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.



You’re superman, in your tights, standing before a tall mirror

Where’s it all going? You ask yourself

Hermione left a pack of cigarettes and a six pack from last nights anniversary

The world’s noise clouds your heart.

Bullshit. You spit at your reflection.

What are you!? The apartment trembles beneath your feet.

24 hours from now, they’ll find you in the empty bathtub, piss faced and dishevelled

Your hair grown wild and your stubble sharp, ragged

This is what you’ve become, but there’s no redemption for you, no. You’re superman, they can’t unknow that, whatever choice there was to be apart of the human race has lead you to the very edge and you wish you could take it back.

To be anything but what the world expects, is to enter the dark side, it is villainy.

So you raid the oldest museum in the world and pick the most menacing crown you can find.

Let them worship me, if they will never see me as one of their own.

The Stench of My Middle Finger

All day my middle finger does a job

Keep a hole open while my colleague extracts valuables

When the job is done and I remove my middle finger I know the next six months will be stained by a stench which sticks with me tirelessly

The job pays me three months worth of labour and I come back every time because I have to

The doctor said I run the risk of passing this horrendous smell onto my unborn child

I haven’t told my partner

We already have a two year old daughter and she’s developed an allergy to my middle finger; so has my grandmother — who looks after my daughter during the dreaded months

I’ve been saving up and hopefully sooner than later I’ll be able to find a way to use all of this money to stop the smell


The hospital had to be cleared after the arrival of my first son

My partner and I haven’t stopped shedding tears

We sit on the other side of the plastic room

His little body oozing that all too familiar odour

But, ten times stronger, an entire ward is Under quarantine

I’ll need to work more shifts

Something I’ve never done before having feared what it would do to my middle finger but for my child I’ll do anything

So stressed my sense of smell has gone anyway

Maybe they’ll find a cure
Or is it remedy
I don’t know

Got to keep on. What other alternative is there any way?