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The fanciful rainbow of language I used as a child has been replaced by a stark contrast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”