stuff i write

Tag: existential doom

Psych sketch 21.09.14

Life! –

Likes surprises,
Action potentials:
Chrysalises of possibilities,
Ripe, supple, armed with all the essentials;
Hot for the frenzied fever of feasting and fucking,
Squelching and sucking,
Moved by the moon
And tunes.
Choice and Chance
Will dance:
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock

Is life’s way of telling us to fuck off.

Psych sketch #8.14

I’m Surrounded:
Cleopatra and an amplifier,
Manufactured in China;
An opulence of blues and pinks;
A cigar-box full of forgotten thinks.
And Kierkegaard’s Works of Love.
Incense and daggers, downloaded distractions;
A mush of green;
Tobacco and vanilla. Broken springs.
Lovers in factions.
Life-left counted off in fractions.

Cochlear discombulations
Tip me off guard,
If I don’t grip your shoulder
I might fall on my arse.
I say piss on my poise
And fuck the poison,
Like spiders –
Spasmodic, sporadic, lethal liaisons.

Like a faux-leather glove, dragged on a wire across the carpet –
Like one of those, y’know, that metaphorical malarkey –
I might be a shadow, or a ghost,
Or a migraine;
Or another episode.
A glitch in the code.
Who knows.

I check my phone
To see if I exist.
I couldn’t resist.

I fold

I don’t know where to begin.
I’ve got nothing.
Can’t think of anything.

After half an hour of silence.
Some exploring of what I was feeling.


It’s all been wrong.
There’s nothing to work from.
Nothing to work towards.

Hung my head in shame.

That’s when I’m supposed to cry.

I think.

A Shred of Evidence

I looked at humanity: All of you.

(Yes, that ineffable feeling of paranoia you recently experienced was me browsing your hard drive, illuminating your hidden caches, unscrubbing your system files, and unshredding your registry.

Checking your code for corruption).

There are degrees but no one is truly innocent.

20 minutes after my birth I’d have happily, and without regret, crushed the universe to get at my mother’s milk.

And I’m worth it. We all are. We’re all born with our mouths open, demanding our birth-right.

Context is bunk

There’s too much context in the world for my liking. I look at a simple thing, some kind of basic emotion, say, and the next minute I’m flooded with context. It’s like goo slowing me down. There’s a pinpoint of certainty, which then shifts, subtly, reminding me of the parallel universes to be taken into account. Mots of light, suspended in certainty, suddenly explode into intricate trajectories through the dimensions of time and space creating a whole, that floods with chaos, until what seemed obvious becomes a vast absurdity. It should make me laugh, but I’m scared that if I lose myself in it, it’ll make paying the gas bill and trimming my nose hair seem insignificant. And someone’s got to keep up appearances


What anxieties have haunted my today? My living as if wanting to die. I don’t really want to think about it but, for the sake of my sanity, I really ought to try. When I was a child my baby brother died: I guess that, after she cried, my mother told me that he’d gone to sleep and would never wake up because, after that, I was scared to go to sleep in case I didn’t wake up. Duh. I had a lot of nightmares and then I stopped remembering my dreams. Now, I can feel the blood pounding in my ears just at the mention of some of these fears. Anyway, death always seemed so just around the corner that it wasn’t worth putting any roots down, but now I just don’t know. Life just grows, one gets attached to it as if by magic or witchcraft. One minute I was just a record collection, a guitar, and some snapshots in my mum and dad’s house, the next it’s got as convoluted as Proust.

(Accent isn’t accident).

And my friends are leaving in droves, of course. I keep moving the goal posts, and changing my tune, so’s they haven’t got a clue. They find it hard to find the rhyme and suspect I’m getting past my prime. But I’m probably projecting; it’s that self-pity you’ll be detecting, with that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach that, believe me, I share. Gut plummeting through the air.

Most days I think I’m plodding along quite nicely but just occasionally I get tugged (impolitely) by something persistent; an insistent babble that, on the surface, I take lightly but must, in reality, scare me mightily, otherwise I wouldn’t have all these black thoughts, would I. It’s my unconscious upsetting my conscience with some kind of nihilist nonsense. Commonsense says I’m on the crest of a wave; my Positive Thinking Guru says I should focus on surfing it bravely, crave, consume, eat away the gloom; See it, want it, take it. Be it, say it, fake it.

Shake it, baby, shake it.

But I’m having a bit of not being like that, basically, and trying to come to terms with it gracefully. My ex says ‘disgracefully’ but, in negotiations, I’d settle terms on ‘shabbily’. I need to sort myself out without a doubt, but it’s not a decision one can make without endless prevarication and talk. I’ll need a chart and a marker pen (of course!), to make anything happen. There’ll have to be an action plan and a clipboard. There’ll need to be rules and laws. Ideally there’ll be a motivational reward, to stop me from getting bored, and reinforcements to fill in when I can’t cope any more, (keeping it professional means I have to delegate; I have to let others share some of my mistakes).

All the self-help books remind me that I can’t do everything, for everyone, and still have ‘time for me’. If their smiling faces on the dustcovers are anything to go by then I think I can truly believe. Perhaps there’s still some 12-Step plan that can save me, or some kind of angel that’ll shame me into ‘fessing up’ to this mess up. I’ll stand with one hand on the bible, and one hand on my bollocks, and announce to the group – ‘I’m Michael, and I am a Deathaholic’.

Psych sketch #10

Examples of small desolations that end up as inconsequential phrasings, or exhalations; exhorting my glory if I disdain the doubt and existential dread I feel gnawing.


Riding the clutch grinds down my teeth, and chemicals are juddering through my heart. There’s a ritual to be done, scrape the veins of the grief (like from the colon, the beef part), kiss goodbye to the dirt and the hurt.

I could just murder something in a skirt.

No! Purge that, save it for the gutter press and the confessional psychobabble of art. I am aching, shaking, and there’s nothing even worth taking.

Psych Sketch #8

There’s supposedly a time and a place for everything, but the odds against being there when it happens are frightening.  Chasing from place to place trying not to miss it, but I wouldn’t know it if I saw it.  Bursting in, looking aggressive, eyes anxious, furtive glances: “Is it here?  Is it now or have I missed it?” Disappointed chances.  The treadmill without a schedule, only the terminus seems concrete.  Today probably offered up clues, obviously cunningly disguised, suggesting plot lines and narratives, hinting at my eventual demise.  So much goes on it’s hard to pick and choose the pertinent data from the infinite facts.  I’ll wait ‘til I sleep and my dreams can do that – (except I don’t get the warnings because they’re forgotten by morning; I start every day with an alzheimic clean slate, the barbed hook of my psychosis primed with fresh bait).

Sick senth

I scatter hormones all around me,
Saying ‘Whatever you do, don’t come near me’,
But no one uses their noses anymore.

I’ve got ugly cracks right through me,
Yet on the surface nothing moves me;
But no one trusts their eyes anymore.

Cos seeing ain’t believin’ no more.

Need a sick senth to even know I exist at all.
Did rutting and cutting; done shutting down and muttering, before.
Need a sick senth to even know I exist anymore.
Got to stop filtering it out and believe it all.

Got these songs oozing out of me,
A drizzling, whittling litany,
But no one really listens anymore.

Been sour as smiles are,
As bitter as this soap bar,
But no one’s really clean anymore.

I’ve never had taste, can live without tact, and tactile, that’s f’sure.

Need a sick senth to even know I exist at all.
Did dodging and doubting, done divining and dowsing, I done these things before.
Need a sick senth to even know I exist anymore.
Got to stop filtering it out, and believe it all.