Hurry the fuck up you fucking shit tock wanker. TIck tock shit talk shit t0ck tick shit. Thick shit. Typo. Typo? YeaYea a typo you fucking gee bag, what did I just say? I said typo you mong – you fucking geebag sap tick tock shit talk tick tock suck cock. This is crude. This is low literature. I’m trying to be good. They wouldn’t publish this. Who’s they? MSM? Paropublishers? Fuck those cunts. Shower of special interests. Trump. Look at that cunt. Fucking stormed into office, storming into orifices, not a bother. FUCK YOUR SPECIAL INTERESTS. Hilary Cunton. Bill Cliton. 

Yeah, it goes like that. The whining inner guy, won’t leave yer man alone. Deepen it they say – at least Bacon said – or was it cabbage – deepen the mystery. All that nausea and those fucking TWEETS Jesus Christ! I’m an auto didactic socialist!! Fucking hell, mate. What’s going on at all? Where are we at all? I’m trying to stay clean. Trying to skirt oblivion – the abyss. And then you read about Science with a capital $ and it’s all Apollonian and they’ve shunned the macabre – the stuff I’m living, the gunge and the puke and the piss and the vomit and the $cientists reduce it to a lower case system of AAdictions and so and so forth but to me that shit is more vital than staring at a black hole. I’ve stared at a black hole manys a time, mainly on the internet and I’ve jizzed all over my thighs doing it.

There’s a fuckin boyo. 

Going to the library. “Do you have any porn in stock?” “Any pamphlets on expedient and painless suicide at all?” “Anywhere to score morphine, oxytocin, dmt, laudenum, fentanyl, opium or just take a bath?”

T w e e t w h y d o n t c h a.

But then she comes over and it’s all honey warmth, Joyce derivatives now and you see how the brain pounds down fleshy fear all fiery and orange in the hearth like dungeons.

Morpheo – the God of dreams

He stared at the back of the fridge – full of emmental and brie and was it e mental or emmental or what he didn’t really know and the laughing cow – what was it laughing at? What was so amoosing to the bovine raconteur ready to be milked and eaten like some dairy soup – are we all just happy to be packaged and tinfoil wrapped and eaten after all, refrigerated knowing our cannibalistic destinies after all?


Ye but you don’t have to — you could have it all sure don’t you know that, the crepuscular cake and strawberries and the gorgeous temperature of a hot shower after deep sex and perceive infinite secrets hidden between a lover’s ears and experience things to their bounteous and glorious depth, not sabotaged, distorted behind the ghastly lens of liquor! Sure you know you’ve got a sweet capability, are a nurturing young man, bound to real virtue and all of that Satanic excess is just a dreadful inversion in all that is good and saintly in you! 

You’re a scholar and a saint and I will do my earnest best not to be glib or duplicitous and to trust and follow you as if led by a lightbeam made of honey that will dissipate that Godawful fear in me and lead me to the sweet dreamlike peace of nonaddiction and unshackle me from this repetitive yarn!

Good man.

The awful, merciless Plop.

Ah the blust! The crossfirecomedown and you can’t fight it at all sure didn’t you know that hearing crying as laughter and laughter as crying and God forsake us he has foresaken us it’s a terrible auld master the Plop, what! The plop of the porter or the stout or Godhelpus the naggins of Vodka in the phoceaid and off down Camden St for a gallop into Whelan’s for a few more fizzy tonics and then out like an unsteady reaper up the Luas tracks under the madmoon and home to bed to surf the web and whatchamacallit your littlechap before you fall asunder or ablunder or asleep or was it sleep at all? I doubt it. Didn’t feel like it, doesn’t feel like it for a few days, a few fucking days after, a blister on the mind that you cannot burst and Godhelp anyone who comes a breath away from you the fucking state of you. Irascible — big angry serpent eyes on ye and the cravings coming and going and cursing and fuckin and blindin every which way BeGod it’s an awful louse of a thing the Plop. But you’ve gone through the horrors before, the primal horrors, the evil terrors before with the anxiety so present and every sinew within you grinning taut like a mad elf, you’ve been brimming and glistening with sweat and scratching and itching and writhing for the life of yourself, you’ve cut flesh for the want of it, choking the littlechap lifeless under the madmoon for the need of it and then after a couple of winks and a benign scent comes across the breeze then and you’re back romanticizing it, back seduced by it, except you dislocate it, you fantasize it geographically and situate it in a less banal sphere. Ringsend maybe, Sandymount, Glasthule — all less loaded and egregious environments where you wont be inveigled into drinking yourself to within an inch of hell. But you do anyway you silly auld cunt. 



I feel the air streaming between whispers

I see the insects dancing on the hedgerow

I feel intensely sad most of the time

I could pick up my phone and upload a photograph

A pathetic stencil traced by fear



Another day

Of blood rush and starvation

Cool the adrenaline

Be an auto-buddhist

Be zen, man

Cool it, lol

You’ll be grand

It’ll be grand

You’re not even that hungry

The hunger breaks even in your spleen

You’re not even that fat, in fact

It’s cunning, baffling and powerful

Do you know what it’s like to feel so nauseous you want to scythe out your guts?

But there’s AA meetings now, there’s group therapy, give that a go

The redemption arc, the paragon pattern

It tessellates out before me, a weird algebra


Up my dose so I’m less verbose

Less fucked off and strung out

Looming over the piano like a vulture

I can feel a rupture

From my skull to my spine

I wonder what it tastes like

To eat the divine

Don’t you know

Don’t you know

When your words fall hollow

From your mouth

And your heart feels like a ghost

In your chest

And an ex-lover’s breast

Could calm this tempest

Don’t you know