Bed Bound

Drinking beer whilst the rain pisses down outside. Eating rice noodles and pretending it’s the end of the world. I want to be utterly alone. To be a millionaire swimming in the pleasures of solitude. My bed contains all of my fears. It cuts me into pieces every time I fall asleep. Stomach cramps and indigestion. Interstellar boredom as I curl into a ball not noticing the calender days falling off in the distance. Like bombs and desperate lovers, they fall without glory. Just another week that’s all. Just another month gone and never to return. Looking at jobs but I don’t want a job. Listening to the same old shit whilst admiring the patterns that are found in nature. Don’t want to do anything. I’m lost at sea. I’m convalescing from an illness called life. Plane crashes and ulcers. Winter so afraid as spring spews the same old crap it always does. It’s like a movie but not as interesting. People talk, but they never seem to say anything. They just chew the fat like they always do. Put them in the pot. Boil them in their own lies. 

Masturbation. No kids. Wife beater next door, single dad the other. Girl dyes her hair. Paste makes me wretch. Pissing too much. Thinking too much. Chemists and doctors surgeries. Collecting pills and talking about all those things you can never put your finger on. I was born at a very young age. I’m a survivor of the big bang. No theories, just illustrations of topless women. Brunette, curvy. Names in the loop. Bed bound from collective hysteria. Big in Japan I am. Worshipped like war, my features are carved into mountains and teenage arms. Bruises on my back, they don’t shine they just peel off like scabs. Nausea is a delicacy as far as I’m concerned. I’ve put it on a pedestal, have done for years. Fucked like Welsh miners. The ones bathed in fifty shades of coal. Rescue me from a lifetime of thankless tasks. Make me feel alive by advertising my madness. Let others know that I’m coming apart. Let them see the worlds slowest suicide. Ain’t nothing but a freak show. The elephant man redeemed. Slaves to false causes, just let me be. Let me sleep with all the other losers. Let me do what makes me happy. Journal for plague lovers. Journal of a hanged man. 



Right Here, We Are Forever


Walk with me. Embrace failure, and be something more. Echoes of lost love whilst we waste these useless days. If only we could skip to the end. If only we could bend time to our advantage. Be a lighthouse in the darkness. Don’t be afraid of being alone. We were born that way and we’ll die like it too. Cling to those that bring you joy, yet never deny your own shadow. Everyone needs to walk their own road. Others come and go, but it’s you who needs to stand firm in the face of the great big nothing that taunts from beginning to end. Hold your head. Stop those trembling hands. Breathe in the anxiety. There’s nothing to fear once you’ve made your mind up. The road is long, yet once you know where you’re going, nothing can stop you. It’s the perfect storm. It’s how it was always meant to be. It’s a daunting thought at first, yet as soon as you accept it, everything will fall into place. It’s the magic we’re after, not the design of another immaculate life. It’s in the beauty of your smile, in the wonder of your imagination. Climbing ladders wont define you. It’s how much you’re willing to sacrifice in order to achieve what makes your heart burn with winter fire.

Places come and go, as do dreary faces, yet the only person you can truly know is you. Just ask yourself what makes you happy. Ask yourself who you’d run to if the world was about to end. If time was against you, what would you do if tomorrow never came. And tomorrow never comes, believe me. Stripped of that comfort, what decisions would you make if everything was on the line. What honest words would you utter if there was no fear of rejection. Let it pour like the rain on a dismal Sunday afternoon. Don’t be afraid, just say what you need to say. Be what you want to be. Do it before it’s too late, before the cancer comes and riddles itself into those atoms of yours. Do it before the world turns one last time. Mistake will be made. You’ll fuck up spectacularly. You’ll be left humiliated and shamed. Yet those footsteps of yours will be permanent. Others will slip into oblivion, yet you’ll live forever, like the stars you gazed at so longingly as a child. Like those invisible monsters that played with you long into the night. You’re crazy. Mad. Yet there’s no one else who shines so vividly. Others can imitate, but they’ll always pale in comparison.

Just a small kid scared of dying. Just a lonely young soul begging not to be forgotten. Don’t let them take me, not just yet. So calm on the outside yet desperately snatching at thin air. They think I’m in control, yet I’m on the brink of despair every other day. Too worried to leave the house. Too anxious to speak to loved ones. Swallowing repeatedly as the hours tick away. Nowhere to go and no one to see. This is how things used to be. Numb and drunk, the days skipped along so pretty and vacant. Somewhere between dead and daydreaming. The future died along with my daughter, but I’m trying hard to get it back. Things fell apart, but I’m doing my best to reclaim the future. I fell so low, but words give me a reason to continue, they give me the power to chase another dream. Some kind of vision where me and you can dance in each others arms despite the mess of the adult world getting in the way. The lights don’t burn brighter, they just seem that way on the other side. The grass isn’t greener, it just looks that way from a distance. Stay exactly where you are. Don’t change a thing. Just believe in what you’re doing, and the rest will follow.



