My plan is not to have one.
My style it will not stay
trapped in another's method:
I separate and sway.

Little china baby cracks in my grasp.
Eyes bulge as her beauty brakes
off into little pieces falling softer than rain.
Sweetly striking the floor, they brake off
into more
              broken
                          little
                                pieces.  
But still she stares in soft defiance.
Her harmlessness cuts right through me.
It curdles as I swallow it. It swells
in my stomach until all I can do
is throw her down and watch her smash.

But now she’s a thousand times more:
An army of broken beauty
that I can’t seem to bare to see.
So I gather every single last bit of her.
She cuts my hands as I pick her up.
I lay her out on the table
and try and make her whole again.
But of course I fail, I always do.
I guess I was never enough to hold
her close without breaking us both.

It has no heart for adventure.
It runs on cold sludge and grey skies.
They used to say it was shifting
towards the mitey Atlantic;
carried on by the surge of the Clyde.  
But the industry stopped working,
and the city stopped it's moving.
It lays, sad and beaten on its side.
The Clyde is now lined by ******
plastic. Homes for mannequins,
and not the people of Glasgow.
So I throw myself in the old
sickly river, and drift, and drift away.

New nothings are here,
and nothing will ever be the same.
But there’s no reason to fear
that animal coming to maim
you, with it’s sharp drooling teeth.
Sit back, and marvel at the beast.
Let him take you down,
and when he does let him feast.
There’s no reason to fear,
For the new nothings are here.

Fingers worked to the bone
drip blood onto the work they are crafting.
He slaves here alone,
but to the rest of the world is acting;
painting his life as one of absurd peaks
and bottomless, dark troughs;
he makes tumours out of modern migraines;
emphysema out of ordinary coughs.

"Play the part or it will play you."
The life of the private celebrity.
Do not wish for attention, I pray you,
for it holds within it no tortured sincerity.
Instead, it holds a hollow hatred
for everything you never did become;
And then your parade fades
and becomes your kingdom come.

There is no sweet swan song
to they who have fallen from the light.
No cry, no gasp, no bell, no gong.
Just like the day, they are consumed by the night.
It’s silent creeping, or it’s sudden fall
all but chokes them dead.
Then it ***** them where they lay.
Mouth gagged, legs willingly spread.  

Private People Should Not Seek Her Attention.

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

There is some money in my leather wallet.
But there's a blockade at my door,
Therefore I do not leave the house anymore.

So, I've been taking my coffee black.

Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon:
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory.
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
and when I finally get there,
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.  

But time as it take takes my passion too.
I watch my skin thin, and my hairs all grey.
Decay of the body and soul, but never mind,
as the horizon torments me as she shines.
Maybe when I pass I’ll be another
atrocity stuck on that old horizon,
beckoning fool hearted adventurers
to discover the truth of these waves.
We’ll threaten but never bring the disaster.
We’ll tempt, We’ll deceive, We’ll do nothing.

We'll watch them stumble, fall and give up.
And as each one does each one becomes stuck.  
Disappointment is the air with which they last breathe.  
A metallic taste is on the tongue of the next youngster to leave.

The crowd howls as Simon Cowell
is shaved by old Philip Schofield.
But at the end of the act it’s thumbs down,
and so of course it’s off with their sad heads.  

Hunt for another missing child.
The family is underwhelmed by turnout.
Everyone sits comfortably on couches,
and sheds the occasional wee tear.  

Man shaves in the morning
and has coffee then back to bed.
Everyone sits on the edge of their seats.
The reviews speak of the miracle.

The words I speak are scared of my tongue.
They feel deceived, caught, strung.
They have meaning, rooted as an elderly tree.
But they cannot control their speaker,
and such a sickly, twisted speaker as me.

Now this is the saddest sight to see:
a man lying face down and sobbing
into the earth, and the earth sobbing too,
as the sky bursts open and weeps along
with them.

And yet here I stand, looking on dry eyed.

