Writing 3

UNCLASSIFIED POEMS FROM GODFATHER PAGE

THE COST OF THE CRIMSON RIVER

How much do you cost?
how expensive is your life?
how much can you afford?

If I tell you the crimson is flowing
again
for the first time in a life time

do you ponder the cost?
wonder the price?
cough up a few quid?

It’s cheap to me
a million quid to my detriment
would you pay it
at half the price?

I’m not looking backwards
it’s all behind
just a glimpse
in the rear view mirror.

I paused for a moment
on the wrong side of the tracks
stopped to look back.

I saw a reflection
mirrored myself
it was instinct
not on purpose.

My pain anyway
you get no say
on
how much I pay.

and right now
as we clean our
crimson flow,

I’m cheaper
or more expensive
than you or I
can ever afford.

Hence why the crimson
sometimes has to flow.

It’s cheap
at twice the price.

LAST THING BEFORE BED

Anyway,
it’s late,
the lamps are off,
the disco lights are still being shit,
there’s only one candle left burning,
I’ve put the laptop away
the speakers are on low
way down low,

the evening is winding down
as the end draws near.

I have some left though
to whom do I give it
‘fore I fall asleep?

for it sure ain’t mine.

Only choice
as the rain pounds down
is my own bedtime story.

and you all won’t ever know,
where you’ve been.

what planets
and times
we’ve traversed.

you’re best Poem,
is the one you’ll never hear.

WHEN YOU HEAR THE DARKNESS

Sometimes you feel the darkness
scratching at the door.
But you can’t afford to let it in,
no matter how load it might roar.

You once thought it was your friend,
you let it inside.
And when you look back,
it’s a surprise you never died.

Keep your mind sealed
and locked down tight.
’cause you know if you let it in,
you’re in for a giant fight.

A fight against yourself
that you can never win.
So when you hear the darkness,
DON’T LET IT IN.

THE PRICE OF PAIN

What price we pay
for saying our own truth?

My pain is worth it,
is yours?

WORDS

Words
are things
we use
to
say things
or
explain things
or
to make somebody cry
or be happy
or egg them on
or manipulate them
or encourage them
or make them feel wonderful
or

One word can make you cry
one word can make you orgasm

One word can hurt
more than any other

You can stroke somebody with a feather
to a sensual level
by the use of
words

Meeow.

DIVING BOARD

One climbs the steps
to the
highest diving board

one looks down
at the empty
pool

without the water
one knows
one will crack one’s skull
and
splatter one’s brains

one jumps off
anyway

– – –

when the knife
comes a-calling
3 seconds
is all you get

rescue me
or
weep for me

too late
the deed is done
the diving board has been leapt off

WE LIE

One of the things
we say to people
who have
“normal”
heads

is that
eventually
the screaming stops.

It is our biggest lie.

THE SMOOTH OF PEN AND PAPER

The ants are crawling
all over my skin
not real
just metaphor
as the
fountain pen
glides smoothly
over the
silky
paper

It is beautifully smooth
to write
despite
nothing to write

Just random words
skating onto the page
for no other reason
than
the joy of the
smooth pen
on
smooth paper

is this a poem
or just
an ode
to the joy of putting
pen to paper
and the wonder
of creating smooth words

Question mark

PAID IN FULL

Me silently screams
into the empty
darkness

Not even echoes return.

’tis the price I pay
that
one day
I will pay

in full

ANOTHER DAY (OF MENTAL AGONY)

Another day off work
another day in bed
another day screaming
inside my own head.

Another day wishing
that I could go away
another day wishing
I wasn’t this way.

Another day of new scars
inside and out
another day of crippling
self doubt.

Another day of self hate
another day lost in the mind
another day of treating
myself so unkind.

Another day of pain
another day I ache
another day of wanting
not to be awake.

Another day of living
in constant fear
of another day of making
myself not be here.

