26 July 2014



It no longer hurts. I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and drew me a new one of purple with eight crimson limbs – each possessing a caring hand for a fevered brow – each tentacle a golden pathway to enlightenment – according to my sponsors who have been mysteriously absent of late.

I believe there is no saving anyone, even ourselves – especially ourselves. We are each bound to a fatal trajectory; we all reach the same destination over time. We come from nothing and it’s to nothing we return. We spend our days with the masses chewing the cud and shitting it out; we are all members of the one great herd - all bound for the abattoir.

But enough of this bovine philosophy – I have a boat to catch and my memoirs to forge. This shit does not cook itself. It takes days of careful preparation and intense deliberation to float these little dinghies. There’s a cheap and cheerful cliché – a clumsy metaphor requiring little imagination; little boats adrift on the glittering ocean; the flotsam and jetsam of tiny shipwrecks; no survivors to tell the tale.

I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and set sail for new lands where they’d never heard of me – or my sorry tale. I ate my ragged sails and burned my little boat on the volcanic shores of some forgotten land where they remembered nothing, but they remembered me. It was raining, I recall, they laid on a hero’s welcome – complete with friendly lynch mob and an accommodating tree...


24 July 2014


Funny disguise mask. Vector.
I can’t write. I have no talent, no finesse, no nuanced phrasing or beautiful prose. I recognise my key attributes now. I’m the devil’s bagman. I’ll poison your chakras and I’ll piss in your well. Just so long as I’m felt – just so you know that I’m there.

This woman – random bitch – in the hospital called me an imposter, because I smiled when offered a cigarette. I smiled and said ‘thank you’ – a crazy move in the locked ward. No one smiles in a locked ward, unless they are staff. For them it’s a job, for the patients it’s a grim vocation.

I have me a new vocation – king of the night, burner of the midnight oil. I’ll sit and drum on this machine until I’ve squeezed the venom from my brain pan into some form of magic - something that leaps from the page and makes for the jugular. I don’t care who likes it – I’m not handing out sweeties – I’m signing death warrants.

Here is the new credo – love is for suckers – hopeless sentiment for rascals and liars. I’ll be fooled no more by pretty words and winning smiles. I’m the singular and heartless beast that lurks beneath the breast of every man and woman who was ever burned. I’m an imposter; feigning interest in truth and beauty when all I care about is getting my rocks off and cataloguing my experience for the prurient thrill I derive from playing the game with style.

6 July 2014




in the laboratory

of my mind

I concoct solutions

to ubiquitous problems

the silken intrusion

and delicate rub

of afflictive memories

the cocks and cunts

of youthful infatuation

the fascination

of the flesh

meshed into pornographic


forced into grotesque

and novel shapes

made to adopt

censored smiles

and null identity

but these subtle devices

imperfect in design

only breed new monsters

bittersweet and unkind