God knows we try. The lonesome souls that swim in love and acne scars. A face beneath warm blankets. An embrace that goes beyond time and space. It’s something in the taste of fresh sea air. The distant calling of love that lingers in the breeze. It betrays us so easily. The music of my agony found so readily in the lines around my eyes. Crows feet and damaged livers. Panic attacks as you draw the curtains shut on the dirty morning sun. It’s the fear of everything as my bones tremble with the simple act of breathing. Sex killers and sadness. The hardest thing is to keep going. It takes so much courage, yet it has to be done. To exist can be hellish, but what we want can never be achieved by giving in to the horrors of apathy, of not caring. The mist of derision smothers, it seduces us into thinking banality is something so swell. We never even realise, we just give in without as much as a whimper. The trap of the day to day. Repeat after me. Afraid of her touch, I turn on my side and pretend to be sleeping. Staying up into the early hours and chasing away tigers. Turmoil in a teacup. Desperation in the bathroom mirror. Drown my tears. Erase my faults, of all that could’ve been, of all that ever meant a thing. Only faith survives. Blood red gums. Drawings of beauty as a mark of devotion. Eat Chinese food and smile at the innocence of animals. Stub cigarettes out on your arms and laugh at the thought of all those endless summer afternoons. Pain is transitory. It teases yet never truly delivers. Memory hurts, yet it’s just a memory. It can’t touch you twice. The past is gone. Gone like all those yesterdays. There’s no going back. No going back at all. The future is what we believe in.


Persistence and Delusion Wrapped Within Pale Skin


Everything takes so much time, yet persistence I know will be the making of me. If you were to have told me all those years ago that I’d still be working on my novel in the year 2015, I would’ve applauded my commitment. Yet I would most probably have also groaned at the prospect of having to endure so much more struggle. Sometimes, it feels like I’m stuck in a stasis. It’s like my life is on repeat. There’s nowhere to go except to stay the same. Months turn into years. It’s like the Myth of Sisyphus. Constantly pushing that boulder up the mountain only to see it fall back down again. For so long that has mirrored my own struggle. Am I nothing but a bullshit writer destined to never realise my dreams? Am I simply not good enough to see my work not only published, but to have an impact on the lives of those who read it? There are times when everything feels absurd. I feel delusional. I can see it in peoples faces whilst I talk to them of my journey. I feel like a fraud, some kind of phoney making excuses for not wanting to be like everyone else. And for so long it felt like that was the case. Not being able to write. Not having the concentration to put pen to paper for for just a few hours a week. Getting drunk and wasting time was far easier. Living a lie a temporary solution to a permanent issue. All of those wasted days, those moments when it felt far easier to give up than to carry on with such a silly fantasy. How could I ever write a book? Me, the dyslexic, hyperactive only child who preferred playing games with invisible monsters instead of real kids. Me, the postgraduate who ended up stacking shelves for the best part of a decade whilst battling depression and skirting with alcoholism.

To give up would bring comfort. It would put an end to so much prolonged agony. Stop kidding yourself and get a grip. Other people write books, not you. How could someone like you ever make it through? All that time spent not writing. Those endless afternoons walking through fields of corn looking for some kind of divine intervention. Those relationships broken because of the inner turmoil you couldn’t keep from bubbling out of control. I’m not distant, I’m just in two places at the same time. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that it feels like I’ve got the weight of half the world on my back. Judging myself on a daily basis. Stumbling through the days whilst desperately wanting to believe that I had it in me. Faith. Faith that I would one day turn the corner. That one day, the words would return and the passion would ignite me once again. It hurts and it burns. The way the days escape, and the regret of all that I’ve lost mocking me without mercy. Such a fool for ever beginning in the first place. But why give up now? Why stop when for so many years the ideas and visions have been so clear? Even when the words never came, the power of make believe lifted me up. It guided me through the darkness. On the brink of destruction, it give me its hand and lead me to safety. Words can break, yet they make and save me every day. If there’s a passion in your heart for something, it should never be denied. No matter how fanciful or stupid it seems, you have to go for it. It will breed chaos. It will destroy love. It might even take you to a lonely place, but it will be worth it. One day, when you’re finally ready, it will all be worth it.

