27 October 2012

Back Roads

Hand

A thousand miles of black top

Stick to my feet

An ancient map of the B roads

Burned into the back of my hands

A sign that says drifter

Written on my forehead

These old back roads

Wind like my dreams

Off into nowhere

And back again by morning

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25 October 2012

“I never raised my hands”

Red_Fist

Hit with a wet sock; all damp insides. The silence settles on the spongy brain. Memories, like rainy days, are never far away. They say our crimes come back to haunt us; that we revisit them and they us.

“I never raised my hands…”

Liar

They use lasers and specks of dust to measure statements; to quantify, not qualify. Their veracity is a question unanswered.

“I never raised my hands…”

The entropy of those lies tear at my insides. I feel it in my bones; in my aching stones. The sins of the father are visited on his sons. He never raised his hands and neither did I. Convenient untruths fail to salve a dirty conscience.

“I never raised my hands…”

And never shall again.

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16 October 2012

Bad Luck

The-Tower
I’m reaching critical mass. I may implode – explode, or expire. All that’s pent up within is spilling from my lips in a language I don’t understand – all the wrong words in the right order. I blurt, I spurt – my negativity appalls me. I wish I could stop, but I’m playing out the reel and can’t change the script. There are explanations for my plight; a lifetime of suppressing my emotions so that I occasionally blow a fuse and spill my guts. The curse of manic depression crosses the wires in my head causing emotional overload. I put it down to bad luck. It’s bad luck I have the curse.

I believe in bad luck. There is no justice in this world – only good and bad luck. The people experiencing good luck are far outweighed by the people experiencing bad luck. Bad luck is ubiquitous and it’ll find you out sooner or later. Destiny is a concept we are willing to accept if we are fortunate, but we call it injustice when we are not. We regard good luck as a right, and bad luck as a betrayal of that right.

Some say we make our own luck and to some extent that must be true. Poor decisions and bad luck are bed partners. However, the universe is a big place and it’s chaotic. It’s only natural that chaos touches us sometimes. There are unhappy situations that cannot be attributed to any logical theory of causation – we call them bad luck.
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15 October 2012

Supersonic

baumgarnter_animation

I saw a supersonic man on TV yesterday. He jumped from 24 miles and reached 800 miles per hour. Every foot of it I was there with him – falling. It took him 9 minutes to reach the ground. I’ve been falling for a lifetime and haven’t landed yet.

What wouldn’t I give for one of those star busting highs. When the universe is under my thumb and I can walk and talk with angels. The flash of light behind every thought from the illuminated mind burns its way throughout eternity. I understand it all, and I am whole.

Anoint my head with the delicacies no drug can match. Make lightning my heels in place of my feet of clay. Give me wings where I had roots buried in the earth. Let me borrow the sun for a crown – if only for an hour to dally with the stars. Give me one last high free from all chemical restraint.

I want to hold the world in my hands and hold her like a lover; to feel it all – to be it all. It’s only a feeling, but what a feeling. It’s all an illusion, but such an illusion. As light thickens, so dawns the realisation of the infinite – so close within my grasp, but as I reach for it – it fades away.

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14 October 2012

Suicide

razor

I dreamed about the voluntarily departed. They tried to tell me why they did what they did, but I couldn’t understand. Suicide is something ever present in the mind of the manic depressive. I would never go there for real, but the thoughts have been overwhelming sometimes.

There are different kinds of suicide; the slow burn where alcohol or drugs kill by degrees. There are the misadventures who flirt with death; they take terrible chances and check out young. Then there are the deliberate suicides; those that know they want to die and just do it, though often after several attempts. Poor old grandad drank himself to death – it took him decades, he died of liver failure. My best friend Les choked on his own vomit after taking too many pills. An act of reckless indulgence took his life. His lover Stuart went swimming when he was drunk and drowned shortly after. Then there was Shug

Shug was a cool customer. He was quick witted, good humoured and full of confidence. Shug was a fly man; sly but generous with his friends. Once when I was sick (I had the killer migraines). He shared a couple of wraps with me and took me home. That dragon smoke lightened my head and sent me bye byes. No more headache, no more cares - a little suicide.

He was always up to some scam; so when he asked me for the hose from an old vacuum cleaner I’d thrown out I didn’t ask why. They found him next day. He was dead. He’d used old vacuum cleaner hoses to fill his car with carbon monoxide – no-one knows why.

Suicide is a young man’s game. It’s a leading cause of death among teenagers and adults under thirty. Far fewer women top themselves, maybe they are thinking about the effect on others. The effect of suicidal death on others is profound. Loved ones are left wondering what they could have done; why the victim felt so alone and that they had no-one to turn to. The questions never go away, nor does the hurt.

