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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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14 October 2012

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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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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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. 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 fuck. 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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