Archive for April, 2014


Posted: April 25, 2014 in poetry
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Immortality beckons with a skeletal finger curling into a hook,
A poison shroud descends like mist and drifts softly into place,
I cannot breathe but I know I will not die,
And everything around me decays as if sped towards doom in a satanic carriage, racing towards a fractal abyss.
The candle burns at twice the rate,
The pot plants atrophy into dead wood,
The furniture disintegrates,
The dust crumbles into finer dust.
Here, tangled in spider-webs ,I wait for the maw of melancholy.
Fear it’s howl, know it’s taste.
It will suck me into black nothing through the stench of putrefaction,
And funnels out my marrow through pursed dead lips with the kiss of decay,
To drown me in cadavers and fill my mouth with dust,
Until I arise a servant of all that is unholy and unchaste,
Covered in decomposing flesh and longing to feast on the brains of the innocent.


Posted: April 11, 2014 in poetry
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I can’t drink as much as Bukowski,
No matter how hard I try.
I start well with beers and then it gets weird,
I feel like I’m going to die.

I load up on whiskey and bourbon,
But then act like a lunatic,
I fall over in a spectacular way,
And end up violently sick.

No I can’t drink as much as Bukowski,
Of beer, wine and whiskey,
Or score so many insane women,
I’m just not that very frisky.

When I try to drink as much as Bukowski,
I line up beers and wine,
I fall on my ass with a complete lack of class,
And feel stupid and sillier all of the time.

And so when I try to get drunk as Bukowski,
I say inappropriate things,
I embarrass most everyone who knows me,
Because I am the bullfrog that sings.

I can’t drink mate but I can smoke,
So I might as well get high,
I get stoned as ten Bob Marleys,
I’m just not as cool as that drunken old guy.

Changes by Jeremy Steele


Posted: April 10, 2014 in poetry
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Wanting to be more than I am,
Worthy of love and independent risk assessment,
Not a looser, not a winner just human as contributor to this whole mess,
Of systems and communities and communities of systems.
Someone worthy of the word love spoken over the body,
When this word is spoken the body breaks free and dances with myriad possibilities,
But who will speak the word if I am afraid of pretty girls,
A no-one not a some-one lost in purple paranoia and deadhead daydreams,
Saying nothing to avoid saying the wrong thing.
My ducks are not in a row- they have flown away.
Etchings and etchings inside of etchings in an endless repeating mirror pattern up to the sky.
I see this fractal monstrosity now and when I close my eyes.
Each moment is turned over, inspected and questioned iteratively,
And under it all chaos predominates among the powers, beauty burns eternally and I dream of dying and coming back to life as a zombie again and again and again.

In ward D4 cigarettes are chain-smoked till the air is fuzzy blue dynamite and new friendships are born of shared suffering:
We have no time for social skills or etiquette in ward d4- you are who you are, however crazy that may be.
Real emotions and real language is found among the sanity-impaired, we speak our twisted truth without impediment.
Someone’s just come back from shock treatment and she looks pretty dazed.
She looks like she has just seen God and he was not amused.
Her brain has been scrubbed clean of memories with medicinal electricity- bright and shiny new.

Playing my guitar in ward D4,
A contorted kind of celebrity accrues.
Play us another one so we can sing along,
To songs about CIA mind control tornados and arcane masonic conspiracies .

My mates bring me fragrant cones in ward d4
But I don’t get caught because everyone is on such vast quantities of drugs that one more doesn’t make much difference.
Secret ganga rituals in ward d4 – bucket bongs are delivered to the fence and inhaled:
The place is pretty amazing when you’re bent.

Sometimes there is romance in the ward D4,
This is a disco for the psychiatrically disturbed and dysfunctional.
New heavily medicated couples snatch moments of amour in the bathrooms,
They pledge eternal love in the face of psychiatric obstacles and the objections of the staff.

‘Medication Time! Medication Time!’
Such a multitude of multi-coloured pills.
Who gets what?
It’s like getting a big bag of lollies when you’re a kid.
The Benzodiazapines are usually the best- you’d have to be pretty lucky to get morphine.

Chain smoking with the beautiful nurses in ward D4 is fun,
Some of us find it a luxury to have a pretty girl listen to our problems and savour each moment.
So they listen to mixture of inspired and uninspired story,
And give harmless advice because they pretend to care in ward D4.
There may be no hope but there is always advice.

My roommate says that there are messages for him in Xpress, and on the TV, and on his Steely Dan records-
He is convinced of this. The messages are all similar and tell him to kill himself.
A strangely self-centred delusion in which everyone wants to talk to him – he is the apex of a vast conspiracy.
I can’t think why anyone would want to send him a real message-
It would only freak him out.
The CIA, the masons and God are very busy sending personalized coded messages in ward D4.
Next time, I’m going to complain if I don’t get one.
A message with the key to life composed of revelatory syllables of back-masked wisdom.