It’s all too much isn’t it? All that muchness, too much of it. Too much muchness. Don’t mind a bit of much, because I certainly wouldn’t want to have no much at all. But there is definitely too much muchness.

You’ll learn one day, when the world ignores your efforts. The most valuable resource in this world is being seen.

The meaning of life is to sustain existence.
The meaning of life is to sustain existence by means of conscience.
The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of your reality by means of conscience.
The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality by means of consciousness.
The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality by means of observation.
The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality.
The meaning of life is to sustain the existence.
The meaning of life is to sustain.
Life is sustain.
Reality is existence.
Existence is not reality.

Palpably evident, an inexpressible shame was masquerading blindly as stupor, for no confirmation is louder than silence.

And like the trivial yank of a chain, flush, the fish now dead to her, like it meant nothing to her.
You’re spinning now, around, and around, aimlessly within the basin of the toilet. You look up, to see her one last time, but she’s already gone, she’s at the pet store now, replacing you.
And you come out the other end, a life without her. But you’re out of water now, left gasping for air, jump, jump, but now you jump no more, slowly gasping now, then gasping less and less as the realisation settles in on top of where your dwindled hope last stood, she’s gone, she has actually gone this time, and she isn’t coming back.
You gasp your last gasp, but what’s the point? You let go now. Your glazed eyes staring ahead but not focused on a thing, for her face you can’t see now, you see nothing now, for nothing now is there.

Eww! It looked at me” giggled a small group of girls that floated by amongst the sea of faceless children. The boy looked to the floor, there his feet housed by a pair of shoes, two sizes too small.

Against a backdrop of black where stars are splat, rivalled in beauty against a moon that’s fat, I wonder and drift in mind, as I dance in solitude, blissfully resigned, blissfully renewed.
Do you notice the stars that litter above? – It’s like a wash of death that’s splattered with love.

“Hello!” came a sudden obscene outburst of excitement; the kind of candid excitement that only a depressive can craft.

“Why you writing?”

I like to strip paper of its virginity, thrusting in my pen and scratching, clawing, ensuring every crevice of its unadulterated skin is exploited. The penetrating ink bleeds within, infecting till the page is ravaged of worth like discarded gift-wrapping left quivering and torn on the floor. Then I expose the next submissive page, vigorously disgracing page after page like a string of insignificant harlots paid and discarded to the back alleys of reality. Until all the beautiful potential that is a blank page is brutally gagged and pillaged like the treacherous daydream that served as my saviour.

“I just like writing” – I said

Bulbous mocking playground maggots now swim in the pus of the festered blisters they formed. The lugubrious cries of a falsely glorified foetus feed their curious fetish. My skin stretched, clawing away the smeared mucus to get a tear, “Hey! He’s retarded in there” – They Squirt, they phlegm, a gesturing secretion, for those that don’t compare – and the little fuckers are everywhere!

My name is irrelevant, it always has been, never noticed, never seen. Because I believed them, I believed them all. I built a dreamland; a haven. I built a wall. I developed a hunch because I looked to the floor – there lay all my hopes and dreams, there lay nothing more.

Even a child with a pocket full of chocolate stars can tell you – nothing is great if something is greater.

I release my grip from the steering wheel, just to release myself from the guilt of suicide

“Where were you last night?” She stood there, scratching the side of her thumb, looking to her feet, staring at her shoe, willing one to untie for distraction.

The bells sing to the rhythm of a diamond ring, there is a king for every string, like a bite for every sting, in vibration they gorged, no monster is born but forged

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible with blackness melded and shades inexpressible, the infinite infinite compressed into nought and measured by that of sight and thought. Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme – it’s the rhythm of life, the rhythm of time.

And his shelves housed many books but rarely did he employ them, for like credentials they hung, and rightly so – the trust of many is worth the world in facts

All of space and time is balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s elusive rhyme, of a precarious design, now ponders from the bottle of cheap red wine.

