The Fatal Act

To the act we are all born resistant, a timeless protection in life as to some to feel a curse and others a comfort

The thoughts of things more fatal a willing call however for those afflicted with less positive nature

As for the cruelly comically screwed, it is only on the cliff we feel the only emotion we are allowed to enjoy


The Desk

A scavenged piece of wood that you could feel was rejoicing at the bitterly spat words ‘seen better days’, such historical depths in every chip, dent, splinter of timelessly fractured lumber that reeked of emotional energy spilt beverages, as an under moisturised hand ran silently over the surface of the desk. Two relationships readily/foolishly entered and a few friendships that hath since been unwittingly driven into life’s gutter, the march of time mercilessly trampling any human based affiliation under depressively trudging foot, but still this archaic structure of wood stood before him as an unflinching comrade in creative arms.

Varnish thinning, mug rings discolouring with countless brown circles across its roughened stretch as the familiar heat from an old (ish) laptop sunk into the otherwise cold material, a memorable stain of something more potent than tea lurking in the far corner. That mark a remnant of a former life, as soured as the corrupted sentiment of a vodka bottle forcibly projected with rage upon the slightly scratched corner, his face overcast with the grimly shadowing sadness of that night.

All that illuminated this particular emergence of darkness, the harsh chime of his watch signalling the midnight hour, was the irradiating glow of the computer screen that eerily framed two fast paced hands ghostly drifting at pace across the keyboard, the rest of the rather unloved looking room faded into irrelevant mist as creative fever obsessively concentrated on the screen.

The strained eyes sunk into pale rings of flesh wilfully neglecting to look elsewhere for fear they might glance a mirror, a picture or risk triggering that ever poisonous thing known to most as a memory, to him they were lecherous hands grasping sinisterly to drag him back to humanity. Tea replaced with clear venom, the time wasting delivery of a glass superseded by the directness of a bottle, another empty container half heartedly discarded for sake of its replacement.

Painful winch as with foreknowing he sensed life creeping up to pull him back into the petri-dish of existence, strained eyes turned inward glare with angry intent as letters smothered the clean white electronic display, words formed in resentful arrangements to cast out demons that had long since dwelled. The knowledge that the time quickened with each taunting tick, tock, eventually pulling him away from the faithful comrade of wooden construction and timeless figure so he would have to face the world, in all its lacking appeal… Why couldn’t he be left to his words, letters and literal works, in which everything made sense.

Drugs of the mind

Dig it from the proverbial problematic pit, yank the fine flow of poison from its arm, the needle may go in neat but on the out it isn’t so clean as crimson fountains are curved by cotton ball fairy touch

It hovered briefest quick on the opportunistic plains with an opium fog to feed floating dreams, factual insomnia a ghostly fade of all the times I called before

Layers above brought from reaching heights the air so coldly chilled in liquid flow the elixir of escapism, stem not the tides of realities blasting throws but curb the winds that take it deep in a troubled brew

I hath need a day or two or half a second on the tick of clocks vastly large, time perceived in corridors wrought with canabalistic reactivity to poisonous brew in withered skin

My sanity lost to ancient arcs of relentless catastrophe cast in feathered snow, upon the ground I tread to dredge it true, so to the risk we commit this frail thing to the task

An arm in shadows to steady steps for it will not falter to serve as long as I draw down steel into hollow veins, as whole as what relies without need of fated damned impure

For although I am pshically clean as the happy horde, my sanity draws on drugs that foster deep seeded will to grow in the dark corners of mental minds internal source

Poets restful waking sleep

The poet lies in fitful states, sweat a luxury as on stone beds he finds the cold denies warming thoughts

Old friend depression draws from veins poison ink, needle greedy as from pale skin in draws its fuel

A page to burn in ruined passion for once great cause, words a plenty to make happy fools feel his burn

Night laid on the alter for whomever dreams to die, eyes waking open as counting bottles he jumps each second gone


I’ve suffered from stress, anxiety and depression for years
Now I’ve finally learned to live with my family!

For my long suffering parents:
I’ve lived with stress, anxiety and depression for years
Now I’ve finally got rid of my three children!

Have a day folks

Where paper finds purpose on travels with a pen in hand

In a universe of light a glow with heavenly shine, I am a star of ash and dust hung in darkened sky, formed on solar winds that carry the fated remains of demons who have fallen short of the wills of devils and gods

A fine form of cloven hoof and malicious spite to the messenger of fallen things that plague the minds of persons cast in lesser light

A ghost a shadow of stony blood to flow the length of cursed flesh, as all around I see the best of fruitful beings and angelic bliss, yet in my depressive depths as a fated figure I will be to all a hand me down saint

No less happy than that I haunt in faded shades of sanity lost for where the many find less merry mirth of human cost, I am one with what lies between the devil and the damned which is where I wait to be blessed by better sights