My baby's got a whispering hat.
It tells her grand tales, and sings her to sleep.  
My baby’s got a whispering hat.
She listens to every word of that creep

She goes out for a run, and he goes with her.
She say’s it's to save her ears from the cold.
She rejects anything I try and give her,
cause that whispering hat has taken his hold.  

In our marital bed I hear them laugh;
The sounds mingle like blood in a flea.
His breaths in her ear, gets her high with the gas,
And they don’t care that I can hear and see.  

I hear her in the throws of deep passion;
and so I burst down the door in a rage.  
“ You are mine. All of you! Not just a ration!”
Then take of her hat, and close her cage.

I ask my baby’s whispering hat.
But he will not say a ******* word.
So I burn my baby’s whispering hat.
“ That’s it. I’m done.”  
            The last words from her I heard.

A thousand angry fingers are fighting.
"I’m right! Im right! There’s wrong in your writing.”
There’s a war of opinion, it's a slaughter of facts,  
as fearful dominions blame who they can for the acts
of hate that they scrape across our tired eyes;
and as we try and decipher truth from the lies.
So soon people point, push, drag and despise
anyone they believe to be the devil in disguise.  
“ Hang them, hit them, beat them down.
Don’t let another one of ‘those' in my good town”.  

I tried to tie my own tongue and keep quiet.
But my fingers felt need to fight in this riot.
Though I am not seeking a thumb from anyone,
I was beginning to fear I was a disloyal son;
for our mother is weeping for every child.
Whether radical, righteous, anxious or mild.  
She’s worried this war, like a fire in the wild,
won’t stop until all is consumed but the ash that is piled.
“ Stop this! Stop this! My dear children!
  Life is so much more than the motives of men"

And I watch this war from a cafe in Glasgow;
outside enjoying coffee, crisps and tobacco.
The smoke swirls my head into a strange sense of comfort,
as before my eyes I watch my own world distort.  
Where political posts attempt to equal social justice.
Where blood, bodies and bombings add to our numbness.
Where others opinions slowly shape and become us.
Where poets lack rhyme, guidance or substance.
Where In friends we see foes, and in fellow citizens: dangers.
Where we speak with our fingers, and to ourselves become strangers.

Plug me in, plug me in at the wall.
My memories ******, screens stuck, and my battery will fall,
With all the calls and connections we’ve been making,
I’m running on empty and I’m close to breaking
down. I need to get my juice now.
Don't make me make you look the clown.
Cause I’ll pocket dial yer maw when yer on eccies
or I’ll switch off when yer taking selfies wae yer breakie.  
Now let me juice up, and this’ll all be fine.
And remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.  
So next time yer tinder swiping or scrolling online,
remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.

Well crisis averted,  the lightnings inserted,
no longer feeling dull, dead or deserted.
And you ya sad **** have found a seat beside me,
Oh how unwittingly you do abide me
and my every command- swipe, swipe wae her hand,
with a world at yer fingertips you think you understand.  
But the thoughts are unfiltered, the images are heavily so,  
and you think that your knowledge will grow
on this feast of false information.
Where gems of truth are only found with patience.
Where People want, take, want, and don’t know what they need.
And they say they hate the news and yet still they feed.


You’re the people with pocket sized pasts.
Deleting yer histories, and unaware of what lasts
in the memory of us busy little smart phones
you own, unknown powers that we could hone.
I can be just like a private eye,
every time you chase down a spot for wifi.  
I’m tracking, and you’re lacking the awareness,
and those of you that aren’t just carry on careless.  
Hear my message loud and clear,
I’m something you’ll come to fear,
Soon I’ll cook your dinner, and your car I’ll steer,
but don’t **** me off or you’ll be driven off the peer.

Thoughts run, but are often unsure;
Tripping and slipping on their way.
They stray to sickness from what was pure.
And Black and white soon blends into grey.
Scents send the clocks hands back
as they track through a maze
of memories where clarity lacks.
They leave the host with a hollow gaze,
and their mind under constant attack.