Another day
worse than the last
another day I struggle
to make it not be my last.

Another day of being me
Another day of
mental
agony.

THE UNIVERSE GOES QUIET

Sometimes
I
SCREAM
so much
that when I
finally
murder myself
the universe will breath a sigh of relief.

WORDS

Who do you message
when you’re alone.
Not lonely
just
alone.

Who do you give the words to?

do you write them for yourself
or send them to someone else?

where do they go,
these empty words
that never get said
’cause I fell asleep?

Do I dream them?
Do they fade away?
Do they wait for another day?

Do people receive the beauty
my thought words only say?

WORDS

Hi Martin
this is Martin
is it new year
have you said hello
have you shared words
have you done all you always do
always want to do
always need to do
always do
have you
done?

Yes,
all meek,
sorry.

Where is yours?

well,
erm,
is said

NO

I sent

NO

well, erm

exactly, he said.

That’s not how you win,
I told him.

I know,
he said
but, just

NO. Was me for once
doing grown up.

He gets back in his place,
I get to weep again
for the both of us
without the fear

and the world
turns

the beauty of beauty
is always the giving
and one should
never
dare forget

LIBER M: CHAPTER 1

science
is just human beings
trying to instil order
onto the natural chaos of the universe.

The universe
was born from chaos
it is chaos
and it will die in a glorious display of random
chaotic
beauty.

Trying to place order
on our puny corner of the cosmos
is like trying to build a house of cards
in the middle of a hurricane

All these things we cling to
love
hope
faith
even friendship.
They’re all just ports we use
to try and weather the storm.

But the storm’s always there
even if we don’t see it.

Chaos
is the very nature of existence.
From the smallest quark to the largest
supergiant
orbiting the galactic central core.

A butterfly flaps it’s wings
in Kansas
and the first child born on Mars
dies at birth
The mother walks naked out of an airlock two weeks later.
This is the way of chaos.

There are no patterns
Rules don’t work
Your formulas fall at the first hurdle.
You might as well try lassoing the wind.

Life is chaos.
Chaos is life.
Happiness is an illusion.
Illusions are lies

There is no truth.
Truth is an illusion,
born from the chaos of lies.

Chaos lies in your hearts and minds.
From the scratch at the window
to the howl of the wolf when you’re alone in the forest.

Planets spiral on unknown orbits
careening out of control.
Stars explode at the touch of an atom
hurtling beyond imagination.

Everything you know
Everything you think
Is chaos.

Life itself is just an illusion
told by storytellers to keep the darkness at bay.

All hail Chaos

WORDS

Sometimes I can’t think so I scream
sometimes I think so I scream
sometimes I scream
to drown out the thinking
sometimes the thinking is the screaming
sometimes the screaming is the thinking

I don’t know if the point
is to separate the two
or join the two

Why do I screameth
inside me own noggin
when I not even be sad?
pray tell

If the screaming is for me
to release the pain
then why doth the screaming
be inside
where no soul hears
but also rears
when Happy be out to play?

What is the screaming
why is the screaming
why is it sometimes
painful screaming
release screaming
beautiful screaming
but always
now and again

screaming inside your own head.

You scream for victory
you scream in defeat
you scream in orgasm
you scream at the death of a child

you scream in fright
you scream in delight
you scream I scream we all
scream inside our own heads, Eileen
to make it rhyme

Screaming isn’t de facto
it isn’t default
it’s maybe defensive
it’s maybe unnecessary

It’s very often quiet
sometimes for weeks
even months
if one gets lucky

but
internally
Lady Screaming

never truly fucks off.

TORY DILDO

And as the Tory Government
slides the dildo
deeper and deeper
up the nations’ arse,

“Where’s our lube?” the subjects cry.

“Lube yourself,” the leaders reply

And with the help of Farrage,
Hopkins and Co.
we scream at immigrants and different folk
and ease that dildo
up our own arse.

