Graveyard humour!

People are so happy to spend time writing, planning and proposing my future

But the grimly humoured joke is…

The fact I don’t have one!

They could save a lot of time and effort by merely deciding whether to buy something black to wear or just send flowers to the service?!

An old friend

A long standing companion of many years lies in critical condition, a steadfast buddy that has seen more sides and depths of my persona and more…
It built this blog from the ground up and holds the oldest of posts in storage

My laptop

Lack of relationships, happiness and anything remotely positive comes and goes but it has stood by me, absorbed my pain, tears (before I lost the ability to cry!) and more

May it hopefully recover

That kind of night

I ain’t gonna sugar coat

You fucked, and not in the hotel room mint on the pillow in the morning kind of way

We talking accident emergency and a missing kidney, and not even cab fair left in your wallet to crawl home

But could be worse, you could be telling some poor sod how fucked they because you know it too well…

Good news; at least the drinks here are damn cheap and AA meetings no care none as long as they got enough chairs

Bar keep; whatever gets y’going happyville way for me, and whatever drowns sorrows quicker than a sex life after marriage for my bud

Ha ha… I think?!

Doctor, I think I’m hallucinating

In my medical opinion I can say you are

How can you tell

I’m an imaginary doctor

Can you help me

I’ll give you a number for an imaginary therapist

Impossible flower

The impossibility of a black rose is that to obtain its colour it has to be dead

So when I see myself in the mirror, I see both the impossible and the dead

A bleakly toned beauty in a world full of colour, that will never find its place

Value’s price

The only value a broken man doesn’t need is that which others place upon him

For without which he could be free of responsibility and expectation

So to be free to be himself without judgement for the faults that haunt him

That define him

That could release him of the burden of living

A hand on a clock wags it’s fingers at a man facing the twelve cold numbers counting his day, each number a century until the fleeting reprise of a single few ticks and ticks when the black hands release an hour or two to be free of the numbered scowl

Dead eyes as blank as the background between numerical condemnations that frames the counting down whole of a creation, chains to hold to contain to condemn each freely wanted resentment of the time spent on causes as bland

Only when the clock stops it’s ticking, tocking, screaming and staring mechanism of two spindly arms turning to twist every free second of our day into productive measurements of living

But to find the cracks in the coverage of time overbearing is to see the places we find our true selves reclining, each fissure a drink of inebriating pleasure only enhanced when spending it with another, with a drink or a razor should that be missing

White to red the background turns jaded, hands tock and tick backward and numbers blur into laughing faces whose teeth jaggedly nash into pain so freely fed by our depression

Will you see God or the devil holding the pocket watch that is your worth in coldly weighed measure, a picture of a saint or a sinner in the reflective surface of the silver

For when time is up, the direction of your exsistance goes six feet down and deeper