I’m a junkie

Your words

like heroin –

the pang of the needle

stings the skin

before flooding

my body

with warmth.

 

Arteries and veins

vine around the soul

softly constricting –

comforting my broken pieces.

Screaming –

“you are not alone”

 

Let me be

your junkie

Forever.

Frustration

Frustration lingers

spreads and persists

until you want to claw

your eyes out,

sometimes –

I bash my head against the wall

just to feel some relief,

sometimes –

I urge to scream and scream

until they lock me up

in a mental ward again.

They don’t understand me there either.

Burn

Traumatised and anaesthetised, I feel

numb.

I know you still exist somewhere

buried.

I gaze at the most profound paintings

listen to the most seductive symphonies and I feel

nothing.

 

The only time I feel:

visualising a razor-blade tearing apart my jugular gracing me with peace.

 

How I burn

to rest

in peace.

Hope

I hope that I

do not look back

when I’m old and grey

with disdain

for a life

well wasted.

I hope that this

is not

a mistake.

I hope I’ve not

made too many

wrong turns

to find my way

home.

I hope that this

is not for nothing.

I hope.

I hope.

 

Waiting

I wait –

In this solitary icy cavern of black.

A box of matches for warmth.

Burning them sparingly I wonder and pray –

Can they last out this disgusting winter?

Seconds tick slowly –

each one sawing

deeper and further

into the brain.

I wait

.

.

.

wait to feel the warmth again.

Dancing with Matches

I.

September breeds thick black storm clouds that linger

atop skyscrapers standing on catacombs, screaming

down on that soaked sunless desert – splattered

sprayed and showered in red sludge and cordite.

The dead tree provides no shelter from this pelting,

persistent, acid rain of man.

Thunder – tastes of rotting flesh and thorn trees;

boomings – marked by gaps of still silence

so loud

it thumps

the chest.

 

Metallic gates clink and pierce eardrums and latch

and cancerous green vines grip white fences and gag

as flickers of sons fade smaller and colder

until nothing remains of their flaming red match

Cast your gaze down

on that ashen

black match.

 

II.

The city reeks of cigarettes and sex

covered in piss and stained with regret;

while glowing eyes reflect stories of cunt wars and trump,

brains softened and battered by radioactive meat bruisers.

Where is the meaning, the hope, the Divine?

People scream as they commit suicide.

 

Muses and Sirens dance and soon fleet,

racing off promptly to Homedale street,

where the soup’s always boiling and boiling and boiling

and boiling and steaming

screech whistle

then pop.

 

Ketamine pills filled with realms of repression

attempting to bite their own smiley faced teeth;

and fathers unleashing their heart-felt aggression –

fuelled by the fear of their sons being gay.

 

Father, oh father, where art thou you father?

Father, only in heaven you lay,

with wind and wet rain and giant balls of bright gasses,

conduce me your wisdom

with soul

of Tao.

 

III.

Devour the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever

witnessed, with your insignificant eyes,

and wonder and ponder the potent perfection

of a magnificent omniscient alive laughing planet.

Floating and floating in harshly cold desolate –

emptiness – twisting with spirals and pray

for skies filled with colour and beauty and starlight –

and green leaves so wet,

dripping recent rain.

 

Father I see you you are always dancing –

dancing the Argentine tango and rising –

setting – dancing in trees where we’re raping

everything give me more money you whore.

More power, more pleasure – please spare me your sorrow

Nature – satiate hungry dismay.

 

While that match keeps on burning and ashing and cracking

returning to nothing but the black dust of life;

fertilising soil for fresh seedlings to sprout –

to grow and to breathe, to dance and to Die –

to grasp and to clutch and to feel the fresh water

running through veins and sustaining Life.

 

Nature feeding Nature feeding Nature feeding Nature

we are all Nature – how did you enter that body and wake?

What is it that’s reading this page?

The curtains are closing – the end drawing near,

quick now please set the stage.

Ego

The mind rests in mourning,

like soft mildew in the fog of winter.

Finally aware of the dark seed within it.

A seed which has sprouted, spread, and tangled throughout;

growing like a tumour;

a cancerous, malignant, destructive web of black;

tightening its grip around the mind –

in an attempt to defend the very thing of which it destroys.

The monstrous seed sits inconspicuously;

powerfully;

at the centre –

pulsating.

Conducting with ease the orchestra of its lifeless musicians.

Stare.

Stare at fear itself.

It does not want to die.

Die.

Die.

Die.