I need more immediate ways of cheering myself up.
I need more immediate ways of cheering myself up.
My calumnities are a trough of a funeral dead wood heart and hand hardworker myopic distaste for sense and sensodyne and sensitivity
Blood and sensibility as authoresses would have it.
As i spit bloodied gum discharge from brushing teeth too hard into my final voyage velvet lined boat
I recognise my last attempt at hygeine and presentability is ambitious at best when you consider
We lined these caskets with all our hopes failed from years of experiencing
Life, if you will.
My casket has scratches pre empted in the lid from trying to get out
Though i was never that eager to live anyways
I hope they bury me nude because I am sick.
Fucking reguritatingly sick
Of waking up fully dressed and wholly disorientated in a place of refuge
And utmost familiarity
And not knowing who or where I am.
Burn me at sea and dance on my grave
Scatter my ashes to the winds
Inhale me inherently each passing breath another regret I have had
Have me in you
For live or love
Or something not quite good enough
Carry my hard ridden hopes as Harpies in your heart
I am your Harridan
And your refusal my Hadrian’s wall
In this half life
You call me living but ive picked out quite the plot of land to rot these bones into and I am undead and obsessed
With the scent of your sentience and being.
And I am unearthed from the ground unbidden
From the cunt to the midden with a sickening sense of life force forced and unbidden and underwhelming half assed attempts at love. I’m smitten.
Fuck me cold and senseless
This numbing pumping arterial sensation is unwanted and not forgiven
Though as i rot; penance me for thinking
That I’m not unclean though im sinning
My casket lined by veils of innumerous brides
Potentially mine but unridden
I am in cold earth half dead and fuck all else.
Heres to your good health.
Hold me hard heavy and musically
I want the skies to open and
These aching bones can spill
Marrow like so many artists paint splatters
Honey they lied to you when they said you weren’t aquatic.
In dissonance these dissident features of mean bleed and melt squamous.
A reflection of an urge I felt to be as
Our hopes and dreams entwined
Our selfish lines of forced prurience
I felt it prudent to point out the decadence
Of enforced decisions made honest and open yet cajoled by circumstance
You believed them then my beloved
And I’ve no doubt, three years on you will believe them still
Petrichor pillows and high thread count from personal portrayals of obsession and an attempt to distract myself from this or that or else.
My fabrics are stained damp in this ambient glow of misery.
I believe in reciprocity
And I am waterlogged
Drowning as bones break still.
This was your decision and I admire
The strength of your will and belief that echoes mine
Not two years past.
"We were no accident you and I"
And if you believe that we were…merrily merrily…but a dream, then quizzically intoned from the weight of scar tissue and broken bones…i say well what do you wake up for?
Who do you go home to. You were the braver of us both so why give up
My mointain ranges in heart arc cardiogams across soundwave peaks and troughs I am
I am not healed
Sign this plaster cast with “x”s and “o”s
You’re lack of sinister attempt and inent challenges my cynicism on a daily basis.
Honey they lied to you when they said you couldn’t breathe underwater.
I haven’t laughed in what seems like a decade.
I would not be opposed the idea of someone who doesn’t know me at all spending some time with me and just fucking telling each other everything.
“John Constantine - the real John Constantine - by Dave McKean, from the UKCAC87 booklet. Neither the Hellblazer title or McKean & Gaiman’s Black Orchid would see print until the following year, meaning that this is an interesting glimpse of the artist’s approach before he was first published at DC.”
…But done after Dave had started drawing Black Orchid, and after he’d already painted several of the Hellblazer covers, that wouldn’t be published until the following year, of course.
You don’t get to decide if it works like that anymore.
I’ve had strict coping mechanisms in place for a long fucking time now.
Fuck a lot.
I can barely write a coherent fucking sentence do you can imagine jow well my other strategies are fucking going.
I wish I could fucking verbalise or express my thoughts right now but I can’t. It’s all choking up like the mouth of a dam or a damn and…and…thats all I have left.
That was my third and final chance.
I’m fucking done.
I have nothing.
AND I CAN’T EVEN BE FUCKING POETIC ABOUT IT.
After a pretty shit past week or so I near enough begged my dad to look after my dog for the weekend. He was bought for me when I was fat and needed encouragement to excercise and though I left without him we still have a pretty cool bond. He’s docile and likes his own space (away from other dogs) but is a stroke seeking slut from humans. He’s pretty dumb but we named him Merlin after the wisest of King Arthur’s advisors.
He always knows when you need some contact. Best fucking dog and best fucking friend.
I’m supposed to be in London today. Waking up beside someone. As I’m not I’m going to go inflict some serious pain on myself…and maybe some body art but thats really only a secondary measure.
Pachuca Sunrise (acoustic) - Minus the Bear
I am currently only listening to songs that kill me. Good.