The philosophical afterbirth of a life you submerged in a jar of preserve.

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept. What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort? What be life but a dawdling demise? What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token!

Do you know what passion is? It’s not some hippy love festival of flowers, dancing, making daisy chains and those cute little notes you leave around the house reminding your partner how romantic you can be. Passion is fire, it’s desperation; it’s a clawing in your throat right down to your heart, like a gritty belligerent need for life when you’re already alive! An imploding tapping, like a clock that’s rapping, in the hunger of a silent scream, scratching, clawing, massacring every now tainted enclosure.

I could feel the slow onion-like crunching of my eyes with every blink as my ears amplified the nothingness of the air like a delusion of reality was lifted. I felt bound in foreign cloth-like skin as my stomach collapsed open, like I’d been gutted alive – I could almost feel the wetness where my entrails had slivered out, almost hearing the nigh crackling of infinitesimal frail fibres as the blood bleed into the fabric cloth of my skin.

My stomach was my opening, my escape from this vile corpse in which my mind had been trapped. I could vision myself rip open further away the skin, through the membrane, and cracking, like an eggshell, inverting myself – freeing myself.

While the rest of us were like moths flying pitifully to the light, she was content in fluttering to the beauty of what the light illuminated.

You could speak of delicate random perfections of snowflakes like some church choir schoolboy lying in bed with his boxing gloves on – but she was a blizzard that tore new dimensions as she bridged the gap between fantasy and reality, distorting my sense of time and warping my concept of space.

…trapped in limited shades of disfigurement, layered on layers of layers, spiralling through an existential daydream where neither I nor he nor they formed anything other than treason to reason

Requiem furnished flood in blood – cometh, nothing, but singular thud

Notebook, pages fall – burdening ink – pages drink – like of blood as fibres link – words over words over words they sink. Vandalising every charge of reason, in a game of logical treason, like just another, and another, and another curve round a curve of never-ending curves. Temporal contractions, time in fractions, layers of reactions, pluses and subtractions, a pulse of present, and past, and future. A theory of B theory of a wiggly stringy spiralling thingy that goes round and round and round in a straight line! Tick tock tick tock ticky tocky fucking swinging pendulum, death! Clock! An abundancy of inconsistencies, they mock, screaming for assimilation, answers, theories, a man of many men infesting the head. Sense they gnaw, more and more! To whom listen? To whom me?

I wake from a sleep I never have but never leave, surrounded by gods in which I don’t believe, as everything I do was what I did in denial, and everything I did I will do on trial. I wake from a sleep I never have but never leave, surrounded by a conscience only I conceive. As my hourglass lays smashed upon a floor of frost, I am cold, I am lonely, and I am lost.

he tried a token of relation; a smile, a splintered exclamation of a blank shot, smile back she did not

…a devilishly craving of ravenous need; a sordid thrust of lust, as rapist thoughts clawed her rationality leaving her nigh quivering and short of breath, as every dire pant became a traitorous teasing releasing steadily a flood flushing and crushing her down to a core of animalistic desire, want, and need, to rip, to claw, to take.

…define winning before you throw the dice

Its the Torturing Reminiscence on a past of divorced reaction
Awakens surging regret that beams Reflections in fraction
No follow Fascist Religion and I’m anarchist to Government
But the Cross that consorts fear casts a doubt on my judgement
With believe hostility aside along with my loathing of mankind
I am in-part apprehensive of What God’s jury will find?

…such faultless modesty – she could wither a rose with its own envy

She was looking at her phone again; she was always looking at her phone, tapping away, I knew not to whom she tapped. She liked to socialise online behind a personality she manufactured using parts she collected.

I’ll start with suddenly, or just before suddenly, when a thunderous roar rumbled as a thread-like flash of light cracked and shredded the dark canvas that what was prior, a clear sky. Rain plummeted from the heavens like razor-sharp rocks, here I was, stricken within this shower of pitchforks