To cut a long story short: I am still 25. Brighton. Breakfast. Hailstones. Sarcophagus. Skeletons. Sunshine. Cocktails. Rain. Arcade. Football. A horrible fishcake. Nightclub. Argument. Return to London alone. Bad song. Spiral. Overdose. Hypothermia. Footsteps. Men everywhere. I’m not safe. Blackout. Ambulance. Blackout. Hospital. Blackout. Confusion. Adrenaline. Fight or flight. Flight. Try to go outside […]
I’ve been reading Treacle for a little while now and what I admire the most is the jagged play with imagery. It’s hard to read this and not walk away bruised or cut.
Passover was fine this year, didn’t sleep or drink too much. For the first time in a long while I’m not depressed about having to go to work tomorrow. Didn’t write much. Went and saw Hellboy (it’s good). And now I’m just looking for the last beer in the fridge as I unwind the horseshit I’ve had to put up with the last few months. Happy easter all
I was running from an ugly existence
I was digging up all sorts of novel ways to
So many ways but still the same person as yesterday
Steadily moving at an absent pace
Frame of thought is dawn’s precious victim
alone, stranded in pieces
Tired of giving this curse something it can feel
Those I want. Don’t want me. And those I could give a fuck about
won’t let me be
I decided the world was a pool of piss
and the only thing I can do, is keep you at a distance
Until, I am ready to jump ship
I may gripe and moan, and if I could stop thinking about nothing
War and etiquette?
There is something that can be said for an anonymous mentality
It’s been a long week and I am still the writer who does not write. Watched a Lovecraft doc on YouTube tonight and I couldn’t help but compare myself to him when the narrator described how Howard didn’t work because he felt a gentleman should “be” not have to “do.” Yeah well it’s 2019 and that shit don’t get you followers/people willing to buy your books. I decided long ago to start playing the lotto when I decided to give up on making a living like any other person. Currently working on a short story about love, and the awful shit people do to each other because that’s what love makes them do. I’ll hopefully share a line or two soon as I can stop being so depressed that I am able to. Don’t hold your breath.
and as an added bonus here’s a bit of prose/something to start a story. No title
Waking up can be difficult. The indecisive nature of how I operate makes for an easily self-contained person. A science experiment in the idea of not wanting to better myself yet going through weeks were all I do is obsess over bettering myself.
Writing short stories is harder than I expected. I thought I could just take my rotten experiences and my juvenile hijinks from my life and apply them to some sort of literary coup.
The junkies in the streets fair off better than you or me, the reason is because there’s nothing in what I see that can force me to change what’s wrong with me
One of my favorite bands is the Damned. There’s something about that late 70’s punk sound that, well, for lack of a better phrase, could make you sprint two miles on a treadmill without breaking a sweat. Tonight I decided to actually go out, but looking at how much weight I’ve put on, I could probably use an hour on the treadmill.
I’ll be honest, I am not really a club person. Some bars a okay. Seedy, dive bars, sure. I’m more of a homebody but it’s my friend’s birthday and he wants to take his black ass out to a goth club.
So. Yeah. But I have something special that I wrote a few weeks back and I guess now is just as good a time as any to post. It doesn’t have a name yet but it shows potential for a short story. Enjoy
Salvation in a syllable. Perpetuity wrapped in a novel came in the mail today. Some kind of lonesome way of looking for grace. Under the convenient hand that strangles my name. Can’t leave the house because I’m too afraid to face the shame. I pour me a glass of bourbon, settle into my depressive state. Loneliness isn’t quite so bad in this alternate reality. I stopped to think this as I opened Crowley’s The Book of the Law. It was 8 am but as the book opened, the night flooded my room, creaking sounds emanated through my room and a chill fell on my shoulders. I had opened the universe while sitting on my bed. I was petrified.
Writing has created a nervous stress that I have been sedating with alcohol. I have until June to accomplish my writing goals. Tonight I figured out that for me to write a thousand words a day, I need to sit down for at least an hour.
Looking back through 20 years worth of journals filled with poems, stories, and songs is driving me bonkers. I’m pasting my past writing with the fiction I’m currently working on. I’ve found some gold and some garbage. Here’s one called Rimbaud. I’ll let you decide.
Sometimes it breaks me down,
the way you no longer feel,
pleasant memories we share no longer help, nor heal
It’s a maddening disease,
keeps me in bed, even when I no longer crave sleep
And you can’t win a war without burning bodies and twisting your enemies face
“Of course I’m jagged with insensitivity”
I’ve run out of kindness and pleasantries
I sharpen my words to disorganize your face
it’s called Infatuation. It’s one poem that I am using to promote some old poems that me and my crew are calling the prequel to Digital Asylum (Still available for sale, just sayin’). These new collection of poems will be available soon, super cheap, tune in, same bat channel, same bat time kids…
Sequence of frustration
Rupture of spine spouts ghastly echoes…
-an erotic speech whistled through turtle shell
Bones we now sell
We live weeks behind public schedule
-complete but alone
Now we express our magical tendencies through words of silence
-not by pasting our faith to idle novelties