When I was a child
As young as could be
I was wild
I was wild as a hot roiling sea.
I got scarred up and stitched up
For in sins I partook
If ever I fucked up
I never showed I was shook.
No Opium or Morphia
But I took them later as well
They cooled all my fear
But that’s another story to tell.
As I leaped like a daemon
At the edge of the flames
I dreamed about semen
My children, their names.
But whenever I was bleeding
After falling from grace
A band-aid stopped the feeling
Of saving arse before face.
Some people call it their “Works’. Others, their “Kit’. “Spike.” “Pin”. “Gun”.
Gun seems somehow appropriate, for what I speak of is also a machined piece of death. Sure, it can be used for good, but the way I used it death was sometimes sat beside me.
Alan lived below…
My Mother is dying, I guess like we all are,
Stretching to heaven as the earth gets smaller.
She taught me that kneeling starts with standing on two feet
Then take a slow stroll to a sunrise that conveys love in it’s heat.
My Stepmother is dying, I know this…
Photo credit Lauren Alexandra.
I am trying (weep) I am trying (weep)
To understand, whilst I cannot sleep
(Weep) why you would leave this earth
(Howl) and me. (Wail) (Weep).
I know that in my shameful heart
(Weep) there will remain for the longest part
The slow sordid sadness of…
No image can be inserted from my tablet, but hey, it’s about the writing right?
I am not proud to have been a burglar, however I am proud of one particular burglary and the consequences that arose from it. Heroin addiction was the singular reason for my criminal behaviour. I…
I am going to suffer. There is an almost onomatopoeic quality to the word, conjuring up notions of unrelenting pain. The 4 pills lying on my bedroom cabinet are both the reason for my suffering and the cure for it. They are innocuous looking grey tablets, each one containing a…