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


Clasp to the dark back room

Gladioli, refute

Purse your lips and shift into the backroom

Was your jacket left there?

Behind, in the cloakroom

Maybe it was but you just don’t remember

Psychedelia apparently

Is that what sticks

Like ice

To a tongue



Tom Atom

Rising to a flurry of dust, or dead skin as he was told by television with shards of sunlight spreading a dust-gauze through which his anxiety would settle and his pale, flabby, fleshy gut pushed the haze out of the way as he say down to collect himself. He wanted to observe people in the city again today. He wanted to feel intimacy with humanity again today but it wasn’t like ‘today’ or anything as the days of no intimacy had began bleeding into one another like a hemorrhaging wound of purple and yellow puss and the salve intangible and the dressing inadequate like baking paper. He was a submarine. He looked out the window of his apartment in Bray and saw the coal water breaking on the beach – in and out like a foamy tongue. He made himself an espresso and thought about masturbating but he was agitated so it would be a ‘sad wank’ and one that would compound his sense of solitude under the groaning sun. Instead he tried yoga, and stretched out his arms and legs like a freak, adopting a throaty chant in order to exorcise some of that weird, primal energy. That stuff bubbled within him a lot, and his therapist said it was wise to have ‘outlets’ or ‘pillars’ as a means of coping with it. He loathed the faux communion of AA meetings, and the proselytizing nature of ‘recovery’. He wanted to master the art of self destruction and decay — not be prescribed ‘redemption’ by twelve steps and a prescriptive methodology of ‘brotherhood’ and collective therapy. He reviled sharing intimate details of his mind with people of inferior faculty. He felt cheated and he felt as though he were betraying his own mental reflex by doing so. If there a way to self-preserve and self-value without the need for invasive group-love he would gladly do it. There was a discordance in this. He perceived humanity as being atomized and fragmented — delusional and hypnotized by big business, marketing and advertising, falsely succumbing to the illusion that their consumer habits mark them out as individualistic or original, whereas at a macro level subcultures merely force the hand of the dominant ideology, which is then supplanted onto the subculture leading to trends, fads, ‘movements’, ‘statements’ and ultimately headache and nostalgia.

There was little coffee left in his cup and he didn’t really like smoking anymore so he didn’t bother.