i'll rely on me, and still you will be fine

Fucking filth-thirsty words splattered on a page in dripping ink. There's still blood, in your hair... and there will just be words, scattered all over the fucking place. When the crawling fear envelops your mind, takes control of your skin, crawling crawling spider's legs scratching their way across, always across, and over and under and back again. Forgive the mess. Crazy thinking erratically sprawling across your brain, always across, and over and under and back again. And deep fucking misandry, oh you haven't seen the best of it yet, don't worry there's a fucking truck-load of it left for you yet. Fucking misogyny, just gleaming out, shining like a single sunbeam. And misanthropy, by the bucket. Just for good measure.

Can't ride this wave much longer, it never lasts as long as my mind wants it to. Torrents and torrents soon turn into an endangered trickle. Before it finally bites the dust. And lays dormant til next time. Always next time. But for now the music helps ride the next wave. Brings the loving care that comes with this insane creeping hate and anger. Fuck the world. Fuck it good and proper. Inside and out. Dry and fucking begging. Begging to stop. All over it like a rash. No release no repentance just repeating, repetitive creeping crawling hatred and pain and fucking anger. Fuck this fucking inane shit. Can't keep going.

The Dark

The dark inner child is feasting. Dining on a banquet of blood and gore. The dark inner child is eating and drinking and growing stronger and wailing for freedom. The dark inner child is full of vanity and petulance. It is crying for some souls from below. The dark inner child is full of self-pity. Mutilating itself on all the sharp strong edges. Piercing and howling and begging for an end. The dark inner child is a wimp. A wuss. And a total fucking cunt.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Eyes of the night

Flip-side life. Head turned feet turned head turned cancer. And the rain falls, and the sun doesn't care for all the world. And the lightning strikes, and the thunder couldn't worry less. It would kiss it better, but it's not that bad. It would struggle and win, if failing was really an option. And the swarms of bees spin round like words. Epic poems of tangled words. But the flowers aren't concerned by bees, only by the snails of actions that nibble at their roots. Kill them from the ground up.

And the sulphur burn signifies the free souls encased. The spirits. The eyes of the night. For the night brings the peaceful awakening of the new dawn. The better dawn. Where the rain and the sun, the thunder and the lightning, the bees and the flowers and the snails are all with hope. But the rain prevails, the lightning strikes again. The bees do little to scrape the surface, but the snails attack.

And the girl in the gingham dress picks the most beautiful flowers she can find. And she brushes off the bees with their barbs ready, but she can't save the flowers from the snails. The sun emerges from its clouded rest, shining its best through the rain. Everyone knows that sun and rain makes rainbows. And that thunder and lightning make for a snug hiding place under the bed.

To the Death

I am all there is. And all there is is nothing. My soul is alive with self-pity. Pity me. Oh pity me. But don't you dare fucking pity me.

Gasping for breath. Shaking. Convulsant sobs as the rain pours out of me. As the spark switches off. Oh fucking pity me. Or do something. Fix me. Please oh please fix me.

Can't stop. Couldn't stop and now it hurts. Cut to the quick. Ammonia-stained. Rusted shut. The only thing I'll ever have is this incessant fear. This self-destruct. I'll never have me. Oh can't you just make it stop?

I'm down. I'm out.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

So here it is

Here it is, the void. The plain white glow of the empty screen. No need to refresh, it's always going to be blank. Perfectly calm, perfectly strong. Perfectly full of nothing and yet the words continue to flow. Pointless words. A life of words. All in life is words, just now. A constant ebb and flow, or a raging torrent of words, with a mouth open to speak them, but only deafening, sickening silence voicing them. That gut-wrenching silence, no noise, not even distant spectre echoes. Not one single solitary sound. Not that it would matter, in this cacophony of a million voices all screaming in unheard distress. They want to be heard, every single last fucking one of them. They want their time, their place. Well fuck them. Fuck them all, and their struggles, their plights. Sickening sympathy for those who scream the loudest. Come get it here. It's only just words after all. Those words. All those words, and none of them. Only some of them matter, the rest are thrown away like unwanted baby bones. Unloved, not nurtured, destroyed meanings, desecrated lines, unheard implications. I will cherish those words. Every single last fucking one of them.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

The intense humming...

She is not vindictive. Not at all. But she realised she needs to grow a pair. Get some balls. Balls of steel. Unleash a torrential stream of expletives and blasphemes relentless. Unleash razor sharp scarification on virgin flesh relentless. Take this carefully nurtured seed and tend to it tenderly. And tenderly and tenderly and carnage. Complete and with compulsive disregard.

No, she is not vindictive. But even she can see the need. She can feel the urgent need clawing at her skin. She will exact her rebel vengence. She grows, she grows alive and strong. She feels it. Feels it coursing through reinforced veins. Coursing, pumping, pounding evenly eventfully to her heart. Her ruby red swollen renewed heart. She transforms. Reborn. She is Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. All in one. And of course Shiva is the strongest within her. The destroyer. The destructor. Of course.