The Nobodies



The grey days and missing days where dead relatives and unchained lovers drift away without you even realising. The dirty crowd and how it thinks of itself as a collective shining light, and not the mass of crap and regurgitated dreams it really is. No beauty, and no success, just this lump of gristle that deserves to be spat into the toilet the morning after the night before. And how many times have I stood there pissing out an unhealthy shade of orange with a headache and a face full of cold sunlight with the overwhelming urge to never drink again? And of course after such thoughts are banished comes the coughing and hacking as they shoot from my mouth ready to swim with the turds. This generation where relationships run no deeper than Tinder and where the need to look as normal as possible to people you hate is worshipped above all else. All those bars and clubs where designer insects engage in their empty mating rituals thinking they’re the centre of the city when they’re nothing more than a no-name dot in a no-name sea of the same. And then there are the poets who write as if others should care and as if nothing ever happened to anyone else. They think they’ve got something to say but they’re just hiding behind the words like the cowards they are. If you want to write, write because there’s nothing else. Write because if you didn’t, you’d be dead, not because others gush at how pretty it is. Stop fucking hiding behind niceties and write until you gouge out the eyes of all those foolish enough to treat your words with anything less than the respect they deserve. If you lose friends, it doesn’t matter, for enemies are more useful. If people think you’re mad, keep doing it again and again and make sure to shove those dirty words right up their piggy noses. If you fall in love, do it until you break into a million pieces. Do it because the one you love comes above all others- because you would gladly venture into the jaws of hell just for one more taste of their delicious, sinful lips. Oh, this tedious place where everything is so stale and precious- may it burn to the ground and may those deadbeats finally know what it feels like to be alive as the flames eat away their ridiculously dull faces. They claim that life is for living, yet they’ve been dead since childhood. Plastic this and plastic that. A culture of trash and machines and lipstick and muscles and throat-fucking and holidays and lollipops and shops and white teeth and mortgages and false mirrors where all images are void void void. Do they know what they are? If there came a day when they took off their man-suits, what would they see underneath? Inside their hearts, what do they really feel? Who is it that looks back at them as they stand there ready to pretend just the same as they did yesterday?

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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