Lick my teeth, test my patience.

September 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

What can I say? I think that that one might just leave a mark. You can’t really be sure until morning. Times a great healer I hear but there are something’s that it can’t get done. I thought back over it. Every past glory. Every one. Every spitting and strutting teeth licking moment. How quick I was to forget. That’s the thing with getting what you want, don’t you find? You simply do not want it any more. Because, really, it’s not what you wanted in the first place. What you wanted was the kill, the chase, the thrill of the moment in which you think that the future hangs in the balance. Because that’s what makes you feel alive, making it happen, snatching it all back, stealing time. It twists and turns up and I start to wonder why I have taken to talking shit again. Back on the horse. Back preaching from the pulpit, dead are the days of the street preacher.

All I need now is a little direction. I’m hopeful and I don’t know why. As I’ve said before my hope has always been misplaced. What brought you here? If a person was hunched and muttering this on the tube you’d pass them up, turn up your music, fade out and in back to the bubble, your bubble, your comfy commuting home. It’s not art. It’s not. It’s just bullshit. My alcoholism is the only thing justifying it really. Bollocks. It’s all just fucking bollocks really. I sit and try to make my peace with it. I agree. It’s just bullshit. It can’t be any worse than it was though. I’d like to think that I’m on the other side. I’d like to think that I’ve pushed through whatever it was that had me so low down. But I’ve thought that before.

I’m sick of waking up like this. Another strange bed and that strange moment in which I find myself lost. It’s bliss, the ignorance of it, before you remember. You remember why you should be ashamed. You remember what happened and where you are and what you’ve done and it just sinks and rots in your gut one more time. You make your excuses and stumble and fumble your way to freedom but there’s no escaping it. It’s a localised thunder storm. It’s a mess in your mind and darling, it’s all yours. You sweat it out and the smells combine to mix and muddle up your mind some more and you promise yourself that that’s it. The lines drawn under it. It’s over it’s finished and that’s it.

That’s my point. I think at least, that that’s it. How can you trust your mind? I’ve learned that I can’t, that’s the only thing that I trust it on. Because one second it tells you you’ve hand your last ever drink and then it tells you to line them up. Your brain is a liar and so am I. Bollocks.


Hey man, I love you but no fucking way.

September 29, 2014 § Leave a comment

“I’m sure that we could find something for you to do on stage. Maybe shake a tamberine or when I sing you sing harmonies” – The Front Bottoms – Twin Size Mattress. 

So I’m back to writing. That’s got to be a good sign right? That’s got to mean something. There’s got to be something in that that I can take away. Something that I can use to push myself forwards. Onwards, upwards and out. Far away from this stale and confusing rut that clouds my mind and slows everything into monotony. I’ve learnt to trust my instincts but not my hope. My instincts will save me, I have made the mental note to never let anyone cloud or confuse them, never to let anyone stand in their way. My hope on the other hand is folly. So shot full of holes that it’s just ribbons now. It’s all twisted metal and flaked paint. No good can come from my hope. That is what I’ve learned. At least, in the moment, it’s like borrowing happiness. The more I take the more I have to give back when whatever it is I have decided a worthy punt on my hope falls flat and leaves me 100 steps behind where I didn’t want to be in the first place. Hope is for fools and the beaten and down trodden and me. Fuck it, how can I hide any more? Hope’s a bitch. But we need it. I need it. Despite my pissing and moaning and whining like a bitch. I need hope, even though I keep putting it in the wrong places. Fuck it, there’s goes my momentum.

This is life in colour

September 28, 2014 § Leave a comment


Two nil and you fucked it up, two nil and you fucked it up, two nil and you fucked it up, two nil and you fucked it up.” 

And just like that I was back in the game. I found myself humming and clicking my fingers and nodding and just, only just feeling it again. That feeling, that lonely rush, that heat. It had returned. I’m not sure how long for. I’m not sure if it’s here to stay and I’d wager that it’s not but I’m fine with that for now. Back to licking my teeth and laughing and those wild eyes moments with smile and the hair and blood. “This is life in colour” I’d think. Gone are those dark days of the black and the white. Poetry is back in my blood. It’s not that I feel young. It’s not that I feel drunk. It’s that I feel hopeful. Hopeful for more. Hopeful that it isn’t over just yet. Hopeful that the down I was on isn’t the one which puts me through the floor. Hopeful that when it comes to be I find myself heading skywards. There will be bumps and scrapes and drops but I’d hope to find myself, at some point, levelling out a little higher than I started. Until then this is Bruce Springsteen. This is the shift and the haste in my blood. It’s the hope, oh god the powerful, twisting and dancing blood in my veins pulls at my limbs like a warped puppet show. I go with it. Why fight this feeling? Let it take you. Let it ride, let it go. Oh god. They chase this you know? They hunt and they work and they get out of bed at 6am to feel this. This rush. This Saturday night peak. The one where you blink and feel and love the bones of each and every person you see. You close your eyes and you let it swallow you whole. I had a dream about Herman Melville last night. I had a dream that this friends told him his idea was stupid as he stacked paper upon paper upon paper of draft and lost thoughts and stream of conciousness literature as he fought to put his idea down on paper. Something he wanted the world to see. His legacy. Like Van Gough, he would never know. He would never see the fruits of his labour of his love of his toil and his sweat and his blood shed and the sleepless nights and the fighting. Fuck. It’s all here now. A legacy to leave behind. I think I’ve got it. I think it’s done.

No junk, no soul.

September 6, 2014 § Leave a comment

You will never understand, how it feels to live your life, with no meaning on control and with no where left to go. You are amazed that they burn so bright while you can only wonder “Why?”.” –Common People – Pulp 


Like life, writing is about momentum. It’s about keeping up that head of steam. Once that’s lost it’s hard to get back. I always found my writing suffered when I lost momentum. Post and articles flowed less naturally. The feeling wasn’t there, it was forced and I could fell that in the words when I read it back. But that doesn’t mean you can’t convey how lost you are. Maybe you just have to feel it? I don’t know. I always just kind of let stuff like that roll. What I have come to learn is that writing has very little to do with education. Now that’s a strange thing to say, allow me to elaborate. I’ve read attempts at portraying desperation from private school kids, grammar school kids, who went on to study at some of the finest universities have to offer. They aren’t worth shit. It doesn’t matter about how well read you are. How much you think you are better than someone without such a prestigious and braggable education. They haven’t got it. They can’t fake that mad and desperation of someone who is spinning wildly out of control and is just hugging their knees and holding on. It just doesn’t work. Maybe they never felt it? Maybe they lack the imagination? Either way it’s not in the words. There’s no soul, no honesty. They keep the reader at a distance like they are scared to be judged or seen as less, or perceived to be on a par with the reader. Fuck these people. No junk, no soul, no fucking kidding. And yet it always seems to be them who pick up the pen. Like it’s their mediums. Imagine the damage the working class could do if someone let them know just how articulate they can be. I would rather read about dole queues and honesty then pimms and cocaine. Another summer spent in the sun. Maybe I’m just as bad as them? Maybe I shouldn’t judge a person on where they went to school, maybe I should just wait for the inevitable judgement? Who wants to shoot first in a duel anyway? If you miss, you’re fucked. Maybe I’m just tired? Maybe I just ask too many questions. 


Shoot first. Fuck it. Maybe you’ll get lucky and miss. 


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