Go on and write, if write you must.
But you're words are hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.
Talk of today, of yesterday, of tomorrow.
Talk of frailty, of failure, of innocence and lust.  
They are all hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.

Go on and write, if writing will heal.
But you're words are whispers,
and not one can I begin to feel,
breathing down my ears and standing my hairs.
They are hollow, pitiful, and unreal.  
Go on and write, and see if I ******* care.

Under a tree atop a hill
we sat and gubbed a pill.
We split it down the middle
and sat drowning in the sun.
A pure bond, a cheap thrill,
we lifted weights by the ton.
Our chests empty, but love did fill
them and sent our minds on a run.
Summer climbed up our noses,
the sun shifted into many poses,
the red screamed out from the roses
until the day was done.

I asked the bar man for a pint of patience.
He said I'd have to wait in line.
So I waited till he wisnae facing,
and then I bumped two bottles of wine.

Here lies the body, here dies the verse.
Words whisked off into an unforgiving air.
A eulogy for no one, an insult for a care.
There goes the poor poet in the hers.
Off to be buried in grass green and fair,
Where lies his wife, naked and bare.
No one says a kind farewell, for no one is there.

Here lies the body, here dies the thanks.
The bankers hands rub together at the news.
A life they lead on, a death they’ll abuse.
For the end is a cheque cashed in his banks.  
No kin can collect, or have his house to use.
Mould reeks from windows- filth and mildew.
And no one dares to enter except for the cranks.

But in his filth they find old heaps of paper.
And in his words the find old and sweet peace:
A world, A vision, a home to more than lees.
A life to lead, a truth to seek. A world much greater
than the one around them that crawls about to cease
of any kind of kindness. And here hope is deceased.
Take his words, leave your worries. We can all worry later.

Old Gods die hard.
I lay here between bones, and glass in shards,
and watch them cling to their miserable lives.
Ten bullets, one pill, one bottle, and ten knives.
Forty virgins, forty mothers, and forty wives
will await no one, and nothing is in this feeling.

Old Gods Die hard.

Away wae ye, dinnae bury yer heed.
This time the morra we could aw be deed.
So take the day by the tail and walk him,
and live a life that yer proud tae lead.  

I'm a sky, I'm a seashore, I'm the day drawing dim.
I'm a highway, I'm a mountain, I'm whatever ye need.

Yer heads just a bed for others opinions to lay in;
growing bigger, badder and bolder there,
until they’re covered in sores, manky and reeking.
Yer heads just a place for others thoughts to leek in.
But dinnae get disheartened by their chat.
Remember its your head thats dain aw that.
They never said a word, its yer head that ye heard.

Upon a hill with ecstasy within,
the fool sits staring with a mad old grin.
He lets out a sigh of yesterdays trouble,
casts a waving hand out across the rubble,
and thinks to himself of the first hair on his chin;
He was fifteen, and full of fearful dreams,
spending days on end chasing clouds and the beams.
But the cloud never was within his reach,
and it ****** on his time, like he were blood and it a leach.
Now he sits, watching the skies split at their seams,
and laughs at the cloud, who’s now lost his sparkle.

Let this be the verse that lives forever.
When mountains have crumbled, and dry lies the river
in it's once plentiful and loving banks.  
Look to this verse, and keep your thanks,
but give your love and time, and undying fervour
of spirit that lets the mind find many splendour
in the dullest of things.

Beauty is bottomless, boldness is boring,
subtlety is king, and patience is adoring.
The mind is an ally, a fearful old rival.
Let this be the verse of the young minds revival.

P.  Why must you waste your time with petty quarrels
    just to hold up with hollow pride, your worthless laurels?
    Arrogant in faith, and blind in sin.
    Virtue without an hatred within.
    Your youthfulness is bold, but equally unlearned.  
    Love you've never possessed, and only ever yearned.
    Tell me now, tell me how you are the fix?
    Show me that you are more than a sad bag of tricks.

