Mad lads

Mad lads make sad stabs in dark clubs.

Lucy licks her wounds.

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Systemic Sorrow

And in this present moment, on the other side of town.

Another mind aches as yours does.

A kindred Sorrow over brick walls and rooftops.

A Sorrow builds and grows in fluxing rivets, unpleasant surging swell,

renewal taking strength from hordes of sources,

running together, coming together,

into a living organ that reaches into living things.

It doesn’t remain shadowy.

It was never abstract.

And the lucky are touched by it’s delicate hand,

And the rest are stomped into the tread of it’s boot.

landscrape

that grass-roots feeling of loss

that cliched unsaid unfinished shiz

that heart-worm burial

that digging notion of things gone wrong

the unfixable memory convoy that won’t leave and parades up and down my mind

aisles and the corridor’s tight and the squeezing march grates on the sides and drags

me down with it

that corn fed turd that is you

a handprint on my psyche

a snow angel on my lawn

What comes out of the computer

Electronic hum

The gentle breath of digital cogs wheels me on, whirrs me into so-called productivity.

It’s the hardware really, I work with an old, well-used machine.

My feed is not an echo chamber – sometimes there are things there that make me sad and ashamed. I can’t always engage because I don’t have all the time in the world.

The hostility that might meet me would drain me of my life blood.

The electric runs through these wires, provides a receptacle and a dispenser for hate that’s displayed in my screen – I read it, my eyes take it into my heart and I learn again the state of the world and what we’re dealing with.

A bloody tradition defended so viciously by people who are made of delicate flesh and bone.

Why do you, a creature of blood, yearn for the spilling of an innocent?

Why do you defend the cruelty of those that would tear you apart if you were in a different body?

Slippery

Slippery

One of the only fun things is the idea of your tongue in my mouth,

It’d be such a relief to feel alive for a change.

To feel like what I am, instead of a stony-bodied husk.

Too tired and sick of it to feel anything, too stressed to do anything but rest.

Too drained for the admin of life, brushing my teeth I’m bored.

Unentertainable, vacuous.

Sticking straight face, trapped behind.

My soul exhales in a sick of it sigh.

Deadened nerves, my sensation is always a low one.

Deadweight – I can’t even be bothered to lift.

Tears can’t come out, unless I’m drunk, but that hurts my throat and my head, the sweetness makes me nauseous.

I suppose it’s a bit of despair – how unattractive, not like I give a shit, sick of it – like I said.