People are mean
they prey on weakness
they circle it
like buzzards to a dying goat,
People are mean
they hold each other down
whilst jumping ahead
like rats on a sinking ship,
People are mean
they change so slowly
and then they never look back
like slugs crawling at night
Invisible by dawn,
People are mean alright
They rob,
They ****,
They ******,
but the meanest thing of all
They ignore,
They ignore their neighbours
They ignore their family
They ignore their hearts
People are mean,
mean to themselves.

Nature will have her way,
She will laugh in the darkness,
it will not be long until there is
nothing left but bone and marrow,
and in a coal face a mile wide,
there will be diamonds
shining like the first stars,
as the world ceases its turn,
the oceans will dry,
all the noise will finally die,
and the only question
left to ask of man and beast
will be why?
why did the gods
bother at all?
we are sickly despots,
far from evolved,
killing just to live another day,  
all in all a perfect failure,
all in all a disaster piece.

A cataract to truth is cloudy violence
A cataract to truth just spits at science
You wear Your home team tinfoil hat
no need for jabs, don’t wear a mask
You spend your cash as you make it fast
No time for “them” or your income tax
A cataract to truth is cloudy violence
A cataract to truth just spits at science
You live in your fog of privilege
you’re rich white trash and you’re ignorant
You’d rather lose a hand than help an immigrant
But your daddy got you shares in his business
You wear Your home team tinfoil hat
a pricey suit but still no class.
Ya Gammon, Ya Gammon
You ******* soulless Gammon.

~ I Everett

To Love a Writer
you must be brave,
eager to read
the words
you would rather
hear.

To Love a Writer
you must be prepared,
for days hidden
from the sun,
a symptom of
the disease.


To Love a Writer
you must be crazy,
ignore the insomnia
and fight
for attention
at night.

but know this ..

If a Writer Loves You,
their Love is complete,
you are amazing to them,
they will dream
of you often,
in ink forevermore.

Not a god, not a poem, not a love song,
not a stranger’s-hand thumping the chest, nor a preacher perusing the words he has to sell, not a broken bone set or the warmth of a mother’s love.
Just a finite moment expressed  in the tears of a lost memory, leaking from the eye of fragile flesh. Not a god, not a poem, not a love song.
Just a final breathe.