No One Is Coming to Save You, Comrade.

Source: No One Is Coming to Save You, Comrade.


Time Gazing

concert noise 

cigarette amps

crushing pedals with steel toe riffs 

picking guitars 

that’s how you smoke it 

if this is the Noise they said would sweep me away

they said I’d drown under, 

be carried away by 

dreamy sleepy Vocalist

drifting in the 90s 

floating on VCR tapes and rusty groovy reels of graphic melodies, 

then I was born for this

yeah, nostalgia burning a hole in my lungs. 


empty boxes and black shelves of her occult books. 

here a ring under a scarf, she thought one of her spirits stole it, and there a small journal of spells, pungent with the perfume of leaves from her garden. 

the last note a paragraph on resurrections. 

I miss my friend… 




2017 pictoral

keeping sane is a job in itself. 


Memories of Us

died; got all of his possessions. 

dungeon load of music, hellish crime scene photos, memories of us. 

clothes; got all of her soul, Nikotine™. 

Old and crusty Make-up; didn’t know he wore any, magazines of self-loathing, rusty blades for his angry fur. 

faded memories of us. 

nothing more.



flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe. 

Release me.