From the pages of the morning,
Were you mentioned;
“You’re worthless to me.”

Well….

22nd September, MondayReblog

People of Bristol, come along to Open Mic night at the Art’s House and see my own brand of self deprecating miserabilism masquerading as spoken word tomorrow night with a host of other more talented individuals.

18th September, ThursdayReblog
Anonymous asked: You are brave, even on the days your body cracks with fear. You are strong, even on the days that your hands feel weak. Let validation, warmth and "you did good" fill the cracks between your fingers. You're gonna be okay.

Thank you.

12th September, FridayReblog

Like History…

Like I’ve said before
It entrances and entices
And entrances to interior anxiety ridden memories open
Creaky doors to haunting corridors
I remember like them weren’t your bones
The same way I remember paeleontology lessons
What ossifies and fossilizes
Into jigsaw pieces of a stories
I theorize
Studies dripping fron tales that told them damn selves
Dinosaurs, your ideals are dinosaurs.
Ancient and incorrect.
Stegosaur
Yet.

If archaeology is an artifice
Controlled by scholars
Not history - written by the victors.
Then I doubt the jurrasic period
I doubt the discovery of iron age bravery

What discovery buried will be found
beneath the strata of detritus of every impermanence we surround ourselves with?
What lessons learned of all fossilized remains will remain.
What will stick?
If each new trend and lovers and group of friends is tree bark that concentric grows

A mineralization and a study in woodgrain the years replaced, capturedspiraling In manganese and quartz To be discovered and polished aeons hence. Oh hell it’s all a metaphor The structure of your so fucking soft organic material that matches your form Crystalized as memories and each facet fossilized Each damn angle glinting refraction histories and prisms No i don’t believe in the damn iron age of us It’s all fucked into dreams and dust If our time remains fossilized as memory the iron oxidizes and rusts. 10th September, WednesdayReblog

Well drunks meet in Churches
And take steps towards making it the whole way.
As if such a small amount of preparation and trainin
Self defeating slogans, back patting and “me too”isms could ever
Make them ready for the remainder of the race
Marathons of moving mountains called the struggle of sober living

I would only ever frequent an AA Meeting
With the same regularity as I attended my normal Church of the Holy fucking Spirit
For the prospect of 13th stepping
The irony has not escaped me
That the props I built to stop being a prop to the bar were edificed
In black out drunk architecture and foundations

Like the reason I drink is because I am alone
And the only way to obtain the cure is to drown my sins,
A single malt baptism
And with professing my wrongs
At the font of pentience and potential of pissed up hangovers
I gain that European courage to initiate conversation

Oh help me father for I have sinned and oh where to begin?
Provide me a bosom to bury my head in
As the room stops to spin
And comfort of blankets and someone elses skin
Can take the shivering of withdrawal from my crooked limbs.

Call her my sacrificial lamb to slaughter is what you oughta
Call her my death bed conversion despite a drowning lifetime of immersion
Call her my saviour my penance my grace
Call her my castle to recover in and make my heart race.

10th September, WednesdayReblog

Your hat offers me solace
Like a cauldron of words
Upturned upon my head
A bitter bier of molten lead
Worn upon my crown
Like your kisses used to wreathe my thornes
They call it talisman and I beg fetish
But calm like warmth descends upon
Me and I bestow wisdom
Bequeathed from you

10th September, WednesdayReblog

I got the shakin’ sickness
Like gimme those skeletal remains
Ain’t the ghost of desire
The minutes still stand
Amongst square kilometres of distance squared
Time and space is a fucking illusion honey
Bated breath waits in anticipation
Adoration and apprehension
Left at the door begging for more
It’s more that I can do darlin’
And that ain’t all
And that ain’t all over now.

