Suicide Journalist

he worshipped bacteria instead of lovers 

drove an old Pontiac whilst drowning himself in miracle sauce 

words made him now they fail him 

suicide journalist as he puts one in the chamber 

dying like the future 


like everything else 

Poetry #3



The sense of numbness that comes with the leaving behind of childhood. Morning makes way for afternoon blues. Head ravaged by snot and despaired dreams, the horrors of my soul can be found in the bathroom toilet. Cigarette smoke unleashing the hell of what I am, there’s no joy to be found in the opening of tired eyes. It’s all a useless mess, just like the rest of it.

Feed me my favourite flavour. Let my hopes ascend to some higher place. This body dissolved, replaced by a vessel pure with intent. It’s in the warm embrace of spring. It’s in the distant touch of two lovers separated by conflict. Lullabies bubbling in the undergrowth. Blind faith worshipped over sense. But no sense makes sense, so what’s the point in pretending either way. What’s the point in looking back when all you see is more and more junk. There’s a storm inside of me that will never subside. In my mind and in my heart, I will never be at peace. Since birth, the need for something more haunting every step. A language not spoken. Images out of reach to all but those who choose to walk a lonely path. All those footsteps, a journal each and every one of them. All those moments lost in the chaos of life. They race for the finish line, yet it never comes. They build for the future, but the future’s already been and gone. Know yourself. Trust those voices within your head. Be kind. Be honest. Praise children and animals. Respect fallen idols and the silent. Love the ones that never leave. Hate those with no meaning. It’s a damned life at times, yet there’s beauty begging to be found. Just look around.

The inane babble of pointless opinions. Everyone wants to be heard, yet none of them have anything interesting to say. The need to be seen, to not fade away. The universe doesn’t care. It feels nothing. We are a witness to the death of sin. Sacred feelings died along with the leaves last fall. All of this is just a charade. Every last whim, just a passing blip in the stretching of time. It makes me ill. Being surrounded by these insects, it leaves me cold like a planet without a sun. There’s only space and hell. In each and every town and city across the land, misery seduces at will. Routines placate. Happiness in bondage. Tied down to others, the chains of work and play suffocate daily. Year in, year out. Decayed beauty and the loss of freedom. Heaviness drowns. From clowns to bankers and back again. With the curtains drawn all sounds are muffled out by the pillows upon my head. Buried in warm sheets, I’m leaving this world behind. Escaping through sleep into dreams, there’s little that will ever be missed. None of them will ever be missed. While they edit their lives without end, I’ll be slipping into another realm. Where man has never stepped foot nor seen, I shall be constant. With nothing to restrain my heart and soul, my desires shall paint themselves as they see fit.


This is What it Feels Like


Time flies like a broken arrow. Magpies pecking for secrets in the soil, my story crawls lonely in the shade. It hides beneath her pretty little dress. Sun dyed hair blowing in the wind, there’s just no telling where my mind will drift to today. Each layer of what we call living exhumed, there’s no stopping my taste for lost avenues sprinkled with regret. Alcohol and cigarettes as leaves fall like headless torsos. War as you soak in the bath. Murder, rape and genocide as you decided which mask should be worn over the next. These stupid charades. These pointless games that serve no meaning. Life and death in the blink of an eye as we battle over burnt toast. Love exchanged for lifeless encounters with strangers. Tell yourself it’s okay why don’t you, but the desolation that rages in your heart is clear to see. Wastelands in your belly where life once grew. It can grow again, but it’s just a pale imitation of lost beauty. Church bells on a Sunday afternoon. Flowers reaching up through the weeds. We let them grow without even knowing. Trapped in vines of lies, there’s no sense in hiding in plain sight.

Idiot man. Passive fool. Deranged like homeless junkies looking for a fix of something good. Royal blood on whiter than white panties. Holy like worship. As cheap as your willing to go. Pull my teeth out but don’t touch my soul. Cut me off from everyone, it doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve been lost in my head for years. No sense in wandering what if. No need to argue what could have been. There’s only this present moment. It should be praised yet it seldom is. The fragility of our fleeting presence never held in high esteem. We’re only missed when we’re gone. Only cherished when we don’t have the ability to talk back. The world loves a mute lover. It clings to them with blind indifference. Preach conformity. Abide by it as if the stars needed it to stay in the sky. They won’t be falling down any time soon but keep up the act all the same. Remember the words. Remember the touch. Ghosts in place of shadows. The mystery of human compulsion. It takes over then withdraws for the tiniest amounts of time. It’s in our design. It’s in the way we collide. So many places and moments gone, never to be seen again. Such a fragile way of being. Such an insignificant passage. Shells crumble. They dissolve in beds of dreams. Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them bury me, not just yet.


