stuff i write

Month: April, 2013

Psych sketch #20

There was a time when I thought I knew what love wasn’t, and it was what I felt about her. She was this, not that. Not mine. She should stay over there.

These days I’m tempted to turn off the electric fence, open the gate, and wait.

Like bait.


Psych sketch #19

There must be something new for me to think, about something. A think so glorious it needs to be accompanied by trumpets. Then accordions will sound the warning before someone pretty, in a low cut dress, hands me the microphone and I’m on my own, with a soft drum roll, hush in the universe as I draw breath and confess…

That there’s nothing.

And if there was something it’d be boring.

I’m a small man in a universe knee-deep in scandal. I’m a rescuer through and through, but with absolutely no idea what to do. My schemes are an omnishambles, my rambles are discombulated tangles, and all my dead certs are far-fetched gambles. It’s all for show. There, I’ve said it. What do I know!

I’d like to seduce more than I deduce. I’d like to produce more than I reduce.

I’d like to not be scared about what might happen if I was let loose.

In therapy I was trying to come up with a word for me. I dragged up…

(after much eye-rolling)


The shock of it fizzed through my unsympathetic nervous system, from toe nail to hair follicle, in a spasm. A twitchy anti-orgasm. I tried to laugh it off but it came out more like a gurgle.

I laughed into the chasm, but the sound drowned.

I take her milk of human kindness and I make it sour. That’s what I learned in my counselling hour.

So there, that’s what I’ll share. I warned that it wouldn’t justify a fanfare.


If Buildings Could Weep

One of the places I grew up, the Cinema, (or to me, ‘The Pictures‘), has been commandeered by fundamentalist Christians.  Fifty years since the Beatles and Stones played, dionysiaic chanting has been replaced by apollonian prayers and a moral crusade.


Maudlin then witty.  Poetic then pissy.

Oh My!  I never noticed you were so pretty.



Haunted by some high frequency cymbal-ring in my right ear, right now, for days.  It’s LOUDER THAN BEFORE. I’m thinking it might be the one true name of God in the language of the angels.  It must end some time?  Or maybe it’s the noise residue from the birth of the universe, or the tell-tale tinkle of anti-matter bumping into bosons in passing.  In which case it might be permanent.  Maybe it’ll be the frequency of Me, when entropy has finished with me and I’m smeared, one atom thick, from here to infinity.

Slightly dysphoric

Write something for today. Capture the general malaise.

I chattered with Great Tits in the backyard, and put up a new lamp shade. I tinkered ineffectively with my gas boiler, dreaming of hot, steaming water, from the taps. I marked Case Studies and added up the marks. Washed my clothes, hung them to dry. Ate fried and fattening foods with my parents, spent quality time with my grandson, and my two girls. Sigh. Generations of us under one roof. I wanted to be somewhere else, to tell the truth. Pent up tension in front of a TV the size of the World. Mind numbing.

I petted the cat, and my Dad humoured my humble opinions about my plumbing.

I inserted tables, charts, sums and percentages in Office. I populated the emptiness with content.

I listened back to my newly recorded song, trying to feel smug. I’m not the best judge but, mostly, wondered what I must have been On! I asked my 11 year old if she’d like to contribute backing vocals. She has a sweet voice, and she was local. I imagined that if she was on it I might find a reason to like it, but she refused to have anything to do with it, and went back to her X-Box.

Bless her cotton-rich socks.

Schizy harmonies

I’ve been trying to work on a song that’s nothing but sweet. Harmonies, a melody and a straightforward beat. Just to see if I can stop myself from putting an ugly twist in there somewhere.

Just to see if I dare.

It’s got lovey-dovey words and lots of positive verbs. Singing it feels absurd. When I remove everything that’s disgruntled I can sound like Simon and Garfunkel. I’m feeling Groovy like an Old Smoothy.

But I can’t fool me. I still know. I can hear the sneer. It still shows.

Something disturbed stirs.

Oysters and Bugs

Is pearl:
Abalone silvered,
So feel good.

And heaven’s soft petals unfurl,
As white as her skin.
As white as her skin.
A grain of sand,
Floating on the tide,
Moved by the moon

Think that butterflies
Are angels;
Must think the same
Of flies.
A man told me a story
That filled me with glory –
He said that one day we’d change,
And we’d live long enough to understand, and
(Though this will probably sound strange),
We’ll start to pupate.
Begin to mutate.
And then we’ll chew our way out,
And start buzzing about.

Buzz buzz.

So I’ve been practising my harp.
I’ve been practising my harp.
Because sinners can’t be winners,
And a man needs an option
In case of bad fortune,
Bad chance.
So I’ve been practising the harp.

Psych sketch #18

Got hormones homing in like harmonica moans and sin. It’s doing my head in.

Stop it now, get a grip. I’m already being accused of Losing It, even as I (literally) write this. My fantasies and phantoms don’t need muchmore of a filip before I flip. Heads or tails? You call. Is it true that people shake their heads behind me? And not, I’m assured, because they’re admiring my mastery, nor in shock and awe at my audacity. No, apparently it’s more the cruelty that exudes out of me.

So filled with poison

I’m so filled up with poison
(And all the shit that that’s causing!)
That’s it’s leaking back out from my skin;
I’ve got to lick it back in,
Lick it back in,
So’s I can spit it at the Christians again.

(You never know them
Because they stay silent when they’re praying,
You never know what they might be saying
Unless you catch them moving their lips.
But they’ve got me bubbling
And boiling,
With dark tar humours,
Throbbing like a bad tooth
That winks like a tumour).

“God’s just a rumour
Encouraging catatonia.
It couldn’t be much phonier,
Or feel much lonelier.
Your vacuous testimony
Is way below me.
Sit right down here, my friend,
And I’ll run it past you
One more time again;
Try to explain.
Make it plain.

On second thoughts,
Don’t bother,
Just sit here and
Drink some of this vodka;
Lick it straight down off of my skin,
You’ve got to lick it straight in”;

😉 Looks like I’m poisoning the Christians again.

They walk among us,
Laying down The Law for minds that are bored,
Sneaking around, giving us frowns,
They bring us down;
They’re the bodysnatchers of the Lord.

And I know
About Faith,
So don’t give me that stupid smile,
That stupid, happy face,
Oh no,
Your patronizing style
Is raising my bile,
Cramping my style,

I’ ve had better trips than that,
Filled me with so much understanding
That I could lick it back in,
Lick it back in,
So’s I can spit it at the Christians again.

Cartoon - Religion