Raw and Mouldy – by TEIGE MADDISON

 

 

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.


***
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***Teigerr (Real name: just Teige, pronounced like tiger without the R) came about very simply, from an ardent hunt to find a form of expression. His style is simple but powerful; Teigerr believes words should be allowed to be brusk, brutal and honest. Conjoining a troubled childhood and adolescence, Teigerr believes in self-expression as a key cathartic tool. Writing, he says, comes from a place deep in our bodies and minds: the ingredients of which are emotions, some we know and some we don’t until ink is pouring on the page. Words bring out a different, intriguing and challenging side of Teigerr, one whom he adores for its honesty and belief that the topics he writes on, are ones that people are often afraid to talk of themselves. Teigerr has been writing poetry for the past three years, so is relatively new to the game. Originally from South West London (posh boy yeah I know right?-WELL NOT REALLY!) he spent 7 years at boarding school in Hampshire,  escaping the taxing toils of a dysfunctional household. He has always loved to read, and turned to writing after an English A-level project allowed him to write his own poem-based on Simon Armitage’s ‘Out of The Blue’-and critique his own work in essay form. The power of poetry never left and has since grown into a love of all things bookish. He turned to spoken word after writing an angry poem about his mother, realising the poem shouted to be performed. Since then he has become a big part of the poetry and spoken word scene in Falmouth, where he studies Creative Writing. Teigerr has had work published in their magazine ‘With’, whilst his short story ‘Here Lies Fuscia’ will be published in ‘Talent Implied’-Griffith University’s annual anthology where he has just spent a semester abroad, on Australia’s sun laden Gold Coast. Teigerr is expanding his repertoire of literary forms and hopes to write and publish novels, short stories, plays and poetry (spoken word too) in the future. You can follow him on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram on @TeigerrThePoet.***
*photography credit goes to BRIAN MICHAEL BARBEITO. Huge thanks again, Brian!*
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