Armstrong’s conception of the world
But it’s not
And it never will be
We are fucked.

Much more than a shoe

I have discovered nothing
Or as close as I can get
By god it suits me

Alone with my thoughts
I think of you
You may be dead
But you’re certainly around

Like that familiar scent inside my shoe
That only comforts me
And anyone else lucky enough to be marked by your musk.

A bitter sweet thing
That can’t be manifested in a factory
So pure indeed that description can’t come close.

You hang in the air
And I smile at odd times when you float in unannounced
No one knows why I look into the distance when I do.

Never be deodorised
Never lose your scent
Never waft away

Stay with me my brother.

A MODEL CITIZEN

Walking on stilts like a thick legged flamingo
Spirulina shakes are not enough to sustain you
Occasionally you will nibble on a rice cracker like a rat in a cage
Eyes darting wildly to avoid being seen eating
Then you snort wildly into a bag of white powder
Chortling away like a mad Cockatoo swine.

You strut emaciated and immaculate
Impervious to the damage you do
A generation of 15 year old girls vomit in awe.

In your wake their diaphragms quiver with lust
Thoughts of being a healthy weight melt away like their bile soaked teeth.
They expel their lunch and better judgement to be like you.

You are one of a kind
Truly a model.

CHILDHOOD OF A FRIEND

The free range children run through endless gardens in bloom
Into forests filled with the original native song book
You explained but I did not understand the cruel absurdity of possum traps
The gold sand beaches remain to this day frozen in the hour glass catacombs of my mind
I still marvel at the giant footprints of my parents in the sand next to mine
I will never feel as warm and safe in all my life.

TGIF

I sat in the shadows in silence and obscurity

I marvelled at the overflowing human phatic faeces

spouting un controllably from a fountain of distortion that vaguely resembled a human face.

Jesus is this, what I’m like when I drink?



I stood there in silence in the unseen periphery of a piss up

I could take the pain no longer.

I turned and walked home in total disgust.

Not by them

but by me.

I am the same.

I am them.

SURVIVAL OF THE SHITEST

I can’t remember where

But I once read

Sheep go to Heaven

And goats got to Hell

It is indeed upsetting news for the poor llamas

I assume they must wait in limbo.



I understand we have a pecking order

But I grow increasingly confused and uneasy

By all accounts we don’t have beaks.

How long before we fall off our perch?



The notion of survival of the fittest is queer at best

Obesity is the wide spread pandemic of our times

But seemingly represents affluence.

How long before we go too far and tip the scale?



This ponderous puzzle is right there to be put back together

I wonder if all the pieces are even in the box

Even if they are

How are we meant to fix the globe with the confinement of a rectangular, jig saw like thinking?



Has the world gone mad?

Is it just me?

Bugger it

Too much thought

Besides Survivor is about to start and I can’t miss that.

I could live for a thousand years and not understand my mind.
I could know you forever and sigh eternally at your insecurities.
But just for a moment, for this brief time we understand perfectly and huddle together desperately.
We know we are nothing more than the sum total of our experiences.
It scares us entirely as we shiver through the cold blue light of night.

The morning sun brings the promise of another day
That I’m not sure I want.

RETIRE MEANT FUN, BUT NOT ANYMORE.

6am
The usual time these days
I used to sleep in all day when I was younger
Now I just eat soup and go to bed after the news.

My creaking ribs ache with each breath
All my bones ache
When it’s cold
When it’s wet
When I do nothing for too long
My bones ache.

Everybody I know
Memories
They haunt within this thick skull, too dense to learn new skills
Too scared to meet new people
Too tired to watch them die.

This oddly shaped meat sack of rattling bones spills out of its edges
Or would if it had them anymore
All definition is now undefined
Blurred and grey
I waste away.

I don’t have my own teeth
But at least I have bowel control

I once looked forward to these workless days
These days nothing works at all.

Welcome to retirement
Like it’s something to look forward to
Ha!

So these are the golden, twilight years

GO EAT A AUCKLAND.

Hey fair city,
I took your ride.
You took me to the dizzying heights of your sky scrapers.
When the ride came crashing down you left my head in the clouds and my face in the gutter.

