Clouded over, moonless, this ravaged sky
While below, we long for lucidity
This is our single, unquestionably
Exquisite fixation, mired in mildness
Clildless. Our judgement is pure
We neither nurture nor cure
Those dark skies above, they tremble
Our dull convoy slices through ferocity
Dim as fury, haloed heads tilt upwards
The sea expand inside us, oceans in which
The carcasses of sailing ships founder
Then sink; violent giants nestling
In the depths of our souls and grey waves
Roll as the day struggles into life.
Crazy what I would have done.
Doctors
Post letter to Insurance Company
Contact QEST
Contact David
Set up Paypal Account
I managed to get around to Task No. 1. I am still hiding. Refusing to answer the ‘phone. Opting out of the world. Pumped up with Valium. Will you give me some?* Work (they are sending me on a ‘networking course’), doctors, medication, catnap (on the sofa with Bella the Cat). The day was concluded with a documentary about the murder of Mancunian gangster: Desmond Noonan. Hmm, I wonder if he was a relative. If anyone asks, I shall say ‘Yes’.
Those storybooks adorn our shelves
In which we sail across rough seas
And sit astride storms, stubbornness
Will not defeat these avenging oceans
With a slow, cathartic release of emotions
These romanticisms become cancers
Lies disguised as candour, diving
Into streams of blood and flowing
Through our veins and this is the fluid
In which we meet each other
In which we greet each other
In which we embrace. These salutations
Are out of place
Discordant in these dark days
In which death is an omnipotent,
Limbless sea creature that slips
Beneath the skin and worms
Its way within. We grow thin
And the strip lights grow dim
We are paying for every sin
Committed on this granite planet
In a world made of stone
And splintered bone
We will die alone.
‘Must go. There is an underdog at the other end of the universe I have to save.’
Why do I feel the need to do this? Where does this ‘saviour complex’ come from. God knows, it does me no good. It just makes me unpopular on Forum X and Forum Y. Always swimming against the tide.
Two parcels arrived today: a sensible pair of ‘red or dead‘ shoes and a pair of ‘sketchers‘ trainers. Both free. Lucky me!
American tourists
In long trench coats
Walking on the river bank
Far from home
He dumped her in the river too
Under ice in winter
Dead as can be
Under bracken in summer
Is she lonely under there?
Or is this the kind of detachment
That she had always longed for?
Am I deluding myself?
Literature is a kind of opiate for me. I inhale the scent of fresh print on newly printed books. You and your kind are obsolete, they say.
Someone bring me some hemlock.
‘Do not go gentle into that good night’
I’m afraid I already have.
For I live in perpetual night.
So Sick of Drowning 
