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26 May 2012

Silenced

Gagged
I don’t want to talk today
I won’t want to talk tomorrow
The viper that bit me
Had a morbid tongue
The bitterest black poison
Threatens to drag me down
To my darker layer
But I’ll keep my silence
Learn how to bite my tongue
I’ll die by degrees
And keep to myself
The secrets of a lifetime
That was lived in error
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25 May 2012

Dig it

Dig-It
Writing is like a drug (believe me I know) it produces an organized euphoria and provides a headspace where things are crystal clear. When it’s going down the way I want the freedom of the page lights me up – I’m firing on all four and have a full head of steam. 

The satisfaction in the word is nearly orgasmic. I forget the square neighbours and the cops at my door. I forget the trivialities that threaten to drag a man down. I did a hundred meaningless jobs; I was a construction worker, a ditch digger, a window cleaner and a librarian. I never felt right about any of them, but when I started with the words I knew what I wanted to do. It doesn’t matter if I’m never paid, or recognized – I can’t stop now that I found my thing.
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23 May 2012

The Real You

rage_blk
I saw your face
Contorted with rage
Fierce green eyes
Tinted with hate
It wasn’t so pretty
But I think I was seeing
The real you
It struck me as funny
I could not help laughing
You looked so small
You seemed so far away
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22 May 2012

Birthright

Buried

Bake my bones

Brittle and broken

Flay my nerves

Fragile and shattered

I am grist for the mill

Meat for the table

Ache me, break me

Roast me on a spit

Cover me in misery

I am watered down

And poured out

Pain is my middle name

Agony is my birthright

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21 May 2012

Written

Typewriter_02

You gotta have style

Something you can pour

From a tall pitcher

Into a short glass

That thing that oozes

From you fingertips

And shapes the words

Into shade and nuance

Imagery and thought

Something that says

This is me

Nobody else can do it

Like this

I’m not talking varnish

Not just a thin layer

Style is deep

Your style is you

In the abstract

Stamped into the page

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18 May 2012

Mad Man

Mad-Man

Let’s talk about what is

And isn’t there

With a buzz on

Fear the monkey

Fuck the monkey

I nearly wrote my will

Whispered lines

In absentia

A couple of chromosomes

Short of a…

Madman

Madmen are trying to fix things

What kind of things?

Tiny things

Like lives

Stick a little procaine in my life

Blur my edges

Numb my nuts

Too many books

In my locker

Too many crossed wires

In my head

Not to be

Insane

17 May 2012

The War On Sleep

EyeBall

After six days and seven nights my eyes were red and sore. I felt as though my skin was parchment and I was filled with electric bees. My head buzzed with empty space and I stood thinly at the centre. I was insulated by static mush in the midst of an electronic hive. I was thinking in a single stream of mercury. I was constantly in the frame; consolidating the one true IS. Just as easy as breathing – which is exactly what I was doing. I was the density of air and breathed by osmosis. Molecules of oxygen glowing luminescent purples and greens hummed around me. I absorbed the light through my skin in paroxysm of delight and realisation. The everything spoke to me and I vibrated on the words.

In the beginning was the spoken and the spoken was good. Words delineate and encapsulate. Words are the bricks of our universe and they cascaded through my mind to be filtered through my liquid consciousness. This was the high on high; close to the heavens and closer to the edge of oblivion. All this was more than I could translate into cohesive thought. I rolled a number and ate the smoke. The time had come for crashing and the horrors of the deep. Naked, inert and defenceless - sleep beckoned me with iron fingers and I was too weak to disobey. She took me down into dark oceans filled with forgotten dreams. I fought like a drowning man, but she took me hard and relentless into the deep. My cruel mistress, my unwanted lover – she’d always win out in the end.

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14 May 2012

Pig God

Pig-God

The secrets hidden in your head

The occult pleasures of your heart

The treasures you have plundered

Then passed off as your own

Mark you out as a singular failure

The simulation of a man

A shadow in your darkness

In the solitude of your prison cell

You pray to your pig god

That no-one sees your true face

Or the bloody hands

That betray those guilty secrets

And your empty aspirations

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4 May 2012

Smoke

Smoke
I love the way beer burns an empty stomach and leaves a buzz in an empty head. I love the feeling of minor vertigo produced by a lung full of green and the gentle rocking of my boat in the calmer waters dreamt of in my cooler quarter. Send me jazz messengers to soothe my mind and smooth out the corrugations of my life.

I deplore obliteration, but dig augmentation. I like a little spin now and then – to hone my edge and free up some space in my tool box. There are a billion jurors on my case who’ll condemn my predilections as errant criminality, but I pay no attention to dogs with no teeth. I like to cultivate a little distance between myself and the unclean thing, ‘cause the unclean thing really twists my nuts.

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