29 December 2012

Pennies

Pennies_blk

Counting pennies

Tiny economies

Scrimping, saving

Making plans

Incremental steps

Up the mountain

Treading water

Against the tide

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20 December 2012

Ageing

oldman

Old man, his hands look dead. His neck is creased like a scrotum. His eyes are milky blue. He looks right into me for a second and something flickers and disappears. He’s moved on – moved within to some ancient memory that seems more real than I. Age draws the mind inward until we live on memories. The world at large loses its allure. The world gave up on the old man long before he deserted the world.

Will I grow old I wonder, real old I mean? Will I live long enough to grow raven’s claws and a purple veiny beak? I can just about imagine losing my marbles and retreating into my yesterdays. Becoming some drooling old fart sitting in my own shit. I’m terrified of that. Not having my faculties, not even knowing what kind of hell I’m living in.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die before that ever happens. Maybe I’ll get luckier still and live to a ripe old age with my mind intact. Either way I don’t relish the prospect of ageing, but there is little I can do to negate the process – short of suicide and that is an even bleaker prospect.

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12 December 2012

Funeral

coffin

The rain poured down

On the dark and dreary town

Heavy industrial gloom

Settled like a mantle of black ash

The crushing weight of sanity

Cast an oppressive pall

Over the grimy rooftops

I had to prize open his coffin lid

To ascertain the cause of death

They say he jumped

But he was pushed

No-one ever jumps

They are all pushed

We lifted him from his coffin

And left him in the open air

Where the crows could get at his flesh

Where the sun could bleach his bones

And the wind could caress his carcass

Like whispers of ancient words forgotten

And the rain poured down

On the living and the dead

I felt a chill and so very, very old

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10 December 2012

Pistol Whipped

Revolver[3]

Writing without drugs is like squeezing spunk from stones. I promised myself I’d write for an hour every day, but I can’t find the head room for that. That unbearable straightness precludes the flash of inspiration. I cannot shoot no-one with an empty gun. You can try beating sense into the words, but you end up with a fistful of bloody words.

I underwent analysis to make myself more likeable. All I got was a navel load of introspection and an even greater craving for drugs to wipe away the memory of self. Who can I shoot with an empty gun? I can only beat myself around the head with it and hope that concussion brings me some measure of euphoria and I am pistol whipped into some kind of order.

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