The Count

12 hours

A deal to be done for destruction will doth beckon an edge on the day


An hour less to enjoy the sun in all the fading light may offer in salvations way


The clock that eats my time hath ticked and tocked into every second I see it die away


The panic yet to come calls a storm on the horizon saturated with grey and hailing clouds


Hope launches one more desperate plan in facing odds a gambler would give no eyes


Six foot of rope emerges from a darkening day’s ditch of six foot deep


In that rope a noose has began to tie tight the binds by which optimism chokes


How horridly the time flies into the lessoning hours of where the deal turns downward bleak


How the silence of the mind falls screamingly into the fatal closing act of an impending end


All consciousness falls numb to the final moments


As all in the eternities game plays on an act of impossible


Beyond the act of finality a fated thing is to survive


To feel fatality and know that the end eludes this mortal hurt


How a Man Leans

“A person’s posture can sell an entire library of insight into their character, chapters so subtly implied in the slightest of actions”

I lean, not slouch, slump or support myself against but lean on surfaces. When I’m leaning it’s a sign that I’m safe in an environment and at work it’s a sign of control, the ability to control a room from one key location with a singular tone of authority. The action also implies a safety about my mood, an inherit security for those surrounding me as the trigger finger is resting idle at the side of my readily unfriendly temper.

The very activity of letting every muscle falter into relaxation is a thing to spread the warming calmness through my body; an equally important activity is how I resume upright motion. Too quick and assertive and I could be on the verge of a volatile reaction, slower motion an indication of mellowed resistance and a composed disposition.

The best photo of me that I can recall is me leaning against a pillar, unaware there are even cameras slyly pointing lenses in my vicinity!

So what about you:

     Do you hunch in a repressed posture of stress or frustration?

     Do you spring from one arena of action to another in energetic pose?

     Do you shape yourself into those dark corners of the room in shaded insecurity?

However your body naturally accustoms itself, I say make it yours and do it right


The Week Defined in Darker Skies

From the first timid time I dared to lift my eye lids from over the two cold orbs I use to see, all demonic potential of a world heavy loaded with meticulously detailed pain extended as far as my cursed sight doth see

All a storm has passed this way, a merry hell to rain down in callous hail upon all this civilly constructed shell so fragile by every timid crack that screamingly outlines every faulted thing huddling within

No shelter stays whole or defence remains in ways to be even loosely defined as a working thing, when all fire rages wildly with wilfully consuming chaos through my besieged fragment of nothingness value labelled only as my calm

Eyes see apparitions of future pain through the poison lens of a crimson stain as the path before disintegrates so purposely slowly, as if a cruelly picking god were to be laughingly knocking each stone down in corrupted joy before the eyes of tortured souls

Blades meet flesh and suffering marks it in reddened streaks lashed across the skin, no angels here to heal a demon’s ills with enlightened tones of forgiveness prayer, only thanklessly begging mercy calling for their pitted existences to be saved

So fate creepingly crawls with derisorily drawn out cries to defect to places where I dare not tread, steps heavy laden with a past’s regret do doggedly claw to bring me back to whence sorrow’s crop have chokingly seized every fibre of hope

And all such horrific visions of misspent awfulness instilled in those seven eternities of twenty four hours of waking hell, sleep as damned as when I wake to see a freshly laid burden to pitilessly whip my only fractured fragment of brightness to have made it out, traumatised and broke

So from the first time the night with cruelty sluggishly draws the curtain on that fair day of all a dystopian nightmare would weep to feel, I must hope not the dwelling memories of what misery I write will persist to remind me that I await it all with the dawn sentence of fresh light


Diagnostic scan. Rogue personality detected

Diagnostic program running…
Status request on systems pending…
Sanity; Error detected. Definitions too corrupted to properly initiate diagnostic  
Functionality; Percentage beyond standard range… 5%. -56%. 123% .conflict in percentage range Repair attempted…
system overriding corrective measures  
Normality; Core files corrupted. Source files not found in system
Erroralternative values asserting base parameters  
Sociability; -113%… negative percentage… [Alternative values overriding] comparatively positive percentage detected  
Social Filters; Multiple code sections missing… filter malfunctions 2. 6. 8. 16. 19. detection algorithms overloaded
Emergency shutdown of compartment analysis  
Stress; 999% evident in base systems… normality core files saturated… sociality deconstructing.jkkl.oimh… [Contaminated values overriding] deconstructing… no error detected   Diagnostic program concluding…  
Report; Core files corrupted. Normality definitions misaligned. Sociability voided. Social Filters borderline functional. Stress at fatal levels  
Status; Impossibility Recommendation; Delete prograkkl.kj89..kjkkk [Alternative values overriding] FUCK LIFE. With bells on it. Exclamation mark

WARNING: This is an emotional Purge, Pure, at Unholy levels

Positive Emotions Ask them what will happen and you get:

Happiness; Smile, it’s all good

Positivity; It’ll be ok

Love; Look into that loved ones eyes and feel it all drift away

I’m half way through the bottle in a dive bar from hell and life just created a new bottom to fall out on me, DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME ABOUT THE DAGGERS IN MY BACK.


Negative Emotions Ask them what will happen and you get:

Pain; I will drag you to a place of such horrid feelings that death can’t even save you from feeling this level of wretched misery

Depression; I will lead to your death, don’t care how but that’s all I want

Loneliness; You are on your own and will never have companionship of any kind, get use to it

I should be pissed off but….. NO FUCKING LIES!!!!!

No deception, no tricks or delusion


Explore the positive all you want and then only get lies, deceit and failure and guess what; the next time you see that sign for happiness, not so appealing. You turn to the negative spectrum in expectation of all the lies, deceit and failure that the smug smiling bar steward positivity was selling you and guess what; pain delivers, depression hands you a gun and a bottle whilst loneliness stares back from the mirror and says; “Hi, and yes, still just you here at this end of the bar”.

Tell me how I’m meant to ever escape the ruthless truth of these seemingly damning emotional states when I can’t fault them for reliability, they actually do what they promise and unlike everything else don’t fail me. I can guarantee that I will feel this shitty in the future, all the trimmings and twice on Sunday but any gamble into happiness is completely random as to the odds of getting a good deal.


I am a borderline manic depressive

I am borderline suicidal sometimes

I am anti-social

And on these counts I will not let you down!

And as much as I want to complain about it, secretly I’m happy that I’ve found something in my life that IS trying to kill me but ISN’T bullshitting me about it!!


I am Broken, and Proud of it

A Flat Line Musical Number

I did so solidly strive to be positively attuned and by the golly gushing river of red I did so be blessed, that merrily dancing razor chap a sharp mover across my dance floor wrists
He did so dance and sing in manic infused fashion a lyrical phantasm of most cheerily perceived death, the rhythmically accustomed beating on the door and sirens screaming to back the harbinger’s happy chant
Skeletal disco divas 70’s style boogie in the ever shaded background to back up sing for a white suited death, all the more enchanting with every energetic step that wise old reaper is busting in fatally funny jest
I’d say the gig was fated in a flat line number but for all the meds that white coated wizard prescribed me, even the paramedics are glamorously attired in festive garb as a dance of electric paddles is shockingly catchy

But alas the red river is slowing

The razor retired to rest

Back up dancers do drape upon me a passing kiss

The glowing attire and loudly proclaimed gospel of my paramedic drama has dulled a pace to flatly mimed medical jargon


As the doctors would say, all the fun of a suicidal musical musing is just my anti-psychotics blagging me off with a bad theatrical number, the critical receive writing it off as a bad reaction of the highest order