totally fucked up

 I’m totally fucked up

it’s more than an excuse

it’s symptomatic

I’m totally fucked up

but I’m not alone.

the whole world is fucked up

as is everyone in it

we’ve all been damaged

beaten and abused

draw your own conclusions

everywhere you turn you lose

coz this old world plays rough

you know how people talk

people love to talk

of life and love and liberty

but the world has heard enough

the world don’t care who you are

or how big you dream

they’re gonna monetise you

they’re gonna monetise you

if they have to crush your soul

unconditional love

 

you were always my friend

my patient companion

didn’t you feed my hunger?

didn’t you nurse my fever?

indulge my childish schemes?

haven’t you always stood by me

no matter what I’d done?

if I ever seemed ungrateful

I’m sorry for it

I’m sorry I lost myself

I think I thought

I was someone else

someone less deserving

of your unconditional love

I just wanted you to know

I treasure that sentiment

more than I cherish life itself

near dead poets

 

the only good poet     is a dead poet

isn’t that what you said?

well, I died on the pillow

I died a thousand times

does that make me Buddha

or just some lesser brand?

crimson stains on virgin sheets

bad blood pulsed through my brain

lithium once was my friend

now my deadly enemy

‘do you know where you are?’

‘in the hospital’

‘where?’

‘everywhere’

the hospital is everywhere     stretching around me    like a bloody caul   a labyrinth of endless umbilical corridors      leading off into infinity      into the dark wards       the ghost wards       of ossified patients        and patient medics        tending to the dead     

but I have words

choice words

futile words

scribbled in the shadows

falsified in blood

just another near dead poet

wallowing in the mire

tsunami

 

I have a surge on   babelogue    scripture in the mother tongue   I love the weight    the rhythm    the cadence   of the words   as they accost the senses   a cymbal’s clash    the lightning flash     the rap of the machine gun     fuse in the imagination       is this some kind of magic?     is there substance to words?   how can they fill me up?    I’m fit to burst with the teeming    spilling    explosion of them    out there in the world there are tiny silences    little gaps    begging to be filled     in here there’s a cacophony of sound and colour screaming to get out    my head is a rain forest    a railway station    an ocean reef     I surf on a tsunami of words    crashing onto the snow white page

anecdotal

 

thanks for the coffee

and the stories too

in a world of actors

you hold your own

but I aint buying

I’m selling

I’m not a consumer

I’m purely product

this shit doesn’t just happen

I had to stitch each piece by hand

it took some time

and a little imagination

but just feel the quality of the material

my fiction has an unlikely provenance

a thousand hands sculpted its features

with brute force and ignorance

but the lies contained herein

were honestly acquired

 

punch drunk

 

every story needs a villain      might as well be me       coz I’m no fucking good      but you’re stuck with me     all I want from you is the killer blow      the coup de grace     another round       one more drink     should kill me off     don’t worry, I won’t blame you       I have a conscience      but it’s slender       no, I wouldn’t blame you      I’d blame myself     I’m getting that heavy feeling again     I’m all beat up      totally punched out      I’m not the man I thought I was        that cunt thought he could fly       but I’m paralysed      from the neck up      too many blows to the head       too much poison in my cup     I feel I’m halfway dead     I do believe I’ve had enough