10th September, WednesdayReblog

10th September, WednesdayReblog

45andsingle:

Artist: Joan Baez
Track: Diamonds And Rust
Album: 45 rpm single
Year: 1975
Theme: Remembering

48 listens (download link)

10th September, WednesdayReblog

I went out today, an art exhibition, free wine…I didn’t fucking drink. I came back to stay at a friends and I can still hear them downstairs now and I didn’t fucking drink, I don’t have a job, I legitimately struggle to see the good in anything, I’m crippled by debt and I lost all faith in romance and fulfilled hope so damn long ago and I still don’t fucking drink.

Someone fucking tell me I did good. Someone fucking validate me, give me worth, let me know it will be ok. Someone fucking tell me I’ll be ok.

7th September, SundayReblog

Words you said in vain and frustration
Crept through this head of mine like so many lice and infestation
Your parisitical beliefs bled me dry
Till I threw the drinks down my throat
Like I wanted to make a damnit all and drown in it
Hydroelectric power
Like fueled by whiskey
Sure the elegant curves of your body
Held nothing but
contempt for my awkward angles
the promise of desire and regret
Still we held a conversation
Admittedly we held it like you would a pose
Caught in the act of something dubious
Such a fragility to explain to someone whos never been on a blind date
I probably won’t be texting you back.

6th September, SaturdayReblog

If this is the best that you can do
with your copper sulphate eyes boring into the soft earth of mine
Fingertips wreathed into mine like subtle coral reefs 
Intertwined in my hand and I sense the demand
And I’m thinking
and I’m thinking of the great barrier reef
as much as from an ecological viewpoint of destruction and extinction as barriers between us
You know coral only looks the way it does when it’s dying
I found that out recently
And the light from the stars,
that bioluminescence tries so hard to recreate and imitate in the shallows 
is from stars that stopped shining before we were even born so go figure.
They say the tides are influenced by the moon and fuck I can relate
Like a certain sense of lunacy draws me to you
Inexorable and gravitationally insistent.
So lets play in the surf of a moonlit night
Where the lapping of the shores reflects how I once felt about your body
So lets kick in the shallows where phospherence tries to be the stars above us but borne by tides across white sand beaches
And if the swell is just a little too much for us to take well…
lets wade out till we’re thigh deep and float away on the tides of past mistakes



6th September, SaturdayReblog
A Song of Ice and Firewater…

I must be a child born of the long winter for the all cold inside these bones
Hollow howled heartfelt widdershins transgressions
 
We know nothing
traitors Bastards us all.
Nights spent breathless where sleep is oxygen
Suffocation on insomnia and cold sweats
Drowning beneath perspiring brows

Brow beaten and forrowed forehead like a field only so fertile
Having buried my head in my hands so many times i am as surprised as you to find skulls
Like some grim approximation
Of a mortality crop
Sprout from beneath my fingernails
Oh if i had but belief and i could but pray at the temples that greying, grace the side of my skull
I push fingers drawn in triggers to my scalp and circle to relieve the tension, a moribund morose masseuse
And would beg for piety if i had the strength of the 7 or the old nameless gods
I’ve heard tell that faceless men whisper insincerities
"another flagon of arbor gold can hardly hold
The dragons breath from within”
Like a burning issue to resolve and a field of fire becomes my feverish skin.
HODOR
That I can relate unable to speak apart from my own name
That which births it’s own misgivings and issues
As if to put a name to a disease is to partake in cure
But hell, rotten bound and gagged we can’t be sure.
Ah a monstrosity or calamnty
Resolve to fix the issues
Of years spent at war with myself and five armies of yesterday, regret, shame, disease and addiction.
It’s just a game of thrones, the power play between my own miserablism
And resolve versus my indecision and addiction.
Build me a bridge to stretch and span the rushing waters and liquid forgetfulness
Frayed at the edges in betrayal and the raines of…well you know.
Build me a tower of penance a staircase each tiny step etched into tendons and musculature
Aye, aye…you know nothing of fortifications build to stave off the cravings
Build me a throne of swords beaten into ploughshares
Intent to stop attacking and to harvest and grow
Well the actions planted with drunken mistakes, hell you will Reap what you sow
MY iron resolve so rusted that it can’t be recast