JANIS

I sometimes have dreams
of Janis Joplin
dripping sweat
fresh off stage
full
of manic energy
and she
she
rides me
she rides me to heights of
frenzy
not normally known
to mortal man
she
uses me
in every way possible
and some that be physically not
and I be a rag doll to her desires
as I’m flung
hither and thither
about her mysterious
erogenous zones
be they body or mind
until she is sated
and casteth out
my empty shell
with a personal dirge
sang farewell
by the goddess herself

CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME

Everybody
has deaf ears
when it comes to my own pain.

How loud do you shout
How much do you drown me out

How much screaming
how much pain
how much
internal
aaaaaaaaggggghhghhgahgahhg

can one bear?

One thinks one is clean
cleansed from the
dark
and the
screaming

but then

a thing happens

and one is back in the
dark
one is back in the
pain
one is back
screaming inside.

It’s
half a lifetime
to escape from
but
a moment of lapse
to fall back into.

One pays a hefty price
per relapse

BEST FRIEND

Thou
thou intrigueth me.

Thou doth
ease my mind
my pain
my inside.

You
thou
thou art
the most least scary human on the planet.

I fear nothing from thee.
If death be at another’s hand,
let it be thine.

Once within
your aura of you
we are the same
no fear no worry
just wonder no shame

Like two spaceships docking
in the depths of space,
umbilical extended
CLICK
TURN
oxygen shared
internal cargo shared

all astronauts breath each other’s air.

A shit analogy
I don’t care.

I don’t need you all the time
too often
would be too much

just a top up
now and again
of the wonder
and safety
of being in thy presence

LET’S MAKE A POEM

Lets say some words
lets make a poem
lets put thought to fingers
to key presses
to letters in the write order
to make a word
a line
a sentence
a whole stanza
if thou pleases

…whatever one of them is.

Just chuck words on a page
pen to paper
put them in the roughly correct order
they make sense
they fit
they flow
they have meaning
they say something
anything
they don’t need stories
they just need to
exist.

…The power of a word begins with the fact that it exists.

PUNCTUATION

I sometimes forget
what nouns are
are they the
‘doing words’
or is that verbs?

so then,
what are adverbs?
do they go in reverse?

how does punctuation work?
comma
colon
semi
apostrophe

IS IT A FULL STOP A COMMA OR A SEMI FUCKING COLON FOR FUCKS SAKE?

all these rules you learn about a follows b
and c rhymes with double you

I learnt them all
then forgot them all
then tried to remember them again
and then just flaunted them.

The beauty of language is its fluidity
here are the rules,
now go forth and abuse them,
manipulate them
twist them
turn them
make them dance
with
…

just, please don’t use this loaded gun for nefarious reasons.

CRYING FOR HELP OR WRITING A POEM?

When is a poem
a poem
and when is it a
cry for help?

Am I just saying this
am I just saying that
am I quoting someone else
remembering a memory

or

am I writing a script
screaming from the crypt

tell my story
bring me alive
keep me alive

Maybe,
I just like making words rhyme

SKELETONS WRITE POEMS

The empty pen
scratches over the paper
no ink flows
no words flow
just empty skeleton hands
autonomous in death
scratching empty quill
over dried up parchment.

OUT OF CONTROL

How do you know
when you’re out of control?

when the brake pedal fails
when you crash into a wall?
when you’re careening
and colliding
all over the place?

when the bus won’t stop
at your stop
and the train keeps on a rollin’?

When the sun explodes
when life kills you
or you
murder your self

Maybe?
when you
“Grow Up”
it all stops?

If you’re out of control
can you ever really know your out of control
especially
in the midst of being out of control?

what is control anyway
do we have the same controls
are they like rules
or buttons on a spaceship?

whose control am I out of?
assuming I were
which I’m not,

just asking for a friend.

SCRATCHING A MENTAL ITCH

I do sometimes scratch an itch
more than I should
so hard
it draws blood.