Suicide is a form of martyrdom. The suicide so busy thinking of death as a tragic inevitability that any damage they might do seems somehow romantic. Their complete absorption in the act relieves them of the charge of selfishness, but if you can think of one person whose life would be devastated by your suicide it helps. Perhaps for some the terror of living outweighs the fear of death, but in the end no-one wants to die – they just want to stop the pain.

Saint Christopher

Saint-Christopher

Good old Saint Christopher, patron saint of travelling salesmen and hobos, lost his head for sticking to his guns. He was immortalized as a martyr and lives in daily memory for millions in the form of good luck charms.

I never doubted the possibility of an afterlife. In fact I want one and am determined to immortalize myself one way or another. Surely immortality is the only goal worth shooting for.

I’ve attempted to transcend physical limitations through the use of magical roots and ceremonies. I recognized in early life that we all carry our death with us at all times. I tried to shake of my death throughout most of my life, but I haven’t completed my education yet and the knack of eluding death has always escaped me.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dead peoples dust. I’ve seen friends come and go (perhaps into the afterlife, perhaps not) and I’m gradually coming to accept that I may not achieve immortality after all. I smoke, I drink (and other unspeakable things) If my body is a temple it’s a sprawling derelict temple with broken idols and reliefs of forgotten gods and demons. My temple is haunted by the ghosts of departed companions and acquaintances – some only half remembered. “Qui vivra verra”

So much for immortality – I’ll settle for longevity. Not that I intend to do very much to achieve it. I think I’ll reach a grand old age through sheer force of will and remaining flexible in my outlook. So if I must embrace paganism in order to survive you won’t find me losing my head over it.

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13 October 2012

The belly of the serpent

aztec-serpent

There’s cold blood in your veins

And thorns in your flesh

What twisted design was it

That brought you to this place?

Was it your bad karma

Or simply your bad luck?

In the belly of the serpent

They relieve you of your dreams

They’re squeezed from your body

Like bloody tears

They have all the power

But they won’t give you any

They say they have religion

And a God on high above

They say they found redemption

But you can have none

You have the urge to leave

But they tied you down

You’re never going to leave

These people or this town

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10 October 2012

The Road

Road

Many men died on this road (and I knew some of them). Their widow’s tears anoint the paving stones that stretch further than the eye can. This road leads nowhere and there’s no use travelling it – unless you have nothing better to do than waste time chasing shadows until you fall.

If I should fall don’t bury me by the side of the road. Bury me somewhere like home – anybody’s home. Where someone might keep my grave clean – so it don’t disappear beneath the tall grass. And if no one remembers me – that’s fine ‘cause I’ll have a stone with my name on it. In that graveyard somewhere clean.

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9 October 2012

Cold

human-skull-x-ray

Cold heavy depression clings to me like frost. My gut is as frozen as the bitter end. The razor inside twists, my blood is clotted ice. What hideous dead end led to the creation of a frozen man? What travesty of justice warrants such a sentence?

I heard them say “Stay away from it – it’s a walking corpse” I might have rotted away years ago, if I wasn’t so cold. How I long for the warmth of an opium flush, that heavy head and nodding quiescence.

The unaware don’t see – can’t see (which is a blessing) some are insulated with comfort; others are kept snug and warm in an opiate haze. Some are too thick skinned to see. They constitute the heroic archetype. I shot one once – just for sleeping – lazy type had it coming. Put a 30 calibre in his brain – he sleeps real well now. Men in sensory withdrawal often lose their bodies, or feel like they are in another body. My body is cold – very cold. It shivers inside like a wet bag of snot – it drips internally into a bucket full of cum and slime. Even my thoughts are slow and cold – syphilitic and palsied – I talk with a leprous tongue; my very words are poison to the ear of any sane man.

My pistol jumps in my hand – recoil – cold jism splatters and crystallizes sticky on my trousers. I didn’t realize it was loaded – I’d never have pointed it otherwise; unless to shoot some sleeping hero of course. There are aliens amongst us; homo saps who never learned common grace and who have not a sympathetic bone in their pasty bodies. Some style themselves as artists and bleed goodness and light onto their canvas like puppy dogs on an evangelical charabang. Paint me the colours of the rainbow. Paint me pink. Paint me gold. Paint me out of here; I’m freezing my tits off. Just don’t sing to me – I’m way too old.

I’m possessed, of course. Some alien entity occupies this body. I know what it is – it’s me. I don’t belong here – I’m a parasitic delusion that has to be sated with drink and drugs.

“Methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine?” – yes please, and throw in a little diamorphine to ease the ride. Life as a parasitic delusion isn’t easy – especially if your host is a drag. He is a drag you know; all he ever does is complain and his body is cold, so very cold.

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8 October 2012

Mortality

 

“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.”
Langston Hughes

 

They say cats actually purr as death takes them. That seems a healthy attitude to have. Me, I get apprehensive just thinking about my own mortality. I can’t imagine non existence any more than I can imagine some noncorporeal existence, or reincarnation. I can’t even imagine my final moments, but I’m sure I won’t be purring.

