no matter how hard you run and talk yourself 'round from looking back they catch up and and their teeth find the parts of you you let get soft.
their bites hurt more than you can make anyone ever understand, like retelling a dream you've just had.
no one will know why or how, not even you
and all you'll think to do is lie down and howl
all you can do is lie down and howl.

looking with lazy disgust
at flies fucking
amidst pisa-stacks of grotty crockery
ashtrays made from things that aren't ashtrays
hangover stomach turns
at mouldering cups of what was probably once coffee
or tea
or something
putting you off having coffee
or tea
or something
observing the quiet sharehouse
with lazy disgust

all the muses'a'got scabs'n bruises from rollin'round drunk on the floor
then we feel like shit, say it's time to quit an'then we just do it more
getting off'ya face to get out of yer head's not the best, but it's quickest by far
f'I fed my brain instead I might pass a test and mebbe git a car
buttfuck living long term and planning to earn if it means being bored day-to-day
I'd rather be poor scum than wait for cheques to come and not be allowed to play

awash in a sea of half-familiar faces

waiting for some tenuous company

listening to music I can't relate to

waiting like always

sitting in a seat nobody wants

even space case robbie face is here with crew

I'm just too awkward for life, I guess

self loathing deluxe

Get used to disappointment


I am used to disappointment. I was hoping I could maybe get used to the other thing.

so pained and frustratedly[sic] angry
that i was about to cut my nipples off to spite my tits
but the scissors were broken and then the valium kicked in
now i wanna lie back listening to douglas adams
and feel cool about cutting out the dead wood
and wait for this aching to stop aching
so that what i'm doing is living and not just being alive.

those halcyon times you hope you don't forget, carefree and deliberately dumb fun
necking mushroom caps and catching the train to an exhibition, then leaving the art in favour of an adjacent climbing frame named dave, three of you spending hours inventing a new language, stupidity-intimacy, heaps of giggling, vodka milkshakes and and overpriced chips outside another gallery.
the same three of you kite-high, never leaving the bed, young turk ceasars, comanding red he-she for imbibing...goon punch and indoor smoking.
picnics and parties and revelling in our wilful disregard. I catch myself tearing up over how long past those times have got.
even as we get older we refuse to grow up.
but those times are gone.
since you showed me your real face
was snarling and mechanical.