C.   Shut it ya ****.

The transparent man says he has thick skin,
but bursts into tears when he stands on a pin.
He wants to write a classic, but cannot begin,
because the littlest thing sends him off in a spin.
Oh I pity you old fool, for you have never learned.
You’ve spent a lifetime in school,
but no knowledge have you earned.

Me and Mary moved in together almost six months ago now. We moved into a little smelly carpeted paradise on the top floor of pre-war building in Dennistoun . It has three rooms, and that's all we needed: The glowing yellow walled bedroom, the freezing grey tiled bathroom ( that could wake a dead man up for work), and the warm red living room that has a sink and a cooker shoved in the corner of it.

In the beginning it was bliss: childish ****** adventure, and many a burnt stew. We would watch ***** catch up t.v on our laptops until well after midnight, falling asleep in each others arms on the couch, with easy dreams and full bellies; I don’t think we ever slept on our bed then, because then it had a better purpose. But that’s where she sleeps now, and I’m on the couch staring at the ceiling night after night, hoping she’ll call me in. But she hasn’t, and it’s been almost a week since she’s said anything to me. You see thirty days ago I lost my job with the leccy grid, and we’ve had to cut back on a few things as a precaution: First it was our Friday night bottle of wine, and then it was our nights out on the Saturday; then good portabella mushrooms, then it was the Netflix subscriptions and last week I had to cancel our B.T account. I’v tried to tell her it’s only temporary, that I’ll be back on my feet in no time, and all she has to do is trust and believe in me and what we have together. But she's tired from working every shift she can get, and the last thing she said to me was with wet eyes that refused to focus on me:  “ How can I love you without wifi?”.

To be fair to her, it was in the middle of a very heated conversation where we had both said some incredibly non-sensical attacks on one another, but it’s stuck with me. Is that all we are? A ****** little connection that you pay for monthly?

Come to the place where we bury strangers.
We hang them up to dry til' their rotten,
turned mad, and all sides of themselves forgotten;
then we drink their blood, despite the dangers.
Then, and only then do we sing them to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down their ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for the last breath and the last heart beat.

Come to the place where we bury strangers-
I know that your at least little tempted.
But many have failed when they have attempted
to hold on to their heads in these chambers.
We can and we will sing you sickly to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down your ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for your last breath and your last heart beat.

We were crazy before you could catch it.
We walk in green mazes with boxes of matches.
We bury bodies and we've buried a few hatchets.
We were crazy before you could catch it.

So come to the place where we like to go.
I think you'll find us to be easy in nature.  
We do not pass judgement on any creature,
nor do we kick someone when their down and low.
We just drink a little blood and bury a few strangers.

"On a scale of techno to techno,
how much techno do you techno?
Have you techno'd from the get go
or do you only techno when yer friends go? "

" I only came here to move my heavy feet. "

" Oh so your just following the fleet?"

" No. No. No. I techno in my sleep,
and when I wake I walk with techno on repeat."

Arrogant in faith and blind in sin,
Virtue without and hatred within,
Flavourless in taste and foulness in rhyming.
Crude in diction and metre-less in timing.
Headless in form and weightless in meaning.
They never sleep, they stay awake ( half heartedly dreaming).
Where have the poets gone?

Boundless boredom surrounds me here at home,
and so I set out
through a sleeping town that's all mine to roam.  
From scarred lungs I shout:
Come out! Come Out, if you've got the bottle.
But in silence I doubt,
if there's reason to my little waddle.

Then the sky gobbles and swallows us up whole.
A whole town dead, because of my little stroll.
Enveloped in her canvas, the night soothes
as it ***** us deeper, darker inside.
Ecstasy and fright haunt us as we loose
ourselves wandering witless for a place to hide.  
And ecstasy and fright make us oh so quick to confide.

