Christ

I’m thinking on it
I’m tripping on it
I’m tricking on it
Thinking on it
Tripping on it
Tricking on it

Smaller, smaller
Altar, altar

Altar, before the altar, our design to make us smaller, smaller
Built the state for the “author”, to build him taller
To Crush

Christ,
Made from stick and brim we made you for order, order
You’re nailed to a cross father, your honour, my proper
Unfit for slaughter

Christ,
I could have kept on winning, like a sinner to the minute just
Right
Should I have left it thinning? Or hit it ’till it’s missing?
Was I a slave to the trimmed limit or an edge for the system a precautionary allegiance are you secure in your shiftings what are
MINE

Christ,
What do you want from me?
Another song to sing?
Another wrong to bring in?
Christ
No holds barred I see
Scathing me relentlessly
Gunnin’ for a change to take me
Out

Mmph,
Think, trip, trick you’re a good liar but by far not the best
Let it be known, there is nothing else, I only miss the dead

Christ,
I left it sifting, it was poison in the rifting’s
Knife
Did I offer my submission? Had I bowed to the religion?
A mere murder of the mimic are you sound in your exhibit and your delusion of a victim have you tamed your resistance is your heresy independent on the birth of sacreligion scribing the inscription from the blood of your subjacents the marks and who have made him are deplorably heathen
Mmph

Christ,
What do you want from me?
Another song to sing?
Another wrong to bring in?
Christ
No holds barred I see
Scathing me relentlessly
Gunnin’ for a change to take me
Out

A mans strength is like a bullet – it’s all down to the number of them
But isolation does not ice-cement abuse
Utilisation of the minimisation is your own way out

And we can keep god dead and we can be godless
We will feel heaven sent and free we will be lawless
We will never again belong to a man – our emancipation is our solace

Bats

Sweaty bats gliding through an Autumn-Magic sunset, their kiwi-rat bodies glinting over the tips of dark and meaningless houses- unbothered and unspied, only by me and my tired eyes and sore arm.

They are numerous, scattered like pepper sprinkles, dotted over a sheet and I recall with a painful wince the detail – the ache in my hand holding that fountain pen so steadily, its slim knib slowly cutting and dragging at the droopy blobs of tar that never had time to harden.

Bats – gloopy and inky for me – I just wipe my hand over the page and distort the sky I spent so long to colour in purple.

I wish I could’ve done more, I wish I had known to try. And maybe that’s mankinds biggest flaw. Wondering why we were never given the answers to questions we forgot to ask

Full Body Madness

My veins, vibrate
To a sound I don’t create
Went to the doctor couldn’t take me further…
Full Body Madness
This is what happened

Maybe it’s cancer causing my psychosis
Slaving me up whether I do or don’t know it
Silhouettes screaming on bridges…
Full Body Madness
Most are distracted

{‘Ghost of Threes’ E-Guitar chords}

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

Incapable of loving anything that wasn’t chaotic
If it wasn’t sending me over the edge I couldn’t want it
Flicking the elastic band of suicide…
Full Body Madness
In Latin it’s practiced

I don’t know what I’m holding on to but I’m losing grip
The sensation that my spine will slip
“I don’t feel like I have a big brother anymore”
Ellie I don’t think you do either
My match is lit as she smells the ether

{Ghost of Threes}

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

THESE MELANCHOLIC VIOLINS HAVE BEEN SCREECHING EVER SINCE

– MOMENTS that disturb the destruction
I’m anti-fire
Pro-burn

THESE MELANCHOLIC VIOLINS HAVE BEEN SCREECHING EVER SINCE
{Ghost of Threes}
Psychotic // Narcotic // Dementia Praecox
Hydroponic // Symphonic // Catatonic // Melodic
Entropy // Catastrophe
Degeneracy // Cardinality
Blasphemy // Illegitimacy
Ox-Trinity // Extremity

Polycene, vx liquored, wet-defect

AND I REALLY WANT TO TASTE KEROSENE
AND I REALLY WANT TO BATHE IN CYANIDE
“Consent is tricky in a relationship”

