Verse of the Damned

Who the fuck cares, why do we care and what the hell does it have to do with me playing sane??!!

I ask in the late hours of a nightless haze in darkened hours, bat shit on the scale, my head looking for a sweet bullet cure

My worth as a person condensed to a pile of shitty paper that begs people to demand I expose more of my damaged soul

To be honest, to be true, righteous and pure… a death sentence in a world so cruel

If I would have followed the true nature of my soul’s mercenary core then to me riches and happiness of corrupted source

But some bitch of a crap shot in my goody good good fucking humanity has robbed me of it all

I have within me the potential of a kind that even the devil would sell his soul to get hold of

The only thing that protects this world is a chain of pure depression and her

Her is the lost love, the ideal of a life kept on the on the shelf in a place I am forbade

Her is the new love that life persists to hold back and would use as a shattering hammer to my soul

At this point words fail to express my withheld tears, to cry a crime, my tears will never fall

I am the knowing dead, I am the cursed, old rage consumes me and wraith and vengeance makes me whole

What is a daggers blow in a sea of pain, life fading in a darkened room, blood from the mortal wound

Hell is the life of an honest fool


Ode to a long suffering Mother

Dear Mother

You are the only one capable of dealing me with when my emotions get the better of me, have to put up with my constant negativity and when the gun is to my head you’re the poor sod talking me down… I’d say it’s a position of much responsibility and to be the one to hold that trust is an honour but I’m not that fucking crazy!

It’s a crappy and unrewarding job that rarely pays out and a cause of regret for me that you have to deal with it, more than you should and that the emotional crap storms you’ve waded into would make storm chasers stay a couple of states away at least! But the honest deal is that you’re the only one qualified.

There have on occasion been others (and you hate the fact that I get Been and Being mixed up!) but they fizzle out or leave the post, leaving you the unwanted duties that no sane person would ever do voluntarily, even the insane can’t handle it. So I thankyou with this promise, the only thing that can compensate for years of dealing with my personality glitches and providing me with a 999 emergency service when it all goes to shit; I of unsound and unstable mind promise that when I find whatever it is that can balance me out, you’re fired, I’ll even pay for the party you throw to celebrate!

Until that day I know you’ll be there to slap me, shout the words “It’s not life or death” “Calm down” “Stop talking and listen”, the other things you verbally slap me with are too rough even for’s liberal policy, and pull me back from the brink. My other family members play their part with equal gusto and skill but for the sake of this post it is to the (long suffering) mother I address my words.

Your loving darling happy functional normal… Screwed up to new degrees of borderline son

Bob Larkin Robertos

Dating Profiles, Continued!

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The person you are trying to contact has given up on finding happiness, again, please leave a message if after reading this profile you wish to open communications
If not please accept the standard ‘Best luck and wishes’ style response and Thankyou for calling


For reference please check out ‘Dating Profiles I would love to write’ and the new Tag ‘Love/Poison’


Sadness Fury 3

There are two forms of silence that demand acknowledgment

The first is the silence of death, respect and recognition are the proper reaction here

The second is the silence of an angry man, fear, panic and the sound of running are the proper reaction here

The only exception to this second silence is the voice of one who can reach what’s left of that vessel of discontent’s humanity, buried under the mountainous rage

I am that angry man

I am silent


Definition of a Man

You push the path best travelled, life inserts a dagger in your back for the trouble, push further into that blessed path with honest intention and alas the cursed realisation takes basic form, with the painfully familiar sensation of a second dagger finding its way into your flesh. The fateful completion of a complete knife set (worthy of any professional kitchen) signals the unenviable realisation, you’re cursed… screwed, royally… life hath twisted the proverbial blade with relished glee.

It is the heavy decision made within the tick and tock of this pivotal moment that defines a man, a definition cutting to the very core of a person’s nature, a reveal of grandiose eventuality concealed within the layers of mortal flesh.

The stubborn fool: Some keep strict to the path in righteous manner, heads high and pain thresholds higher as the blindly pure obsession to win forces every laboured step. Though for some lucky few a victorious conclusion awaits, for the broken remains of good men that dejectedly litter the gutters there is no such thing as happiness’s reward.

The desperate fool: Whereas the righteous and strong push on through the pain, nobility in every strained breath their lungs can gasp at, the desperate beg on dirtied knees as their vision lies permanently up, up towards those that for happiness cause the shameless will give their very selves for a momentary glimpse. There is only so much time you have pity for the man who seeks what he will never have, diminishing pity only mirrored by the dying of the fools own realistic sense.

The knowing dead: When the will to care takes a blissfully swift step into the abyss so goes with it the pain, regret and anything else with which life can cause cursed breath, where the stubborn heroically push forth, the desperate beg, calmly forward go the knowing dead. The ground may be torture with every burning step as the kitchen wear gathers in alarming number in your back, but the withered part of that mortal soul that had an overwhelming instinct to care is all but dead.

These defining sub-human creatures hold little but a pithy sense of hope I will admit, but been one of the knowing dead I must confess that the instinct to care, which is all but dead, holds little regard for the illuminating happiness that drives the knife collection deeper into desensitised flesh.

As for identifying the better of fates in the damned line up I have darkly drawn with every fevered touch of my keyboard, therein lies the trick… for to identify with any of the above is a sentence that without pleasure I have cast, and regrettable I cannot lift.

But even the damned will have their day, in this life or the next…

What crawled forth from the fractures of my mind….

A perception of beauty balances on the edge of a minds concept of what appeals to the nature we hold within, for one mans mess is cast in jaded eyes as a treasure and the care free spirit holds no sway when viewed through jaded lens.

A crime however is the unforgivable slight to voice shades of ‘ugly’ when we see what goes against our own ideals, for the mess that a dark possessed views as beauty is to the less darkly enlightened a mine field of unexploded lies.

But warnings must be cast into this unexpected collection of semi-lucid words, for when there is a lack of beauty within the fragile frame of a mind a man can not help but to project their festering ugliness of lonely decent onto all those around.

“The real enemy lurks in the mirror, our true nature reflecting judgmental curses back into the eyes that the mirror refuses to hide”