Daytime sadness frowns you scorning,
never finding solace in a good man’s fibres;
They’re rare things, raw and in apprehension of their side
and the otherside that holds you up in its breaths and heartbeats
but strangles you down;
fungal python, which you it deciphers,
churning your chunks cos you forgot nan’s coconut milk
and she shouts her demonic vitriol
in vain attempt to scare off the mould…
but its casing thickens, captures your eyes
so you see the world through its green lens trying to kill you.
It succeeds in murdering hope with
gunshots from your mac and iphone,
scraping your last bones for mould and stardust,
laughing mimicry of niggy tardust
IT REPEATS, repeats
REPEATS a point that is not proven, you are not who you are showing.
But woven as silk to your soft cushion,
slipping from your comfort and love,
in essence your soul, your magik,
your repetition, to try ay and crack it, your flailing arms
that shout I AM HERE.
Sawn off they hear your cracking,
crunching ball sack,
your shaking eyes,
rolling on the floor to die,
your torture is blind,
blind to photos of kids,
to the tea mug sitting in the corner of the room
armless and the tea bag has been used
and thrown in the bin,
where it thinks you should have been,
where you think you should have been,
cuddling the with the lover who holds you trim,
Facebook messenger fLashINg,
SHE’S HERE DUDE OVER FUCKING HERE ON THE OTHERSIDE OF THE WORLD,
with a bloke who’s got tattoos and a husk voice
whom she met at zone festival;
fucked on ecstasy or LSD,
it doesn’t matter because love hurts in all its forms,
warm and gooey.
There’s always one hidden prick to burst your bubble,
the only one you’ve ever had,
and it hurts like a moth flying into the lightbulb, it’s fucking sad
that you’re a pest to her and to you
now there is not mushroom for love,
but still you want the one person who swipes you off her skin.
Always going back,
going back,
Always going back on the same old tack of
dead flowers and awful poetry
that laughs in your cathartic face,
another meaning to doing the one thing you truly love,
but as a poet and student,
person and thinker,
there’s not much difference between she who gave you head
and your headmaster,
cos Fergus lived up to his name, he was a living stone
and as aforementioned,
leaders in stone don’t do as they preach,
cherishing each young person in their care.
And I know no difference between this and
The Dark Shadow that drinks my wine and writes my poetry.
He severs ties with me and myself, stupid jokes
and an easy face,
he bludgeons my smiles into frowns that
have become my crown
my blood is the wine he drinks,
his hands trap me in my treasure chest,
in bed, in which all I want to do is
escape into my dreams,
but my dreams are made of heroin and salt,
so every night I die, nailed to a mast
in the past that is the present.
that pill, that vodka,
clear lies that still haunt us,
circled in smoke,
brewed by fear,
And tear after tear after tear after tear is
beckoning me to join mum and dad,
the very perpetrators,
the dark spear that boiled the kettle
and poured me these cups of fear.
A tired, drastic waterboarding
making me believe the grass is not greener on the otherside,
but we don’t even have a lawn, let alone money for a mower.
I keep on wanting to return into depression,
it’s the only home where I have always been made to feel comfortable,
where I can keep my shoes on and lie on the couch,
have a wank in the mirror,
admiring how fat you’ve made me,
we wallow in my uncomfortable body.
He pristines me, his work of art,
with donuts and chips off the old block,
THIS is who I am and who you have made me want to be.
I am a Greek god, a sculpture,
but in a society that draws its perception of health
from capitalist propriety.
Ironically I am the one who is mouldy.
You’re the sum of the five people you hang with most,
and if it’s just me and the red-horned flame thrower,
then maybe I am just depression,
at least that’s you and he want me to believe.
O, the beauty of social oppression.
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 
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