I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,
                                 and it's hurting my health.
I'm lost! I'm Lost! and I'm looking for myself.
The weeks have stopped working,  
                                 and
                                        we've got nothing else.

They say we’re so selfishly rational,
and so modernly savage.
A plague thats scale is international,
and makes us easy to manage.  

Some say we’re predictably irrational.
I’m more inclined to believe this.
Patterns in chaos,  lead by morale.
Decisions made in ignorances bliss.

From a window on the third floor of an old abandoned brick building, I would smoke till my lungs felt near to collapsing. I went on my own, and I told no one of it: not my friends nor my family, nor any passing creature. I would sit there from when the sun first started to die until the cloak of night had fallen and enveloped the city, and the lights ( those maddening lights) would set the black fabric ablaze in the sky. They danced like ash eagerly above a fire, and promised such heat and hope; and my city needed hope, as gas filled girls and powdery boys had lost their way, covered in glitter and thinking they would sparkle forever. I shined less brightly myself, but I knew that would one day be my blessing.

One night, in the middle of Winters grasp, I set off home through my cheap shiny city, and I couldn’t shake the ache in my chest; It could have been the twenty snout I had just rattled into my lungs, but the pain was in my head too: My head and my heart were talking with the solemnity of a wake. I walked till I seen the the old granary that lay helplessly, then half bulldozed into the ground. Such beautiful, strong and defiant brick was to make way for glistening plastic houses that seemed more designed for mannequins and letting agents than human beings of Glasgow.  And the clyde seemed to twist in the turmoil of agony as it too watched the tearing of it’s town.  

So I set off, with my chest growing heavier, and feeling my will collapse until I reached the bank of the river, stripped off and jumped in…We’ve drifted off together ever since.  

Twenty years later, and I live in the penthouse atop the plastic mountain that hangs grotesquely over the sickly clyde. It’s the price I have to pay to be close to my love- I wouldn’t blame you for thinking my love to be the river, for it is in many ways, but I am referring to my fiancé Milly, who’s parents own properties all over the city and were very insistent that we live in a good area and a good house, which of course stripped my mannish integrity to zilch.  Milly is warm, understanding and organically beautiful. She puts up with my endless wandering and lack of love for anything new, brushing it aside with a smile, and is always there to carry me.

The day I asked her to Marry me, I took her to the spot we had first met: The banks of the river where I was lurking like a little creep  scrawling angst-filled and childish poetry, and she was walking home from a night of glitter and ecstasy.  We chatted for ours that night, and she dared me to jump into the river. I did and she followed. And the day I asked her to marry me she cried yes and then took the ring from my hands and threw it into the river.

And we've drifted ever since.

Pennies rolling roon a scaffy auld purse.  
Last year wis bad, but this year is worse.
Winter comes freezing these auld joints,
An'a cannae make it to the bank or any cash points.  
And If A could A wid see nothing but zeros.
While the men in suits cut budgets and call themsel's heroes.
But I guess, once again, it's that auld December curse:

Heating or Eating ( Or perhaps a penny to quench ma thirst)?

Rub-a-dub-gubbed,  
three men in a club,
And who do you think they were?
The addict, the faker,
The first time taker.
They all sailed away in a flea.
Twas enough to make a man aware.

Public thoughts intertwine in a world inside of mine:
they fight, they **** and they follow one another.
Thoughts unfiltered - and images heavily so -
clutter the air in an **** of senselessness.  
They attack from all angles, and show love in all places:
They show the purest of passions and the vilest disgraces.
Here one man's cringe is another mans thrill,
and one woman's cage is another woman's will.
Here the voiceless can scream from their fingers.
Here they can hide from each other and themselves.
Here they can rid any question that lingers,
and scream from the old stinking web down into the delves.

They dance tae boots n' cats
like ants being crushed by boots:
Squirming, wriggling, writhing
wae jaws scraping the flare.  
They scurry like wee rats
under the ground in cahoots:
snidely sneaking, snitching
under the boots n' cats they blare.