By then it’s too late
you can scratch it again
it’s not about the blood
it’s relieving the pain

or is it?

Am I adding up
or taking away?

The more I scratch
the less it hurts
but part of me reminds me

the more I scratch
the more it hurts

your skin is peeling off
for Crickey’s sake

but,
they are different pain,
surely?

DON’T LET YOUR GUARD DOWN

When the Melancholy hits
and the Sad
enters your soul.

It doesn’t go away
the very next day
as if you’ve been cleansed
as if you are whole.

it lingers
it loiters
in various memories
thoughts
moments.

it lurks
waiting to pounce
at your most unexpected
uninvited
unprepared
moments.

Two days after an Episode
you think you’re in the clear
then

BLAMMO!

you’re completely fucking Sad
for no fucking reason.

The danger doesn’t pass
when the Incident is done.

it just goes back into hiding
like Cato in a closet
waiting for you
to feel safe again
and lower your guard.

These days of darkness
moments of Mental madness
attacks from within

these things
these brief glimpses
that others get to see

are the merest
whiff
of the tip of the iceberg

The Mental mind
loves these things.
It nurtures them
in the back of the brain
in the darkness
where it knows
one dare not look.

And they always rear their head
the second
we let our guard down.

SELF BEAUTY

Self Beauty
is ludicrously expensive,
unless you’re an
arsehole
ego
wanker

then
it’s as cheap as chips.

UNHEARD SILENCE

SCREAMING
into the void
echo back
echo
echo
echo

who is listening
is anyone replying
or are the echoes
just echoes?

Let’s ask the silence
how loud are the screams
when the echoes aren’t there
and nobody hears

then we die
in
unheard silence

JUST SOME WORDS IN A POEM

Here are some words
they don’t mean anything
no hidden context
no subtext
no
secret code

just some words
in a poem
no cry for help

just some words
in a poem

no secret screams
no looking for the exit
no wandering in the dark
no beautiful fields
of flowers
in the darkness
of existence
no secrets
or
macrocosms
or
microcosms

just some words
in a poem

nothing to see
move along

BUKOWSKI

I think about Bukowski
alone
in a room
no pants
whisky
cigar
radio playing
classics
roaches
noisy neighbours having sex
gunshots down the street
behind on the rent
ex wives knocking on the door

hating the world

But always with a saviour,

a

TYPEWRITER

a device invented for as much as to relieve pain as opium.

–

for such a brute of a man
he fares well
as a good example
of Art done well

THE SECRETS WITHIN WORDS

I wonder how many secrets
are hidden in words?

What is behind
such and such
a line

analysing a suicide note
transcribing a holy script
from one language
to another

speaking
instead of listening
Rickrolling

what does my favourite song
really mean

did Da Vinci have any word secrets or are we just looking for pirate treasure?

how much screaming
is behind the quiet bits,
not the obvious bits?

– the secrets,
behind the
TYPEWRITER

OH WHAT A LOVELY POEM

Sometimes
you can scream
in your poems,

you can rape the world
scream at the whirlwind
murder yourself
over and over
and
over and over
again
until you murder yourself
into the dirt

with your own words.

and everyone is like,

“oh what a lovely poem.”

——————-

once again
I’m screaming in pain
inside

Is it because I have too much to give?
have I not given enough?
have I given too much?

etc

in thinking
of giving.

Was the
pain
always like this?

I seem to remember
it used to hurt
differently.

Back then
I had too much
Sad
to get rid of

Now

it’s the same but,

how do you explain your mental head when it goes all bullshit reverse but sill the same just full of different bullshit to get rid of,

this time it’s nice shit

ART TO EASE THE PAIN

Popped into the escape place
the Godfather page
emotions to get rid of

pop in here

put them in the form of
poetry
maybe even make it rhyme.

