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


He cut himself up into two disassociations.

His favourite was filled with rage and never let up, she was sharp of tongue and blade, made a bloody mess with her ideas, and took no prisoners

The other created colourful daydreams where he reimagined himself as many protagonists in many worlds

He tried to be himself but it never worked, never felt comfortable or natural, as if he didn’t have a, “Himself”, he could actually “Be”.

Never has he written more prolifically since he started these disassociations

When he rereads the fiction he wrote as “them”, the prose flows more naturally, with great assuredness, a little more depth, greater detachment of the here and now and more intimacy with the fictionality of the work

This voice speaking right now – the second disassociation – is more of a blank mask.
Projecting while observing.
Like an android in control of a camera which hovers around the body.
Or a book writing about the author…

He spits on the time-honoured advice to “Be Yourself”
He has never felt more artistically liberated, being something altogether alien from himself, Disassociative.

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.