My Nitric Rhetoric
{Ghost of Threes}
A psychotic, narcotic, dementia praecox
A hydroponic is symphonic is catatonic is melodic
The following degeneracy warped cardinality
The blasphemy resides in illegitimacy
My ox-trinity in its full powered extremity

Polycene, vx liquored, wet-defect

What’s the matter with my love
Mountain tip on my hair split
What’s the matter with my love
It’s in my head, in my head
What’s the matter with my love
Rubbing picric on my skin
What’s the matter with my love
Day goes black, night goes red
What’s the matter with my love
I know to run, don’t know why
What’s the matter with my love
Day goes black, lights go red
Soil goes black, sky goes red
Day goes black, lights go red

‘An Envelope Popped Through The Door’ Prompt

She hand-closed the door softly behind her, to keep it from falling to pieces. She let her strict ponytail loose. She took a well earned deep breath and her insides were treated with the taste of fresh-on-old mildew. “Home”, she whispered. She waltzed then through the dainty hallway, allowing her finger to trace along the many semi-circular hanging tears of wallpaper, like child-drawn waves. There remained only few doors in this framed rubble of a building, and none that separated the hallway from the kitchen. She descended from the pale beige glow of the hall into the skeleton light.

Everything in this home was devastated, but she kept it neat. Closed drawers, levelled and stacked books.. She was an organised woman, now that she had the freedom to be. What satisfied her about this place was her feeling of control. She would leave for weeks to come back and find everything as only a dustier form of its previous self. She felt powerful, finally safe in her own clay-stained hands. It was a rather new feeling of assurance, something she had not been familiar with most of her life. With no mother, she was hastily forced to be wed when she was still a girl.. to a man much stronger than her. And older, too.

But that was past her now. She gazed through the window above the sink, into an abyss of ash. For miles, there was nothing salvageable, and the rest was swept from an orange drift of wind, seemingly like a sandstorm, that hid the rest of the world. She was grateful for whichever bomb that had hit this place, leaving a piles of embers, and erratic poles dotted around. But she most loved that she could feel the mush of compressed ash as she walked.

On the sill. A dead spider. She gasped. It’s legs crooked in agony. She examined closer. It’s face was smushed, as if from weight. It reminded her of him, how he would kill everything in his house, break objects, leave things open and messy but never allow her to clean. Or to leave. She was to rot, as he trumped all over, just to see her squirm.

She cupped the spider, and dropped him into the sink and ran the tap. Brown water came and washed the spider down. Gone. Forever. She wiped the sill clean. Her brief moment of fear had been cleared. She was alone here, in control here, and safe here.

She began her ritual of cleaning. She had brought a purse full of Wypall wipes and a multitude of business-marketed cleaning sprays. She wiped the damaged counters of the kitchen, the frames with no doors, the old mahogany counter-piece in the hall, all along the bannister, up the stairs…

A noise. Right as she ascended the final step. As of a knock. On the door. Behind her. But there was nobody there. She could see through the frosted glass in the middle of the door. Nothing. She gave a plain smile. All but the sound of a footstep.

And so she carried on her cleaning upstairs, and she made everything in every room glean. Her last mission, was to batter the dust of the duvet in the only bedroom. And so she grabbed two corners of it, and slid it off the bed. And screamed.

On the bed. A stain. An ink stain. A lidless pen lay leaked. Permanent black. Her first thought was not to question its presence but to get rid of it. She went to rub at it with her wipe but the ink licked it. And stuck. She dropped it then, and backed away in horror. She had now realised. Someone had been here. Recently. They had stained the bed and killed a spider.

She ran. Down the stairs. Not safe anymore. But there. The frosted glass was no longer clear. 

A shadow. Something. With a top hat. Mad hair underneath. At the door.

“It’s not real…” Perhaps just a gathering of dark dust. It was quite probable. The wind could’ve placed it. She stood frozen on the second bottom stair for minutes, her heart rate slowly averaging as the something showed no form of life. It wasn’t real. She was not in danger, or in the presence of something else. She gave another plain smile. Just a trick of nature. She slumped down the last step.

An envelope popped through the door.