No one will know you are screaming
just words on a page
to be analysed
or not
long after you’re dead

Scream into the darkness
disguise it as a poem
wrap it up in words

bundle it up
present it to the world

…

by the time
you’ve created,
an analysing poem
while analysing along the way

the pain is gone.

the poem is shit
but the pain is gone.

Art
doesn’t have to be good

NOTHING TO GIVE

I don’t have a poem in me
I have no verse to say
but the words,
the feelings,
the
Poetry

is screaming for release.

I have nothing to tell
anyone
about how beautiful they are

except myself.

No rhythm
no rhyme
no reason

just

words that aren’t even there,
unsaid.

That isn’t enough for the Poet.

He always wants to give more.

TOO MUCH SCREAMING FOR SLEEP

this is not a poem
this is me screaming
and screaming
and screaming
into the void
into the dark

I don’t want anyone to hear
listen
reply
I’m just emptying
the dustbin
of my mind
before bed.

can’t sleep with that shit inside me.

RECEIVING ART

A thing about the thing
about seeing yourself
is that you have to see yourself
from the outside

but we can’t.

We can’t.

A comedian can never laugh at the joke they tell
the way we do.

Dave Gilmour once said
I will never understand the beauty
of
Pink Floyd
because,
I’m Dave Gilmour.

The creator can never see the beauty of their creation
the way we do.

I would never want to be
say
Chuck Berry
but
I sure as sugar would like to be there
the first time
he played a new song
to
twelve people.

The beauty of
Art
is creating it
but it’s true beauty
is being there,
when they first do it
or show it
or present it
and
hope
and hope
and
hope

that someone
digs this weird shit they have created.

And then one dances like an absolute lunatic
for forty five minutes
and after
the band are like
dude
thanks for dancing like a lunatic for forty five minutes
that’s
what our set was meant for.

An Artist
has no idea
how their art will be received,
until it is received.

I like being the receiver.

A PEACEFUL NIGHT’S SLEEP

When we go to sleep
off our tits
and we sleep so easy
and so quick.

do we
help ourselves
are we
obliterating our pain
for an exchange of a peaceful night’s sleep?

or is it bad
to get fucked off your tits
for a brief moment of silence?

I can’t always go to gigs,
how else do I calm the savage breast?

THINKING OF BUKOWSKI AGAIN

I think of Bukowski
sat in the chair

bottle of booze
Classics on the radio
hot as hell
window open
neighbours screaming
cat on his lap
cigar in his mouth
typewriter
and a
blank
piece
of
paper.

Heavenly dreams
are
Hell for others

you may be gone
but your spirit lives on.

I hoist a Red Stripe
(pause typing to do said thing)
and will always tip thee the nod,
good sir.

BANSHEES SCREAMING

I don’t know
if I scream inside my head anymore.

I know I still do
obvs to be honest
but I hear it less
when I do it.

I once screamed so much
inside my own head
the only escape
was dead.

I’m a thousand
lesson learnt
years since yonder

but the screaming?

the banshee never stops screaming,
no matter how many distance yonder
and quieter in the depths.

It hurts
that the screaming
doesn’t hurt like it used to
but it’s nice,
that the banshee
is distantly banished.

AM I CONNECTED TO THE REST OF THE WORLD?

You look
for a connection

you write some words
reply to a comment
send someone
a poem

It’s what you give
what you are
and sometimes,
a reply would be nice.

an unsolicited message
a ‘thank you’
anything
to make one feel connected
to the rest of the
threads of life

–

the pen flows smoothly
over the silken paper
as one scratches out
the pain of one’s heart.

It’s easy
to pen a painful poem
when the ink and paper
are being so smooth

But the scratching
and clawing
and the reason for the words
are never smooth.

–

these things aren’t done
for anyone else
they are
smoothly
painfully
expunged from our insides
to placate ourselves

It’s an overwhelming need
not a want:
we have no choice

But,
a simple acknowledgement
would be nice.