Build me a castle where ive built walls up around myself to protect from the outside world where I used to lay withdrawn and under seige.
My leige!
You know better I needed protection from only my self and my own hand
A wine cup fulfilled and spilled a self fulfilling prophecy be damned

Valyrian Steel your resolve boy.
Make yourself known

5th September, FridayReblog
(Unfinished & Untitled)

Call me concrete,
The foundations of
And stood-on-the-shoulders-of-giant skyscrapers
Death defying structures
That I reach from rock sand and sillicate
To attain the fucking clouds
But that when my body shivers and shrinks in the depths of winter
Cracks that form in my form beneath the skin
Bitten like bitemarks and therein
Where water wetly seeps, frost forms
Ice swells beneath the surface
Till I can’t contain it
And I split in two
Hoarfrost weathering

Well call me fire, dangerous to touch
The heat that burns and caresses flesh
In a network of scars and blisters
Disguised treacherously as tender kisses
Yet put out in damp and rain and water and woe
Like fickle flicker fire flame and fury
Till suffocation like so much logic and realism
Can quench my hungry nature
Destroy everything you touch
Addicted and destructive till
The fuel that feeds is all but forgone
Until ember like
I spiral into the night sky
And flash out of existence.

Well call me your damn oak
That my roots are so intertwined and dug deep that little or nothing but storms can uproot me
That you fell asleep in my branches
And from an acorn to bough
I grew and upheld you
I am oakheart, the heart of the forest
The old tree, Mr Always-Was-There
Mr Never-Went-Away
That comfort of treehouses as nostalgic pleasures
Grasping among the greenery as if so much nostalgia you can absorb
From my growth

5th September, FridayReblog
A Cripple, The Drunk…

The man takes a sip of drink
Then the drink gets a taste of man
Then the drink takes the man
Well he’s been throwin back near beer
Like theres no tomorrow
Hitting hard on that 0.005% like it’s enough to eventually hit him back harder
But he knows this is large number mathematics
Like hes trying to get drunk on quantum equations
And it’s a long division
But trust me on this hes been counting
These for far too long to make any difference
And hes been counting on this since he was too young to know any different
And he knows as well as you do
That just like a preteen beauty queen all dressed up for prom and quivering on the edge of her seat
That two fingers will be enough to satisfy
But hes after a stiff drink not erotic malfunction
Or hands fumbling and first time lust.
No he knows just the same as you do
That that first taste is never the same again
But hes gotta resist the temptation
To try them all the same just in case
To keep on knocking them back to rediscover that first taste
And end up bedraggled and shameful
Hurting and confused
Like this didnt work out like it used to and oh
His lovers left him
And oh his daughters hot on her tails
Because as a father hes s failure
Though hes stepping up his game not trying to shame her
He’s taken a million steps when they tell him all he needed was twelve
And his support group is so strong
It’s like hes got company in hell
And no though the group therapy don’t work
And the meds barely take off the edge

Hes trying to pretend like hes not a man on a ledge. So yeah he keeps going. An addiction takes so many things It takes his memories Its taken his job It’s taken it’s time And with his health in steady decline Is a testament to the fact that For every damn sip or inch of drink he takes it takes a mile and a decade It’s taken it’s toll till he can’t fill that hole And his livers packed up and left him Like so many others

When he taps his chest it’s hollow, he is afloat living life among the weighted so hes gotta find something to weight him down
but booze has always kinda been his lady, so instead of using his weightlessness to learn how to fly, he takes his ladies hand and know gets used to getting drowned, oh how shes always dragging him down


a proliferation on the joy of ignorance, he had, once upon a time, took joy in breaking unbreakable fucking rules one in ignorance, one in innocence both indifferent. 


Relying if only a little on his predilection and weakness for addiction,
they handed him a cup the knave of cups and forced him to drink slow and long
Oh let me tell you this drinks got a taste for him

And it ain’t letting go till it’s had his fill 5th September, FridayReblog