The fatal catch

So the world so willingly offers help to a broken man

Positivity offered in abundant wealth

But the fatal catch is not to be overlooked

The only one to fix the damage and find new hope

Is the damaged self now suffering

And who has given up on hope

But if it keeps the world happy…

Let them believe thier attempts can have an effect

As the broken man quietly marks up his wrists!

The Impact

There is a propietial moment in a life when something happens, an impact of such note it creates a hole

That impact causes fractures over time as resulting structural failures branch out as cracks which further weaken the whole

Pieces come loose and drift, some get lost as others lose thier value when detached from other elements that gave them meaning and worth

You are broken

And you ask; What if I could find the impact, fix it and maybe repair some of the damage?

And then you ask; Would you ever be what you once where, or is the thing you have become now quite simply ‘you’? Can you the fixed?

I ask you; What would you choose?

Birthday Post (Early)

So; the tick tock of the yearly clock descends upon that fated date

A whole cycle of events diving the depths of human misery, unhappiness and depressive glory to bring to the surface a gem of wholly purest weaponised depression…

A ‘birthday’ as common culture casually makes reference to the seemingly harmless occasion is upon me soon, that truthfully cruel blade severing more strands of positivity (if any remain!) at the stinging realisation that I have survived another twelve months, forty eight weeks etc etc.

There in the blinding display of starlit vistas that all would merrily throw in your face on hearing the news, mace spray seemingly a more merciful pain to endure, with a question underlying every misery soaked second you stare at the bleakly featured face in the mirror; why are you still alive?, more glaringly humorous in the grimmest of dark humour is the second question offered as a kindness only appreciated by the damned, broken and wishfully departed; how the fuck are you still alive?!

One morosely redeeming fact; you know you’re not in hell (yet) because you’d have to suffer more than one birthday a year!

But I digress in a funeral shaming fashion of grime nature…

I am one year further into this life and through the myriad of bad luck and failures, a suitable pleasant number of positive events and rousing circumstance to balance the scales, and though I may not have advanced enough into where I wish to be frolicking in fields of honey dew and fresh sunlight I have learned how better to survive.

This survival which though in the way I use that word implies a lesser wished continuation is a sign I am capable of enjoying life still …ish, even if the scales fall a long short way to tipping into where those sunlit honey dew fields exist, therefore I may yet have hope of events making it so I do not induce suicidal thoughts in anyone reading this blog in another year’s time!

But should anyone wish to cheer me up this time of year I have a simple birthday present list:

1. Ropeless bungie jumping lessons
2. A razor blade
3. Plastic sheeting
4. Cordless toaster and bath salts
5. Cliff side hotel
6. However much a ‘contract’ costs these days

On that flower sprouting positive note I bid a farewell, good day and hope to see you (unless I decide otherwise!) after august

Til the next?…

Humorous sign posts to bad places!

I’d like to report a missing person…

…Please give me their name and when and/or where you last saw them?

Name; My will to live, when; the day I was born, where; booking ropeless bungee jump lessons

…And what did this person look like?

Ten times worse than me…

…I’m sorry sir but we can’t help you


…Because you look like your dead, which means anything in a worse state is likely not to be alive anymore, but I can tell you which department to file your death certificate with

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

Pain, verse for joy or callous curse?

Though for most pain is a constant companion to remind them of the condition of living it is an affliction affecting some in more fatalistic ways, the build up of emotional wounds and resulting festering poison; pain inducing to the tome of a thousand suns searing our emotional nerve endings that results in the nullification of our ability to feel anything, voiding the somewhat questionable motivating aspect that defines mortality

These resulting ghosts don’t feel, don’t love, don’t recognise joy and quite damningly in the fatal results of all this don’t know how ‘to be’ in social/human/any kind of environment, such a fate even Mother Nature’s seemingly cruellest and most ruthlessly survivalist mentality couldn’t come close to condoning as fair

The only blessing…

Ghosts don’t feel, only bleed, so in the twisted game of life are the perfect tools to tolerate in servitude humanities callous stupidity and everyday offensive presence, till hell finds them a pair of horns and gives them true form with which to reap revenge

Or heaven makes fools of them until the day they are deemed worthy of the ability again to feel, not the endless suffering currently endured but that sacred spark of redemption that gives worth to mortal beings

Stale Tea

The stale tea stagnating next to the breathing corpse no longer warmed the scene with its rising steam; the life giving warmth expired with its maker as the slovenly body looked mindlessly at the fractured glass of that gloomily echoing picture from a time when colour once snaked it’s betrayal spreading tendrils around the expressive soul, now crushed and corrupted into the lifeless hulk of flesh pouring cold tea down the reddened drain.

The putrid brown liquid splashed messily across the idle cast blade in the sink, it’s red stain blending with the putrid brown to form an even more off colour that brought a coldly bleak smile flashing across the face of its user, whose arms still slightly bled from the evening’s mandatory session of provoking feeling of some kind.

A sigh left the now blank face as the smile’s lingering presence joined all those other extinguished signs of life, each drop of blood lost a bitter repeat of something more reliable than that betrayal soaked sensation called love long since expired.

The mindless repeating ringing tone from the other room as some honestly concerned former friend feels the need to intervene, merely provoking a damningly blank nothing in terms of wanting to have to placate and reassure them that the walking corpse was ‘ok’ and suffer an agonizing rendition of the merrily infested soul talking about their happy family and asking ‘why don’t you come to visit’.

Each jaggedly marking cut ever uglier than the last violently fitful set of marks but as the last set, now reddened uneven lines in flesh fading as those before, no redeeming feeling is felt as memories of pain forcefully resurge to remind him of how it should feel as reality betrays even that attempt at knowing the once sacred sensation of possessing a sensitivity to pain.

A slowly dragging foot resistant to moving precedes anther dragging foot in the direction of an open window from which a putrid mix of cigarette smoke interweaves with the scent of stale sex and weed, an alarmingly more putrid soundscape of cat calls and violence echoing from the street below further strangles the hope of happiness with the disgusting air infesting the room.

Having forced the ill fitting window pane to shut followed by more resistant dragging of feet to the stained and marked kitchen, another cup of tea brewing as he tries to think of that illusively evasive logic of why to continue.

A briefly distracting reprieve from the demoralizing task of listing all the reasons to leave the even more demoralizing experience of living, each depressingly constructed line a step closer to the evening that the blade cuts too deep as the heavily corrupted thought hits with guiltless amusement ‘at least it won’t be me having to pour away this cup of cold tea’ followed grimly by the again guilt free amusing thought ‘should anyone notice I’m missing’.


Games won; Nothing gained

I have a kingdom built on the ashes of happiness

Run at its darkened core by a heartless void of pain and lose

With only the burning rivers of my rage

To keep the fires of hope burning into the endless night

And through all this a hollow will to survive by my side


“Empty halls of hollow victories to spell a life lived in service

The lacking hand in yours an indicative sign you won the game

But in playing you never discovered a reason to want to win

Left with hollow victories with no worth littering empty halls”