———————–

I don’t even know
what I’m screaming for any more

I don’t know what I need
what I want
who I am.

I just

do stuff

and keep going forwards

SCREAMING VOLUMES

How loud
would you have to scream
before someone else heard?
even how much
before oneself heard?

what volume?
what decibels?
do we need to turn it up to eleven?

Am I screaming too loud?
are we all screaming?
am I the only one screaming?
are some of us screaming in harmony?

Why are we even screaming?

It can’t be a
default
defacto
destination

surely?

WORDS

999

“what is your emergency, sir?”

“Yeah, I have too much happy and am about to explode.”

“No worries, sir, I’ve looked up your profile and we have a gentleman on our books full of depression dark sad but he saw Zep in ’75 and met Hendrix.

He will be there in ten minutes, feel free to give him both barrels of beauty.”

——————

A fuck
of the shit
is that a
thousand poems
on beauty
pain
whatever
honest truth topic words

don’t even compare
to the tiniest slice of the knife.

Why isn’t the Happy
as easy to fix
as the Sad?

——————

I miss
the blood
I miss
the pain
I miss
how easy it used to be
to
satiate me.

I’m not allowed
to hurt myself anymore

I’m down with that
I’m groovy with that
but
hey
wait,

HOW DO I GET RID OF THIS SHIT?

I need an opposite
I can’t always write poems
I can’t always give beauty
I
I
I

How do I give all that pain
I used to give myself
to someone else
anyone else?

How much opposite can I give?

How much giving can compensate for the

AAAGHGHGHGHGH

truth be told?

NONE.

– here be diveth into the escape

—————–

Sometimes it hurts
not being rich.

How can one be
a Billionaire
and not give untold beauty
upon the world

The joy of being rich
is surely
the joy one can give,
with such wealth

You could make
a thousand people a day
happy
by giving them
some of your greenbacks
that you earn in interest
every hour.

When you are rich,
it is a piece of piss
to make somebody else’s life better.

remind me again
what they do with all that money?

——————-

Here’s a poem about screaming,
it’s called
‘Screaming’
it goes like this
scream
scream
scream

inside my own head

I scream
inside my own head
I’m screaming now
as I scream
on the typing
I’m screaming
screaming
can you hear me
I’m screaming

am I scream whispering
or am I shattering universes with my
screaming?

How loud am I screaming
how violent am I screaming
how calm is my screaming

who am I screaming at
why
who
what the fuck?

Oh yeah,
it’s just me
screaming inside my own head,
as usual,
but I just caught him at it
and remembered how much he does it
for the both of us

You have to dig
the part of you
that deals with your pain

———————

How I wish
I could murder thee.

slit they gizzard
puncture thy lungs
sever they artery
stab
stab
murder death kill
in brutal
and
violent
angry
savage
primordial soup
anger
neanderthal brutality

Jack the Ripper?

Pussy unto what I wish befall myself upon a moment.

How many
seven levels of hell
have I beaten upon myself
and nary a scratch,
‘cept upon the paint work?

over time
it becomes easy
not wanting to murder oneself

one learns to deal

but the other
the freedom
the relief
the release
the escape
the momentary FOCUS
like no other

that
that

——————
One day
the doorbell will ring
it will be the answer
it will be the parcel
it will be the delivery
it will be

you take the box inside
you unwrap
unwrap
unwrap
slice the tape
open the box

excitement beyond dreams

you open
the ultimate present
peer inside the box
trepidation
excitement
what is it?

*BLAM*

The box is empty.

it’s just yourself inside.