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Rain

Puddle

 

Prisoners of the rain

Bearers of bad tidings

Trudge into the east

Two stops beyond Eden

Where dark beasts are born

Within the hearts of the loveless

False witnesses deny the dawn

To live in the dark

They pack empty suitcases

And run in diminished circles

Like blind men hitching rides

To any other place devoid of light

The lies they spread infect the ear

And flourish like cancer

In the minds of the uncaring

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7 October 2012

Drive

white lines night road

I’ll move over
You drive for a while
Makes no difference
So long as we get there
I’ll give you my shoulder
You can sleep a while
Makes no difference
So long as we get there
The road is long
Ten thousand miles
Makes no difference
We will get there
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6 October 2012

Holed

Black-Hole

A long time ago, but not so far away, I was young and had my whole life in front of me. I was raised in a small town by nice people. Nice ordinary people who fought everyday and hardly noticed me or my siblings. I wasn’t in any hurry to grow up. I dallied in the woolly headed dream like state of infancy and played fantastic games with my brothers during long summer days and nights. Even my adolescence was filled with dreaming – there were girls and friendships I thought would last forever, but nothing was ever ‘real’ to me.

So where did I go wrong? Perhaps life, real life, failed to measure up to my childhood dreams. Perhaps I was traumatized in my infancy. Whatever the reason I always felt like there was something missing. I consoled myself with drink and drugs for the opportunities squandered and the hours ill spent, but nothing could fill the hole that lay hidden in the core of me.

I once thought that love will fill the hole and make me somehow complete. I always thought that life itself sprang from love, but I’ve seen that hate has a life of its own too. No, love didn’t fill the gap. In fact, love simply accentuated the depth of the chasm within. It was as if that hole measured the distance between myself and the rest of the human race. It turned out I couldn’t expect anyone else to fill that space for me – I’d have to bear that burden myself.

So what’s the solution? There is no solution. Life goes on and we go with it – whether we want to or not. Perhaps in the end life fills that hole, or more accurately it’s the attempt to fill the hole that constitutes a life. I don’t know how others feel, or if my sentiments will strike a chord with anybody else. I just know that I’m holed with a hunger that is never satiated, never filled.

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5 October 2012

Tapeworm

Adult form

The tape worm in my gut tells me when, and who, to eat. I know he’s crazy, but he’s insistent. I draw the line at Methodists – too dry – too organised. Now they have that see see TV so you have to watch who you pick up and where - we are all reality TV stars now monitored in the minutiae of our lives. A guy can’t get away with a thing. Used to be that these dark winter nights covered a plethora of covert activity, but nowadays they have cameras that fit into your colon. 

The tapeworm writhes in disgust at the thought of that kind of exposure. He likes the dark seclusion of the bowel and its squishy warmth. My gut is home to numerous infestations and hunches. I feel things with my gut the way you might feel with your fingertips or your love pump. My tapeworm keeps me well informed – though he suffers a right wing bias I have to filter out through my spleen. I can ignore his more extreme fear fuelled demands – until he lays on the brain pulse and cripples my membrane with the hurt. Then I have to go do something drastic which will inevitably humiliate and embarrass me. Such is the frailty of human nature – we are often in the squishy dark groping for comprehension in the shit and slime. We are often thinking with the gut instead of with the head.
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4 October 2012

Lazarus

Lazarus

Don’t dig me up.

I’ve resigned myself to the inevitable and I just don’t give a damn. I have heavy blood – I’m sorry the fighting ended, but glad that the struggle is over. I’m going to lie here and die by degrees – unnoticed and unloved. My sheets carry the aroma of soured dreams and my head is full of snakes.

Why can’t I breathe? Open up to the possibility of resurrection. Get myself a shovel and dig. Wave the ju ju stick – toss those bones and divine a new day with my name on it. I could leave this place and never look back. I could start again in a new town, with a new name.

Why don’t you dance for me? Give me a pirouette, a pasodoble. Go on - give us a twirl. The worst things in life are free and misery abhors company, but you are never alone with your memories.

I’m a puppet to my memories. I peer dimly through second hand daylight at my empire of rust and I don’t give a shit – I’m going nowhere – I’m in this thing until the last dog dies.

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2 October 2012

Lily

lily-white-pretty-flower
Wake me in the morning
Shine your light on me
Fill me with that warmth
That comes from the heart
Your love is food for my soul
The manna sent from heaven
Sustenance in the wilderness
You are the rose of Sharon
A lily of the valley
Yours is the Song of Solomon
The blessing of my life
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1 October 2012

Buried

buried-alive10

Maybe there’s no heaven

Maybe there’s no hell

Life is what you make it

And death just ends it all

You might as well be happy

And carry a lighter load

If this is all there is

Then you’re a foolish man

You’re pissing it all away

Just because you can

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