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16 April 2013

Spike

Spike_001

Does what you’re doing

Make you wonder

Where you are going?

Best not to think about it

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The remedy is simple

Press the needle to the lungs

Inhale...

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Instant gratification

In vitro fertilization for the brain

Less haste – more speed

White lines lead off into the horizon

Where my past falls off the edge of the world

I stand enthralled

I’m drawn to the scene

I do not say I’m compelled

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The Inca in me holds a morbid fascination in the patterns of disgrace…

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So many faces to remember

So many places I’ve been

I was young

I was arrogant

I was doped up

I was right

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Put my head on a stone

Quite happy for a while

Your average stone is lighter than air

If you know where to put it

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Everything that could be done – was done

The comedown was fairly sharp

I held him in my arms

as his life ebbed away

He didn’t remember my name

That’s when I knew

He was never coming back from this one

Beam me up – the Mothership is waiting

I forged my connection – along with my papers

I’m out of here – on the first reliable conveyance

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I like to get out of my tree every now and then

I find it most beneficial

Helps me remember what to forget

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11 April 2013

Gouge

Gouged

All my life they spat on me

Because I dragged the low end

I got used to fighting for what’s mine

Blood of my blood and bone of my bone

I believe in an eye for an eye

I’d gouge away with bloody thumbs

Even if it rendered the whole world blind

Everyone is born with love in them

But you have to be taught how to hate

Each blow that landed was an education

They taught me and I learned it well

I want my pound of flesh on the bone

I’ll dig my grave right next to yours

I will pluck out my offended eyes

And serve the dictates of my primitive heart

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7 April 2013

The Secret World

Notebook

I don’t have to live like this

I could give up the bug juice

I could get creative

Tear up my notebook

And start again

I could pluck out my eyes

Block up my ears

Tear out my tongue

And write in the air

There is no truth

And that being true

There are only lies

Stories that you tell

To make it seem alright

The object of thought

The indelible link

To predictable reason

The assassin of truth

Obscures the way

To self expression

There are no words

With which to write

The secret world

The inner life

For lies abound

Where silence prevails

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3 April 2013

Bones

Cyclops
Man I'm fucked. Inertia has carved me a mountain to climb. I’ve got bad bones - dry and brittle. They ache in the rain and fracture into vicious shards that pierce my flesh with darts of pain. I’m sick of my body – old and flabby. I captured a few pounds along the way, or they captured me. I’ll beat this vessel into an older shape – such a handsome youth – before the spilling of blood.

(He says he will. He’ll later say he did, but he’ll hold his place – it comforts him to remain inert.)

Bongs and bombs left craters in my bronchial organs. I wouldn’t smoke one of them – that’s a needle for the lungs. The wheezing, gasping instruments of life – collapsible bags of phlegm – expelling life by the root and tubers of my chest.

No more graveyards for me – too close to home to bring comfort – full of old bones and memories – such places only bring me down into the cancerous layers of yesteryear – coughing spluttering bloody handkerchiefs. Coffin nails stain my fingers brown – the colour of creeping death – the sepia tone of ancient photographs – windows on the dead. Brown is the colour of the sod that covers my corpse - the colour of my rotting bones beneath the dirt. My tired old bones embrace the inevitable – I’ll be gone, but my bones will remain.
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* Graphic ‘Cyclops’ by Stanley Mouse
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