…and where am I now? I’m in the glasshouse again and where are you? you’re home and dry open the window and breathe in that gloom it’s that kind of night in that kind of room don’t touch me now you’ll catch something cruel I love you some I hate you too but you didn’t bring me down I did that to myself you drink like a thief one eye on the door I should have seen you coming I’d have spit in your eye coz nobody loves a snitch or trusts a fucking liar…
he smiled and smiled as if he were willing to play the villain if necessary and that’s the way of it in my neighbourhood he was slightly fleabag you know the type vaguely disaffected stinking of skunk and sweat he spoke low and slow didn’t give away too much he played a private game no one knew it’s name all human suffering resided in his eyes but he didn’t seem to care he was nearly clued in almost wise his were written memoirs pen and paper torn from life he was veteran of some ancient revolution but he wasn’t a victim he was a survivor he’d seen thousands like me eager to impress with my vacuous knowledge but he was a book closed to me “…nothing matters anymore, the war was lost long ago… …I stopped resisting the flow and learned to let go… …it’s not the best of all possible worlds, but it’s the only one we know…” he was an individualist and if he ever got lonely he didn’t let on he’d been weathered smooth by millennia of dust and rain I was an acolyte - he’d send me to the shops but nothing he said was news to me nothing he said seemed real
ever since the funny farm my self doubt is crippling it’s an existential funk bipolar flavour I’m just a mirror to a world rotten with mediocrity I’m a television head I’ve abolished the dark of night and bleached my brain with photons my thoughts are merely the regurgitation of twenty four hour programming I’ve lost all sense of the real I’m a cartoon man moulded in a cartoon world I manage my appearance and the illusion of individuality but there’s no such thing as real there are only layers of fiction and that’s all folks that’s all she wrote
back to square one early doors the milkman cometh my war against sleep wages on I’m sick again wretched with it my mind is in meltdown there’s no silence left not with the newsflash the commercial breaks and incessant chattering idiocy of the internet there’s little sense to the information age we’re in it for the money we murdered god and filled the void with primetime cheesecake this culture is universally flaccid a succession of fragmented sensation and random nostalgia I’m sickened of it I overdosed on signification I’m puking my guts up on the swirl of empty meaning back to square one early doors the milkman cometh…
I won’t make a difference in your life I won’t make a difference in mine I have no power of attorney no higher authority the world will turn without me in it I have lived as other men lived I’ll die as they have died before me without meaning without purpose directionless, and ideology free life is an abattoir no-one escapes the jaws of hell I tried to build a heaven in the void of existence all I got were horrors and imprisonment in solitary confinement
I can breathe is
that a sign of life? I have the
classic zombie profile shambolic and
loathsome it doesn’t really matter on a cosmic scale - nothing ever
matters I have wrestled with god and
lost there’s nothing left to try I’m a machine a machine of flesh and blood my rage was pointless my prayers misdirected the universe is cold and relentless yes, I’ve been swimming with sharks
again it’s risky, but I have no
choice they won’t leave me alone