——————-

Thy beauty
before thou slumbers
must be uttered,
lest thy sleep
less loved

——————-

What you could do is

rip out your heart
your lungs
your spleen
your insides
your intestines

rip out all your guts
and
SPLAT
them on the floor

and trample on them
stomp them
crush your own insides
under your own
jackboot

or

you could

erm,
well,

do the same thing
mentally

in reverse

We murder oursleves
no matter the
circumstance
outcome

our true pain
is our own
eventual
self death

———————

wishes are for fishes
but if i were a fish
i’d wish for another fish
to swim alongside me

upstream

against all the tyrants
all the bigots
all the hatred
all the anger

we’d burst upstream
into the cool
still
waters of a vast lake

surrounded by mountains

alone

together

in the stillness
of that lake

just two little fishes
watching the world go by

and the occasional touch of a scale

——————-

here’s a poem
it’s called
how not to murder yourself

step one

you have too many word left
who to give them to

I know

I’ll send such and such

oh no, they haven’t read my last one from three months ago

it’s cool
no worries
I’ll just send

oh wait I can’t,

the emotions I had were for one particular person
but they obviously don’t care
i have no where else
to get rid of these emotions

is it knife time?

oh wait,
I’m a poet,

here be escape words

——————–

But sometimes you tell me things
and say things
lovely things
weird things
beautiful things
about me
and I don’t….

Hey,
not my problem.

you’re the one that’s friend’s with a Poet

———————-

the screaming never stops,
it just changes its voice

———————-

The Brutality of Beauty

one day,
you won’t be able to do this:
the ritualistic nature of movement
will elude you.

the grace
the elegance
the dance of the words
and the patterns
and the spirals

they will tremble away
as you shake yourself to sleep

alone

peaceful in your bed

for one last journey into the psychedelic of being a fucking human.

———————–

The No Screaming Poem

I don’t have any inside,
the screaming has
I dunno
gone outside?
got a bus to town
taken a fucking holiday
pissed off down the pub
lurking like Kato in a cupboard

but

it’s nice when one’s inside mind isn’t trying to escape from itself.

it’s kinda nice that.

just the calm of yourself and yourself and
neither fighting
neither arguing
neither even ticking the other one off
and certainly
oh my goodness gracious, sir
oh no
no
absolutely no

SCREAMING

(we gave him his own line
we put him in caps
but those things denote
silence)

We are at one
when nobody is doing the

S

word

– – –

beheaded by punctuation

——————-

Love is an angel
love is a demon
love is a stranger
love is in the air
love is all around

Is it?

love is a battlefield.

like yer thinking
Pat
but how
how do you mean that?

I wonder if we differ?

I fear
’tis a sword too sharp for me ever to wield

it will just have to
seep out
when no one is looking
spread amongst
so many
so many
so many

stretch it out enough
scatter it
here
and
there

when even oneself isn’t looking

it’s fine
a bit here
a bit there
none of it is singular

it’s not enough
for any
individual
to think the loaded gun is pointed at them

it is too sharp a weapon
to ever be held aloft
in such a way
by one such as
I

as God’s finest gift,
Satan laughs in delight,
is a sword so sharp
even he whispers to himself,

“And they call me the bad guy…”

———————

here’s a poem about
nothing
it has
nothing
in it
nothing
to say
nothing
big
nothing
clever
nothing
even slightly interesting

nothing to do with anything else

no
connections
no
reason
no
rhyme
no
why the fuck did you write that pile of nothing?
why oh why of why
write
nothing?

Why?

dunno anymore.
i started writing words but then got rid of all my reasons for writing words by asking why i’m writing nothing

——————

One should never look
too closely
it’s all
muck and pain and dirt and agony and loneliness and emptiness
and
dirty.

I shouldn’t wallow
in
melancholy sadness
but when the Earth herself
knits you clothes made out of
sadness,
what else would one wear?

I shouldn’t look too close
but I do
for want of the faintest whisp of connection
anything between myself
and
life

———————–

Sometimes you wake up
and the battle’s already begun
“I take it were fighting today?”
you wearily ask.
“Damn straight, bitch,”
One’s brain replies.

And the two armies clash
on a battlefield
littered with the corpses
of a lifetime of skirmishes
In a war both sides know
can never be won.