Life can not be too easy

You should only do things you want to do. That’s what I said to myself. Not out loud, of course.

What are all those things I don’t want to do? What are they all about, and why are there so many options?



Each night I build a sandcastle at the high tide. I return to the sandpit the very next day. Sometimes it’s there and I build higher. Other days I go for a walk or a swim and forget it all. The walls crumble and the spires flatten. Tomorrow will come, and the sand will be mine.


Vitamin A – first on my list.
Vitamin B – to be or not to be.
Vitamin C – my favourite of all. Good for you and good for me.

Hotel Back Yourself

Hotel Back Yourself – I didn’t book any accommodation, I went out and planned to sleep with someone else. They could foot the bill.

I broke the words with mm. Two gulls on the horizon. Drawing strange links.
Do rappers find the meaning in words, all sounding alike. Revamped.
Panting. Hopeless.


The fly, the fly is buzzing. Repeating its whirr, like the only sound. Expectant, numbing, impending. Flooding, flapping flutter.
I cringe away, the sun shines brightly, the christian sin goes on unscratched, and I hate everyone. Every single one. I can find fault. I will miscommunicate. Attack, undermine, change face, annihilate.
Auto correct after a fashion – I see you, I hate you.
Work. Friends. Zones we enter. A downward feeling. A dip. A low. A high tolerance for holing off the feeling of attacking and killing. Boodlust. Cynical home. Angry innards gush with purple and green.

Violent violent torrents, these old feelings have new growth. How can I win away from all of this smut. Smacking my lips for horrible thoughts and uncontrolled feelings of others. I will give you nothing. Nice to meet you, I wish you were fucking dead.

How perverse I would become if everyone were dead. But now, like everyone I only wish. Right now I sit and wait and miscommunicate. Miss understood. Underfoot. Cutting bloody chunks from my body. Insolent, petulant. hoping from prosperity. Withdrawals, shaking, hiding, holding out hope. Cutting back and re-assigning.

Look how slowly and simply this creature moves. It’s short life. Ugly stricken. Feeble attempts. Holding back all wishes, out wards. God has no books for you. There will be no suffering worth your time, just an unsure torment until you pass. All you’ve done will be repeated said the Demo tape. Six singles. Symbolic plungers peel away acid flesh and this toothless home bites cleanly through my flaking morbid flesh. Animals, entertainment. Fuck me.

Letters to the sick

My feet haven’t been dry since we landed with all the rain in the trenches. Now we’re just waiting for our feet to rot off.
I’m rotting from the outside in and devouring what’s left from the inside out. Nothing is like this starvation, I have a rat in the pit of my stomach, burrowing down, digging deeper.

Food is so real. I’m at the limit of myself, like I’d never known, I‘ve become an acid that burns me inside out. It kills me. I-am-killing-my-self. Dark red holes have been opening up all over my body. My tongue drowns with thirst, the blisters freeze at night then crack during the day. Sunburn licks at every exposed bit of skin and now it’s rot from the wet – This body isn’t my home.
The doctor said that if the swelling doesn’t stop, it might fall off, so I’ll have to pop it. I’m a conscript. I’m a convict. Is this warring against death?

I popped a welt today and used the puss as a lip balm. The lipstick of the sick you used to call it.