Hey there fare city,
I paid all the way.
I left all my ambition inside your high priced bars.
The very same ones kept me captive for years.

Hey there fear city.
You scared me to death.
You convinced me that I wasn’t strong or gifted enough to swim in your bottomless pool of talent.

Hey there city,
I’m not scared anymore, I see what you are.
Fuck your circus!
You can’t have my soul!
I won’t pay anymore!

CULTURE SHOCK AT tHE INTERNATIONAL FOODCOURT

Lady on the other side of the food court with a lovely new haircut
I am not sure if it is you or your friend with the UTI
But you are speaking too loud.

Man to my left with a bowl of some of the most generic Chinese food I have ever seen.
You are staring too hard
They have seen you and lowered their voices.
They are looking at you with disgust in their eyes
You are nothing but a pervert
Save yourself now and avert your gaze.

Me with a curry in a dark corner at a table for one
My observations make me feel superior
I am no better than you
We are all brought together by a love of crap food.

I KNOW YOU ARE, BUT WHAT AM I?

My brain lies dormant on the floor with that same antagonising gaze
“What are you gunna do?”
I try to kick it under the bed
It’s too full to fit
filled up with hopes and dreams.
“Don’t forget unattainable goals.”

I can’t silence its taunts
It seems we are linked
“Ha, you wish.”

My cupboard offers the chance to shut it away
It slips of a coat hanger and falls to the floor.

Now I have a headache
“I’m sorry, don’t hurt us, we can do something I’m sure.”
What would be the point?

My brain slinks away defeated
Its attempts to rouse brilliance failed.
It won’t try it again
At least for a week.

We get along fine at parties
In fact we’re quite pleasant.
I can’t work it out.

It’s the day to day existence that gets us both down
“And the statistical truth of our lack lustre performance.”
Fuck you they’re just figures.
“The numbers don’t lie.”

Now we’re not talking and are mad with each other
Sitting inside room 21 b of the psychiatric ward explaining ourselves.

I open my mouth
Here come the drugs.

See they’re trying to change you
It is your fault.

But it’s too late
It gives no reply

I am numb
I am devoid

And I sleep like a lamb.


Luck

STOP TOUCHING ME

Oh dear people that touched me with your generous, shining souls
It was gold in my mind
But my fools memory now replicates a cheap much duller version.

Oh good friends who walked in and changed me
who moved on seemingly in a heart beat
I know it was years
But that’s relative

Oh kindred spirits that went to the bar and beyond
Do I swagger eternally in your memory?

Oh dear estranged that convinced me ever so briefly that human kind wasn’t completely doomed
I am utterly and eternally screwed without you.
Once again this is relative
But it doesn’t make it less real.

All good people coming my way
I don’t think I can take another one of you.
Your kindness and sincerity will surely do me in.

Eclipsed by booze, the dawn of man, and apocalyptic dinosaurs in no particular order

I gravitate toward the bar and am consumed by consumption
Out of the blue the being that you recognise is eclipsed.
A menacingly slow but steady, dark blurred version of myself begins to manifest on my face
I remain vaguely familiar, for a while at least.

You look away for a second to point me out to a friend
By the time you turn back it appears I’m completely gone
The crawling dark shift moved quicker than first glance had appeared
All you can see is the red faced glow on the periphery of my cheeks
Time seems to stand still.

You have seen it all before
But something in your nature shivers as you toy with the notion of the permanence
The alcohol apocalypse and the complete destruction of everything my mind knows
It doesn’t sit well with you.
You shake your head.

I spin into orbit like a shot up star only to re-enter seconds later crashing into the ground meteor style
Extinction.
Peace.

It’s the dawn of man now and I stumble to the cafe
A few people excitedly enquire if their peers had partaken in the under whelming marvel of yesterevening

I seek enlightenment from the baggage that weighs heavy on my mind
But the coffee gods are cruel and the breakfast sausage repeats.
I am reduced to nothing.
A man.
A quivering self-loathing mess.
Facing a porcelain hell designed for all kinds of horrible shit.
But why this?
Why me?
I’ll never do it again.
But I know I am powerless to stop the heavenly mind state and evening glow of the moonshine that calls to our kind.