Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought form a cocoon.  
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.

An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been lurking there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There’s a fiver in my wallet, coppers in the couch,
maybe some euros from last year I could exchange.
I could always pawn another guitar, I guess.  

But something always stops me at the door.

So, I’ve been taking my coffee black.

My home has started to whine like a lost pup.
The doors cry open, windows yawn, and the taps sing
as widows drowning their sorrows.

It’s a pathetic harmony of melancholy.
It’s a laughable life if I say so myself;
and I do say so myself and to myself,

and I guess for myself, too.


But, at least, for now, there’s still black coffee.

Bugs in the mug by my bed again.
Two of them, one following the other
round and round the other day’s dried coffee.
**** it; it’s an ashtray now.
Poor we ******* begin to panic
switching directions as the ash falls.
Why does it feel so heavenly?
I’m a god and this is my plague.
I used to drown them and pour them down the sink.
I’d watch them swirl helpless in the spiral.
I can’t tell you why,
but it always made facing the day that bit easier.
No matter what weather you’d hurl at me
from wherever that kingdom of yours is,
I could find solace in the fact I’m man and not bug.  
But today I feel different.
Today I see their suffering, it’s not
washed away, swept under the carpet, out of sight and mind.
Today they are burning in front of my eyes.
I think, today, I’ll stay inside.

Eyes fixed on a flickering screen.
Yesterday’s dinner caking itself to the plate.
Sheets itching to get off the mattress
all while you lay there in your filth.
The air of stale sweat and fast food
no longer itches your nose or nauseates.
Instead, it’s aroma seduces you
into staying here another hour.
Open the window for some air?
No, that would ruin the illusion.
Stay here until there’s nothing else to do;
until the shops are shut and your friends are asleep
and the whole world is sleeping with them.
Stay here until the air runs out
with eyes fixed on a flickering screen.

Oh, the wave of insincere condolence
that drowns the tragedy of a heroes true legacy.
Why don’t you play a record and stop your whining?
Why don’t you read rather than reach for the tissues
to wipe your forced, phoney tears?
You’re not fooling me. You haven’t even fooled yourselves.
Did parading your opinion like a ****** with his **** out
really gratify your ego as much as you hoped,
or did it just show you to be more full of **** than
a politician stuffed full of laxative with a sewn shut *******?
But what do I know?
I’m the kind of guy that writes about you.

I thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
I was so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
I thought I was sick;
I was so certain.

You, my remedy,
my unwavering and unjaded ear.
You were everything:
A world to which I could just disappear,
and a ditch to which you would not let me steer.
You, my remedy,
you were my everything.

They thought I was sick
and that could be the only conclusion.
They were so certain.
You told me it was just an illusion;
a murmuring mind muddled by confusion.  
They thought I was sick;
They were so certain.

Scribble, Scribble, Scribble. The scratch-work of a madman.
Dribble, dribble, dribble from a half cooked brain.
Half up, Half down, half here, half elsewhere,
Half heartedly chasing a thought.
If there’s a point here,
I’ve lost it
again.

No.
That was it.
Of course, it was her.
The one who flirts with my tired mind
as she sends him unravelling and
screaming like a maniac off of his meds.
The little ***** that tricks with games I always lose.  

Lavender, rosemary. What’s this I’m on about again?
It’s vanished. Disappeared. No hope to regain.  
I tell myself stories  until I just
lose the plot. What? ****. Not again.
I’m so, so sorry.
I just can’t
even.