On Writing

The Taste of Your Kiss


The waves take us down. They show us how to be real. Shiny like a song. Shining like the look of love as the leaves fell upon your restless head. Killing jars and journeys to the forest. Hand in hand as the afternoons escaped to god knows where. It’s in the pretty lines at the corners of your eyes. I’m a dull and witless boy. I’m a shadow drunk on something out of reach. Lost and found in the curse of nature. Blessed by the comfort of destruction. Smoking cigarettes whilst watching the stars fall from the sky. Always wrong. Never on the same page. Just a boy. Just a child in the shape of a man. I’m longing for a day when the sky carries me away. For a moment when the rules cease to be. Out of time with no consequences. If I could go back and mend those broken yesterdays, I would. If I could be your superhero, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But these days are just too far numb. Too many mistakes and too much grey. Take a photo of my guilty face. Hold me in your arms and deny tomorrow. The future wants for nothing. The pity of discarded words. Bake me a cake and nurse my hangover. Give me your faith when I’m crumbling for the thousandth time. Stick me back together again when I come apart at the seams. Floating on thin air, the garden thaws with the coming of spring. Teeth in my back, let me cast aside the tigers that haunt each and every night. Let me banish my demons. Let me scrape them off. Honest and free/ I was born to underachieve. Time to surrender. Time to own up. So many faces I’ve known. So many lips I’ve kissed. Truthful and in between, they make me feel older than the universe. Sadness on every street, it makes me sink like a heavy balloon. The way you looked the last time I saw you. You’ll never know it, but in that second you were the most beautiful woman ever to grace this planet of heartbreak and wine. In that infinite moment, you looped on repeat forever more. Always and never with me every step of the way. The insects and the animals. They praise your golden footsteps. Falling asleep and falling in love with the magic of discovery, you sunk into my heart. You cut me apart. Sullen. Mistaken. A caterwaul of sighs. A breathless kiss as the remnants of early sin comes back together again. Sleep with me. Sleep with the angels. Praise the great deceivers. Hail the fragile voices that speak of all things out of reach.


Citizen Insane

Octopus, 2001-06

We worship killers and lizards. Pig shooters on the cusp of dawn. Breathtaking displays of impotence. Read the book of the moon and decipher what it means to be alone. Kiss with lips empty. You can travel the world yet you can never escape the person you’re destined to become. Shaped by others and shaped by yourself. Wide open spaces that bring only longing for the future. Or maybe it’s the past, it’s a tricky one to call. Voices of accomplishment. Unknown soldiers. Voiceless victims in an age that doesn’t want to hear. It claims to care, yet atrocity after atrocity prove otherwise. This is the time when everything fails. Morality and intent left behind in a state of being you’ll never get to taste again. It’s strange how the years get behind you. How they’re destroyed like torn pages from a book. People you can’t remember. Events wiped from your brain with the passing of another phase. This is all eventual. It’s been coming since the earliest moments you can remember. Faith and persistence. Self sufficient with a hankering for Australian white wine. Falling asleep to the repetition of my favourite mantra. Others must fail if I am to succeed. The missing pieces of a puzzle you know she holds deep inside. Treblinka and masturbation. The scent of school and sweet lemonade. Give her the words. Give her the pictures she can use to erase her doubt. The traces of things in the way. Heat and mammary glands. Bus journeys to drowning towns. Sinking dresses beneath elm trees. Cars of flies as larks tongues caress my cigarette stained fingers. Dread in September tombs. Bury me with her. Let us sleep together forever. Twisted sister, she was never given a chance. Cracked skulls and insects at every turn. The weak deserve grace, and the cruel deserve pity. Mix them together and make them all beautiful. Piranha. Plateau. Perfect in your arms. There’s no other place I’d rather be. There’s no other feeling I’d rather have than the one you feed me so easily.




All that booze. All those infinite bottles of moderate poison. Beer and cigarettes. Drunken wonders whilst completely out of control. The Nanking Massacre whilst we cry over misplaced words. The places I should never have set foot in. The lovers I let down whilst too submerged with my own pointless grief. Writers block. Lifeless daydreams. Syrian atrocity as we settle for a game of Trivial Pursuit. Furniture stores as rape victims curl into balls. Offices upon offices as the homeless freeze to death like chickens in sterile laboratories. Bullied to suicide. Derided because of imperfection. Yet beauty is useless. It reeks of emptiness. Blowjobs and empty holes. Vanity as natural as horror. Do it because you can. Belittle the weak because no one says you can’t. Without watchful eyes, we turn into monsters. There’s a thin line between sanity and madness. All it takes is a single second for it to be crossed. Betrayed by witches, my curse leaves me dismayed. The IRA. The restless youths who have nothing of merit to claim as their own except for their own idiocy. They worship vines instead of talent. No one aches persistence, because hard work is just too much. The tragedy of our times is that we are willing to do nothing for the cause. Instant success is what we crave. Celebrity without the effort. To be alive without thought. It’s the sewer we lust for, even though we claim to seek the stars. Cancer our legacy. Extinction on our lips every second of every day. It tingles in our fingers. Makes us restless whilst we pretend to be normal. A virus one and all. Between heaven and hell whilst the world falters on the brink, we obsess over mirrors and the images we find within. Narcissism so lonely, we disappear. We cease to be real.