Posts Tagged ‘loneliness’


art by jackson pollock



Curse this rotten world

Of loneliness and pain

Life just life still going on

Suffering starts again

Curse this useless life

This cancerous callous maze

Forever lost bearing the cost

Of endless bad decisions

Curse this talk of hate

Rage and rushing poison

Life like a barbed wire caresses

Death like a sensuous kiss

Curse this rotten world

A frenzy of delusion

Let all things rot inside themselves

To perfect their confusion

Curse this rotten earth

Like a harlot giving birth

Curse the threat of danger

And the fist in the face


Posted: February 7, 2017 in poetry
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Chop up about half a gram of green crumbly weed

With some tobacco

Take a pipe, and fill it with the mix

Ignite and inhale

Almost always cough


Don’t you love it when that warm satisfying numbness

Invades your brain and settles into your body

Kisses your cranium and renders you stoned impervious to paranoia

A rush of green apathy and carefree abandon as eyes redden

Loneliness fades and anxiety dissipates

Music starts to sound like crystal stars floating through the ether

Everything is more amusing

Everything is beautiful

Thanks to magical marijuana



I had a dark secret love
Like a mull-plant hidden in the roof
Sapping my energy
I was always afraid
That the pigs would come and take my dark secret love away

I had a dark secret love
Like a case of genital warts
Irritating me constantly
So itchy, so itchy
Firing my paranoia and shame
And sending me to pharmaceuticals

I had a dark secret love
Of someone who didn’t love me
And it was a totally pointless exercise
In magnifying my suffering
And turbo-charging my loneliness


Cold metal silence
Time stumbles on thick moments
Broken coffee cups
Dirty plates fester
Full ashtrays
Piggies rustling in their cage
Solitary fly sneaked in through an open door
Ease into the armchair
Such exquisite relaxation
Lower back muscles loosen
Roll a smoke
Coughing fit
Curlicues of smoke from mouth
Light incense
Smoke from cigarette and incense forms spiral staircases to nowhere
More melancholy than depressed
But not uncomfortable
Time for a Morrissey album

Death Part 2

Posted: February 1, 2015 in poetry
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I wish I was dead
I’m going to get out of my head
One rejection doesn’t hurt, A thousand does
I wish I was dead
You meant every word that you said
Everyone my age and younger is married and breeding
I wish I was dead
I’d love to get out of my head
I’m going to die of alcohol poisoning in a cheap hotel room
I wish I was dead
I’ve got to get out of my head
Every night I dream of unobtainable women who mutate into divine feminine archetypes then vanish
I wish I was dead
I smoke till I’m out of my head
No true love across the river Lethe, but no love lost for a ghost
I wish I was dead
I hope I’ve not fucked with your head
I’m peering down the barrel of a twelve gage shotgun, feeling like I’m being sucked into a swirling metal vortex
I wish I was dead
I don’t need to get you in bed
By next week I’m going to be dead in a doorway with a mind full of magic potions
I wish I was dead
I so want to get you in bed
Forgotten forever like a lost marble from childhood
I wish I was dead
I don’t need to get you in bed
First I see a razor blade then I see a river of blood encircling my arm as I slash the meat
I wish I was dead
I believe all the lies that I’m fed
When I was twenty six I took an overdose of vodka and mogadon because women didn’t like me
I wish I was dead
I believe every word that was said
I know I’m not right in the head


Posted: January 15, 2015 in poetry
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When I’m feeling a little loco
And doubting my value as a man
Because I’ve been reading too many radical feminist websites
And I’ve run out of weed
I imagine myself dying in my fifties
In a room with windows so dirty that they are opaque
Percolating the funk of death in my own muck
Red nose like a bloody cartoon reindeer
Bloated, stretch-marked beer belly and the indelible wounds of drink and drugs all over my wrinkled face
Not Keith Richards- just a fucked up old man
Drool sliding down my dirty shirt
Terminally uncool and terminated
Soaking in rigor mortis
Discarded like an old commercial pop song
Having died alone with no-one to love
Forgotten and friendless
Abandoned and hopeless
Omega male
My name written in water
A malodorous corpse in a festering room with shelves crammed with poetry
By my heroes and heroines

An undercover area in a primary school on a sumptuous day
It has a floor of bitumen and steel girders hold up an orange roof of steel
The Fremantle doctor is whistling through from the south-west,
Cooling the children at play
Behind one of the steel columns holding up the roof is a little boy of no more than seven: blond and wan and pale
He can’t kick a football
He always comes last in running races
He isn’t playing with the other children
He is a lone sentinel in the midst of the unalloyed joy of his peers
The mechanics of friendship are mystery to him
The mechanics of conversation are a mystery to him
His head is full of murky poison thought
Chills of freezing isolation run up and down his spine
He fears that if the others saw the darkness lurking in his heart they would be revolted
He imagines being popular and having friends sometimes but it seems an unattainable dream
His life is a solitary nightmare at school
And his nightmares are the stuff of meta-nightmares


Posted: September 17, 2014 in poetry
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My self-esteem is wizened by the withering winds of change.
My heart is now corrupted and will never be the same.
The ache of solitude bites my limbs and kicks me in the balls.
Mediocrity is lurking in the corners and the halls.

The town is full of women who will never sleep with me,
The town is full of whispers of corruption and decay,
And in my secret heart’s dreams there is death and treachery.
A conspiracy of loneliness crushes love and blights the day.

The meaning of the meaning is that life is a mountain of pain:
Troubles multiply and poison everything again and again,
Pestilent people try to break into my life through the doors of perception,
Paranoia peaks through the blinds in my arcane brain.

And there is nothing to be done about it, nothing to be said about it.
Life continues in an almost infinite erratic line radiating from the centre of the now,
And every day is littered with the corpses of the past:
Until we are liberated from our festering flesh at last.

Beautiful people have beautiful lives-
Love is easy to find.
Ugly people have ugly lives-
Love is a dream and a gaping hole in soul.
Longing for touch is a way of life.
If the lights were out, the ugly wonder,
If anyone would dare to touch them,
Or kiss them full on the mouth and hold them.
Oh take me out my darling,
To where there’s music, and people, and beer.
Dance with me and make me forget the secret suffering of yearning for you.
Wipe out my loneliness with the power of your smile.
Help me not to think of myself as ugly,
As we square the circle of tedium that binds the town.

The serious moonlight silvers the illuminated surfaces, leaving the shadows where I lurk, and watch the lovers,
Shades of grey, shades of blue, images of a darker hue, much is concealed, little revealed.
Lovers meet in the oscillating night-time luminescence, words of love are spoken to the infinite dark, passion seethes in the absence of the sun.
Meeting at corners, and under pergolas, at parks and at the doorstep.
Oh to be close, to have lovers’ secrets and a realm all our own which we create with our words and gestures.
What bliss to be joined together for what seems at the moment an eternity, feeling happy and complete, dancing to the same tune!
To exist as an entity with an ‘and’ in the middle, a couple, a pairing, a dyad, a twosome.
And yet it can all decompose so easily, leaving me broken apart again, destitute and lonely because I have an actual experience to compare my present state to.
Pictures and images of time together shutter by my mind’s eye and confuse me in a delicious reverie, pictures of us together are like songs that stick in your mind so you can’t get rid of them.
Lonely again and howling at the memory of making love, overcome with the emptiness at the base of my soul, with mortality sucking my bones for marrow.
But things are looking up. It’s ladies night.