do not pray to god.
Acute perception……heart monitor jags……sick green on solid plastic black……depression of the anxiety…….psychosis of happiness and gingivitis bliss…..fingering the sordid holes……barbiturates of fear, emptiness-despair……pastilles offer withdrawal symptoms…….frontal lobe sedation……down the escalator…..into-inside the howl-white ambulance hell to hospital, chemical burial……four months of missed appointments……concern and disconnection…..violent, more violent, a hand grasps old chairs…..move, lose reaction, slump, catch at cold hair……
Drowning in a flux tide of spastic, white eidola. Trampled petals washing down the scabbed-over gutters of night towns and dead, wind-blown twilight cities. Buds and seedlings crushed into foody pulp. Gnawed on by teeth that chatter, piss blood and scream.
Genitals soaped and ready to go. The white foam tasting of clean things. The grease from the uncut hair of angels, so toxic and sweet. Gagging on you, I eat the vinegar flowing through the soft, folded remnants of your shower. Drawing a hot, sour curtain over the day and the logical feelings it impregnates into the unceasing passage of moment-after-moment. The living, unforgiving, animating blackness that sleeps within everything comes alive in us, here, right now.
Let’s retire to the bedroom.
See what other blacknesses are hiding there.
Death is not a smell that penetrates our jellied straitjacket forms. It doesn’t have the maths, we can’t accept its equation, we deride it, rewrite it and claim insolubility. Get away from us with your inevitability. You, the thermodynamic that gnashes teeth the colour of dawn and draws the breath out from our tar-inflected lungs. We are too tired to fight so we close our eyes and ignore you.
We cannot smell you, therefore you do not exist!
Fuck off!
******
The food falls from my mouth, going down, crossing so many spans of abyss, before striking the pavement. The city smells of dried breast-milk and ammonia this morning as I rifle through overturned bins. Coal gas texturises the low, heavy pollution-clouds into shades of grubby orange and unwashed grey. I am at the bottom of a mineshaft, many levels down, looking up to see the burning. Men are screaming. Wheezing shadows flutter and flap their arms in suffocating canary spasm. I hear vomit and blood hitting the floor.
Down here am I and there are things with me.
The black cancers that crawl over the universe’s sick, dying face, benighted spawn of its unknowable insides. The way they bulge and writhe, one wonders if they are the necro-galactic equivalent of tarred pulmonary alveoli, somehow conscious, brought to life.
To be honest, who gives a shit?
These fucking things want to tear me apart.
Yes, I’m running again like a mad blind bastard who’s lost his guide-dog. My inner compass is dead silent. I have no map in my head, no light to lead my eyes to safety, soot and ash settle on me and scald my sight, goring my vision with the clear relentless slaughter of tears. The lumps and ossifying tentacles of the black cancers shuffle and slap against the tunnel rocks behind me.
I feel like I have been running and running, running all my life.
Exhaustion screams, the individual tadpole souls of my every cell. Telling me to fall, to let go, to not begrudge the collision with calamity that is rushing to meet me, fight no longer a pathetic, meaningless battle, weep no more over what’s long, long lost.
You get nothing back.
Life takes and that’s that.
So much for pathos and redemption.
Avalanching thunder buries the demands of my failing self.
I crash through a boundary, tripping over consequence, skidding through the mucky leavings of someone else’s life-disaster, cartilage gunshots in my knees.
I am throwing up in a public rubbish bin, wiping the beige trail from my chin, I hiccup and pull a face, my bus-stop reflection, smeared, shows me an ugly
Acute perception……heart monitor jags……sick green on solid plastic black……depression of the anxiety…….psychosis of happiness and gingivitis bliss…..fingering the sordid holes……barbiturates of fear, emptiness-despair……pastilles offer withdrawal symptoms…….frontal lobe sedation……down the escalator…..into-inside the howl-white ambulance hell to hospital, chemical burial……four months of missed appointments……concern and disconnection…..violent, more violent, a hand grasps old chairs…..move, lose reaction, slump, catch at cold hair……
Drowning in a flux tide of spastic, white eidola. Trampled petals washing down the scabbed-over gutters of night towns and dead, wind-blown twilight cities. Buds and seedlings crushed into foody pulp. Gnawed on by teeth that chatter, piss blood and scream.
Genitals soaped and ready to go. The white foam tasting of clean things. The grease from the uncut hair of angels, so toxic and sweet. Gagging on you, I eat the vinegar flowing through the soft, folded remnants of your shower. Drawing a hot, sour curtain over the day and the logical feelings it impregnates into the unceasing passage of moment-after-moment. The living, unforgiving, animating blackness that sleeps within everything comes alive in us, here, right now.
Let’s retire to the bedroom.
See what other blacknesses are hiding there.
Death is not a smell that penetrates our jellied straitjacket forms. It doesn’t have the maths, we can’t accept its equation, we deride it, rewrite it and claim insolubility. Get away from us with your inevitability. You, the thermodynamic that gnashes teeth the colour of dawn and draws the breath out from our tar-inflected lungs. We are too tired to fight so we close our eyes and ignore you.
We cannot smell you, therefore you do not exist!
Fuck off!
******
The food falls from my mouth, going down, crossing so many spans of abyss, before striking the pavement. The city smells of dried breast-milk and ammonia this morning as I rifle through overturned bins. Coal gas texturises the low, heavy pollution-clouds into shades of grubby orange and unwashed grey. I am at the bottom of a mineshaft, many levels down, looking up to see the burning. Men are screaming. Wheezing shadows flutter and flap their arms in suffocating canary spasm. I hear vomit and blood hitting the floor.
Down here am I and there are things with me.
The black cancers that crawl over the universe’s sick, dying face, benighted spawn of its unknowable insides. The way they bulge and writhe, one wonders if they are the necro-galactic equivalent of tarred pulmonary alveoli, somehow conscious, brought to life.
To be honest, who gives a shit?
These fucking things want to tear me apart.
Yes, I’m running again like a mad blind bastard who’s lost his guide-dog. My inner compass is dead silent. I have no map in my head, no light to lead my eyes to safety, soot and ash settle on me and scald my sight, goring my vision with the clear relentless slaughter of tears. The lumps and ossifying tentacles of the black cancers shuffle and slap against the tunnel rocks behind me.
I feel like I have been running and running, running all my life.
Exhaustion screams, the individual tadpole souls of my every cell. Telling me to fall, to let go, to not begrudge the collision with calamity that is rushing to meet me, fight no longer a pathetic, meaningless battle, weep no more over what’s long, long lost.
You get nothing back.
Life takes and that’s that.
So much for pathos and redemption.
Avalanching thunder buries the demands of my failing self.
I crash through a boundary, tripping over consequence, skidding through the mucky leavings of someone else’s life-disaster, cartilage gunshots in my knees.
I am throwing up in a public rubbish bin, wiping the beige trail from my chin, I hiccup and pull a face, my bus-stop reflection, smeared, shows me an ugly
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