there are days like these
grey like ashtray.
no words to explain the complete
dullness of my brain
except the weather pallette these walls keep out.
physically bound and mentally pasted in a world that knows
no other
one that forgets inner warmth
and bare feet on hot earth.
these placid walls, they echo of me.
i built these walls without a thought,
merely memories that i try to bury into the
cement that holds uneven brickwork.
i was never good at construction
in my years of self destruction.
when i was 16, my heart skipped a beat
and my pulse fell out of time
i guess my life stuttered, shuttered, sputtered
like ket.amine. like clogged fuel tanks.
there are no reasons for feeling like this
so the medical forms remain blank.
the system tires me with its lack of love.
how can we live in harmony
in a discordant system that needs your
full name, date of birth, permanent address
to say you exist - maybe, not even;
all these things they need to know
but no one really knows
who you really are and how you like your cup of tea.
——
people jump in front of trains these days
and the world still turns around the Jubilee and Circle lines.
people who can afford do not give change to homeless old ladies;
people hid behind masks
long before this sickness, already sick.
i travel miles and learn nothing from these
suits and sullen faces
these police bills and letters of eviction
i learn nothing from the ungiving that reign our every breath.
these days
the air tastes like metal.
i get drunk sometimes
to numb this knowledge.
it doesn’t help.
we dance but nobody dances with us
anymore
the beat echoes into the night
as tired as i am.
every cigarette i smoke begins to bore me
and i cannot find any meaning in what i do sometimes
and hope that i can find meaning in the things i do
for others.
people are scared of a virus
smaller than the virus we already are
we forget purpose;
it is a curse, the new age order.
——
the dog sits on my pain
wanting it to stop.
my fused wires are sparking
the cats sit on those like sponges
trying to put them out.
they try to tell me it is that easy to heal
maybe i just don’t let life be that simple
and remember that i was born with two legs not four,
unfortunately.
this poem is filled with lines i write
without direction
but i just have nothing to send on its way.
——
i break promises with every
line every swig
every prohibited high.
i am always on a prohibited high.
if i’d done things better
it wouldn’t need to be self-prohibited
but instead against my firm decisions.
sometimes it is funny to be alive like this
but it isn’t far from being dead
i always had a dark sense of humour.
the indifference does not scare me
but sometimes i end up the only one laughing.
sometimes i hate having lived past suicide.
the second chance was neccessary
but it can be a burden too heavy
to wear on my skin
and my eyes are tired from watching the world
with these undead eyes.
i wouldn’t trade my world for any else,
but sometimes it feels
like i breathe less air
less life
i lead less purpose.
people care about things that give them substance
where i get none.
i am addicted to how shit i feel
i always have been,
listening to joy division and la dispute
for sheer shits and giggles
my heartbeat is all over the place and i think i have
to live with this
a sidedish of a carwreck hit of cocaine just because.
i get angry with what i choose
and i am living in sin
purely because i decide to.
i am angrier than i love
denying how much love i can feel if
i let it in.
it only makes sense
that i have always made mistakes
selfish pain,
fucking typical.
i try to write like i once did
kidding myself that i can live in the present
on the script of a rewrite.
the darkness is different now
it is no longer bottomless and more peripheral.
it is in the lingering hangovers and
things i have not done
it lives in the moments i do not love
the darkness is no longer
all-encompassing but within
i feed it without resistance, and
this scares me.
it is in the nights i lie awake
listening to the washing machine giving up
screaming in my head so loud
the cats hear it.
i drink more
wanting this to stop
i have problems i do not face
everyone around me seems okay
so i accept that i have nothing to change.
hitler pandemics
masked realities.
everyone around me seems okay with this
but i am not.
holocaust stupidity
news of afghanistan like ten years ago on repeat
everyone says it is terrible
sitting before their televisions
saying there will be a revolution
that will never happen
because sitting before televisions
will never start riots that gives
the new police bill a run for.
apparently my friend died from this virus
but his death statistic is the real virus
i do not believe his death is justified
and his life will not be remembered,
only his death stamped and sealed and sent off to the government
as another tragic pandemic victim.
fucking cunts.
the world that has given in to this manipulation
will never recover from this virus
nor ever be immune
the world now spins on a web of oppresion
that will only grow further
than the punks have stopped it.
you will be wrong for not believing
you will be wrong for having your own mind
you will be wrong.
we are wrong now, for this world.
the world was for us now the world is for them
and we do not fit anymore in its pockets.
pockets of love, with gaping holes.
i guess we have to learn to teach love
on a needle and thread
badges and patches
music and mushrooms.
i believe my submission to love
is the biggest dominance.
——
my poems were never high
they were sober, drunk, never high
low as the deepest parts of the ocean
maybe pain does disappear
maybe it doesn’t
i haven’t quite figured that out yet.
i learnt to smile when i hurt the most and now i hurt less
but i rarely smile
and it all seems random
pain is random, i suppose
but so very, very there.
sometimes i think i have cured myself
and this is all an act
but acts do not leave you sweating in bed
and screaming inside when all is quiet.
