This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

MOURNING

Who’s waking me up? From dreaming of a stranger spitting in my ear, of broken cracking tarmac and a black cloud shared through a kiss. The end of a human dipped in leather dressing me down, ignoring the irrelevance of my aches. I’ve got a stranglehold on my sleep at last, my pillow and bible held together with stickers and flyers from long since passed away moments, passed over emotions a thick X on my wrist. My nails and teeth peeling like an old door, I eat breakfast with nostalgia for photographs you could hold and cigarettes I cared about. I can still feel all the small bones breaking in my hand from all the times I’ve punched the wall and all the whirring arguments with could have avoided if we held in the sludge and swallowed hard. Sometimes when drinking my morning coffee, milk in first, I regret all the people I’ve looked down upon and all the hours I’ve spent leeching in books and on the internet. The internet. Window boxes, mirrors, fractal associations, sex and history and art and fashion, gloved and anonymous, academics smoking DMT and writing backwards on a russian forum. Hives of buzzing international phenomenon underground and ethereal. Grey and white blended and free. Guilty of speaking english of stunted growth and cheap chicken decadence. Sometimes it’s so hard to love somebody, sometimes the world opens up and I wake up with an erection and an empty bed. All of this presents us with a far greater image of how sex has changed now, humbug, cocks are cocks, I hot knife the morning, melting toast on my tongue and searching for the first of many of something. I read a bit but can’t quite get comfy, this past year my nails are always bleeding and sting when I spill spirits or peel an orange. I crack my knuckles and bang at the keys like a dumb peacock. The rest of the house wakes up and I go to the bathroom, finally get comfy and read the back of the air freshener four times. I wish it was snowing or raining or their was a war or a riot on. Television has been reduced to buzzing treacle barking at our crotches, urging to make that pathetic spliff from the bits of weed collected around our edges. The inks dried out and I suspect a virus in our bones and all I can hear is the deadly shuffle of drinkers to the bar.

3:AM Magazine Repping.

Two poems. Yes pussyole poems. Here