Nailed to History


Hands upon the canvas. Hands all over her breasts. Cigarettes in the gutter like seasons spent in hell. Six sheets to the wind. Coffee in the pot like mental illness singing through petrified trees. Closed mouth nothings across the table in a war-torn cafe. Boredom in approach. Aching formalities when the removal of useless clothes is all that’s needed. Brokenness beneath a broken lightbulb. X-ray my heart to see what’s inside. Bottles of sand mixed with drunken kisses. Oil paint smeared with sexual juices. If it’s not in the bible, how can it be a sin when it feels so good. Years dissolved whilst walking familiar footpaths. It’s in the sunken air. It’s in the sadness trapped within neglected buildings. Symbols between legs. Syllables on innocent earlobes. Break through the great divide. Smash wide open those moonlit lenses. European unconsciousness. Jazz on the neck as teeth move around silent guns. Murals on tender torsos. Take me as I am. Let these shadows of mine move like a boy on a warm, summers afternoon. Demons in a parking lot. Abandoned like a mothers womb. No more to follow. A trapped animal as sunrise comes around once more. Drinking to remember. Drinking to forget.

Like a storm, he says it will pass. But these storms can last a lifetime. A pack of beer in the glovebox. Crows tapping at the cracked window. Hell in silent breathtakes. New York statues on the end of every fucking block. Just like in London, but not as lame. Long Island horrors. Animals circling the lighthouse without so much as an inkling of surprise. Obliterate that skull and make it pure. At one with every single atom. Inside every peculiar dream. These clouds they last forever as a stray dog licks my outstretched palms. He obeys like a lover, though ignorance is easier this way. Lose the foundations. Plant seeds you know you’ll never see bloom. It’s a one way ticket, but immortality is worth every last ounce. Sacrifice makes a man worth more. Surface is surface. Confusion brings strength as the penny drops for the last time. My art is sacred. Nothing or no one can cross that barrier. It reigns complete. On the edges of discovery, the universe bends to my will. False like western ignorance. Belittled like a struggling fool on the hill. Signatures of handprints whilst turtles hibernate unknown. Life magazine used as lubricant. Catharsis like a bed of flowers. Making love not as a passage or a full stop, but as a signal of intent. Breaking the ice. Express these plagued ages. Nail them to history.


Human and Useless


All those greedy bellies. All those juicy bodies just begging to be eaten. Forbidden fruits hanging from tainted trees. Indulge me in something extreme. Shower my eyes with kisses that taunt like a jilted lover. Emotions stubbed out like cigarettes. There’s nothing worse than panda eyes in the pouring rain. There’s nothing more cruel than an image of perfection left to fade like a photograph beneath the suns endless glare. It’ll get the better of you. Maybe not today, but sometime soon you’ll be left high and dry. You’ll stink like a sexual disease. Infections blistering your skin, they’ll be no redemption to save your sorry, painted face. Hopes rise up then descend. They douse you with false wishes as the days revolve around opaque words. Man is a dangerous animal, yet it’s easy to leave behind those footprints. Truth delivers pain, and the way it cleanses our wounds brings only relief. Spit out those lies and suckle on the purest gun. Feed me bullets and groove to my tune. Tales of the future on empty streets. Uncertainty in pregnancy. Blasphemy hereditary. It’s in my ink. It’s in the veins of rage that pump within me whilst others go on about their business. Drink what you want. Spit on whores and deface the meek. Men as imposters. Men as creeps always growing fatter through deformed intent. Cut the rope. Let them burn.

Love is not a victory march. It’s not a weapon. It comes about like the merging of stars. The universe is big and we are small. That’s all there is to know really. There’s no going back, and there’s no taking for granted what we already have. This is it. This is all there ever is. Trees appear in my dreams yet for the life of me I can’t decipher their meaning. Empty wine bottles gather dust as her underwear hangs on the end of the bed. Chemical lovers as the rain gets in through the open window in the bathroom. Nausea dampened by cups of tea. Aching bones quelled by warm water. As if these lives could just drift by without us ever taking a closer look. Rubbing shoulders with thieves and rapists like it were nothing to be alarmed about. Murderers bored by dulling surroundings. These thin layers of existence starved by war. We seek elicit images to keep us from becoming numb. We crave something a little harder to stop ourselves from slipping out of touch.

They watch porno’s whilst operating machinery. Smoking cigarettes with greasy hands, they imagine themselves destroying teenage bodies.  Rubbing oil on her breasts, they fill her up with failed dreams then blow smoke and seed upon her worthless torso. All day long, the horror of the ol’ in and out. A thousand mute screams as childhood innocence is cut to shreds. Dignity erased. Beauty bleached. No mystery, just mild satisfaction. No elegance, just a futile need to breathe. She’s got daddy issues and he’s lonely in the knowledge that there’s nothing more than his messed up guts. Anxiety in the morning as limbo fades behind flowered curtains. Sunrise obliterating all hope of finding a way out. Objects beg to be burned so as they may never have to witness another prolonged breakdown. Food remains uneaten. Clothes not washed just piled high in the corner of the room. Daylight hurts your eyes. It sucks the life right out of tired lungs. Completely still, a bird pecks at the window. It’s looking for the worm in the centre of your soul. Ripe with decay, a new day is just another false beginning.