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.

Say Aaaah

She’ll let her tooth rot out until it reaches peak-pain and then have it removed

She’s never had rest from her teeth; they’ve brought nothing but misery. From their disorderly alignment to their susceptibility to decay.

In many ways they’ve been a reflection of her own internal rot. No matter how hard she’s swung at the blood thirsty bats of life they get a bite, draw blood, come back for more.

And the professionals say “you should take better care”, what the fuck do they think she’s been doing? Eating rocks?

Two times a day, for two minutes. futile. But the professional with a degree dishes this bullshit advice out like a condom dispenser.

Surround yourself with positive things; don’t fixate on the negative (yeah I can do that, why didn’t i think of it?)

It isn’t at all like cutting yourself really (letting the teeth rot away); the ramifications of that are not as great

She’ll probably end up with dentures before she even touches the age of fifty

If she even cares to make it there

Left handed people on average die sooner than right handed people; she hopes so.

Happy people live longer they say (if only this were true. It isn’t)

She scoops a tiny portion of toothpaste with the tip of her tongue and guides it carefully to the crater in her tooth and dumps the numbing paste into the void.

The tingle dies away; she’ll live to eat another day

Hold aloft the crown of thyn jovial Constipations

A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Sullen, drowsy,

Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra

A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
Only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.

If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly

Death Ideation: The Scary Part is Youth

Teeth, face, eyes. What torture.

Draw your sword and bury it in my gut.
I am in a pit not of my own digging; I wish to free myself, not to escape and walk on level ground with the rest of society but rather, to be buried in it.

Tears. Death. Blog. What emptiness.
Unplug me from it all.
I have lived in half, quarter measures,
I wish to switch off completely.
Not fight inevitability.

…Solemnity

I wish i could make you feel better

The Blind Leading The Invisible

Here I am nothing.

Here (s)he is nothing.

Here you are nothing.

(S)he runs away, does a good disappearing act, nobody takes note.

Life’s too normal to be bothered about these little things.

That’s you; she. He.

Doesn’t make a difference the mirror’s foggy and so are my days running, crashing into each other, put your hand up if you’ve ever felt like the world was just one big “meh” (shrug of the shoulders)
haha! Yes yes yes! (Raises hand) that’s SO me!
Omg and today was one of them days because I woke up thirsty and I immediately thought to myself (you’re a chicken shit) and I knew I was telling the truth because it didn’t make me feel bad, that description, that reality.
Yeah. Maybe knowing you’re not alone in that pit of chicken shit will make you feel less like doodoo
I doubt that and I don’t do that (hope you get better) bull because it doesn’t cut through the static of (kill kill kill…) angry face! shouting in the mirror and screaming in the shadow. Phew. …. (Yourself)
and my colleagues look like angry lopsided ass cheeks

Rigid Hand To Crooked Heart

Loved myself once.
Now lines have taken over my face.
The, rotting away of time, almost tangible.
I can’t stand to be around any youth with their enthusiasm and their ignorance of what’s to come.
I know too well; sometimes I wake up and I smell it.
Strong stench of fate; its ebony hand reaching out, stroking my hollow cheek.
Was in love with myself. Didn’t do me any good.