Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Dear A

Dear Anger

I’m in a turrets like mood were fuck is the only word to describe it

I’d like to slam my head in a fucking door but even apathy is being a twat

When your hairs stand on end it means you’re cold.

I am cold.

I want to thaw and be cold.

And when I am cold I will regret it like so many other things that influence the abstract in my brain. Knowing isn’t believing

Simply... I don’t believe and I wish I didn’t know.

Full stop.



I am burning flowers.

I am burning beautiful.

Without direction and without cause I criticise my own frustration.

I want to shout.

I want to rupture my lungs.

But I don’t want anyone to hear me.

I just want to curse in my own echo.

But why don’t you understand?

My moments of silence are drowned in noise.

Signed your sincere friend.

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

the ink from my pen ran out
out it ran dribbling like a drunken tonk
trying to be elusive
it spread like a contagion in the white of a
blank page
it was obvious
the ink had a genome
it could dance in time
and reap the crop of words
but such copulation leads to the
breaking of the page
I'll chuck it in the bin?
there's a daring spin
put that in your pen and write it.
smite it.
disguise it.
burn it.
no blank page.
need some sage.