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. 

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.

Noise

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. 

But The Truth is Something Altogether Different

She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.

The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.

Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.

The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.

The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.

She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.

Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.

The Virus of life.

Be Happy.

Cover Art Cover Up ()

You know what’s fun and easy?
Creating book titles and cover art. ‘Tis A joyous activity which enthrals me for hours.

Writing a book for that cover art and title, on the other hand, is not only hard but downright boring (yeah I said it) writing goddamn novels/a short story collection is godawfully tedious.

Why bother you ask? Well, I don’t know, I have this itch to produce a novel, a novella, and a short story collection. After that… Nah, I’ll still want to make more! Deep down I am a storyteller, I think.

I have well over ten beautiful titles and cover art (no doubt aided by the visual bias my pretty aspergers affords me)

I have three alter-egos; “perhaps you are stretching yourself too thin?” You say

But I tried doing the single author thing and I damn near gave up writing altogether.
Who wants to be themselves, ALL THE TIME? Urgh so gross!

I figured fuck it why not display some of my cover art work?

I wasn’t going to (and won’t) sell my books anyhow. Just copyright that baby.

Oh The life of a working-class aspie.

One of my dreams is for some of my works to be adapted to film (be it tv, or anime, heck even comics!)

Once again, the visual medium really drives a lot of the things I do creatively (maybe this is why I struggle with literature??¿)

Alas may the aspirations never cease cuddling my impatient brain. Hopefully some of my dreams will be realised before I turn to dust.

Asperganoid OUT.