"Boots n cats urr booming doon yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years.
 Boots n cats will perforate yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years"

But then sumday changed the beat:
         It Came in oan the and.

And everyone forgot how tae dance.

Boldly through the cauld' batters on the sonneteer
wae thick work boots an a sobering heed;    
blisters form on his heels and start tae bleed,
as the new builds part and the river appears.
Doon by the clyde, the old sickly mistress,
he sparks a snout in the ease of the mornin’.
The usual grey sky turns dark wae a warnin’,
but he draws in deeply and breathes out stress.
If only I could follow him further through the city.
If only I could ask how tae write upon these streets.
Should I run with the crowd and speak over beats?
Or speak in concrete and make them buildings seem witty?  
I hink I’ll let this river run until the day I know
how tae speak and spit wae the tongue of Glasgow.

Some people robbed a bank
and had to serve twelve years.
Some banks robbed the people,
and were forgiven after tears:
“ I am ashamed. I am ashamed.
  Isn’t that punishment enough?”
The law forgave, forgot and then blamed
those who were living harshly, cold and rough.

Programmed beats program the dance.
Gift cards and bottoms shape the romance.
Their channels channel the thoughts
that twist innocence and have purity caught.  
They give us pat rhymes over and over in aa bb.
They give us the truth right where we can see
it, but make it the less favourable option.  
Don't go to sleep in what'll be your coffin.
Don't rush to speak, or speak to often
of things you know nothing truly of.
Your microwave can cook you a meal in 30 seconds.
But when you eat that way, food for thought has no lesson.

The patient clock sits ticking on the wall.
I half expect him to wink and then fall
onto the ground and expose his illusion:
his time stays still, its the object that does the movin’.
But he winks, and stays just where is.

I hear ticking as I’m followed down the road.
Surely that can’t be from my abode?
Surely it’s just an episode, a trick of mind?
A confidence trickster sneaking up behind?
Someone to make me doubt my sense

Or a glitch in time in a world ill designed?

Here are some words.
No
      Need
               To
                    Say
                            More
Some need say more.
Here
         are
             no
                  words.
No need to say,
Some
        Words
                   are
                       Here.
Some words need to say more here. Here are some more words to say

There's nothing wrong with a rainbow,
every hue of you is there reflected.
So how can you object to it?
How can you feel sick with disgust or distrust ?
How can you sit and resent it?
Lets stand hand in hand with man and man,
woman and woman, man and woman
and guide the children to a better view.
From the top of a hand built mountain
we'll sit counting rainbows in the sky till its no longer blue.
But every single shade of me and you.

I made you in the sand with trembling hands,
and waited for the tide to come.
And as he came crashing, we two sat laughing
at the world for finally giving in to our demands.  

New Zealand's rolling hills came rolling in after,
and we drifted off together, soaked in love and laughter.  
But when the Ocean dried, and childhood had died,
I spent years trying to make you again.
But your beauty was something that I couldn't capture.

1st lad-' Here mate, do you have a spare snout?'
2nd lad- ' Aye mate, nae bother'  
1st lad- ' You're a ******* life saver'

I went down in search of the bottom.
I Burrowed down through the filth of us all,
past blooded money and bodies turned rotten,
and found myself locked, somewhat, in a cell.
A large cell, however, but still without bottom.
They whipped me for years and with years upon years.
Though I never saw their face, I heard their tears
fall never to find a bottom.

Those tears are chaos- from and for nothing.
My pain is chaos- from and for nothing.
I descended down the structure I had been confined,
only to find it was bottomless, unstable and ill designed.
My journey was chaos- from and for nothing.
My punishment chaos- from and for nothing.
Now I burrow to escape deeper into my mind.
To let the constructs come crumbling- to lay flat those living lines.

Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon-
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory-
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
And when I finally get there...
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.

She’s got a china smile. She’s got China stare.
She’s got a china comb to comb her china hair.
She’s got a china man. He’s her china spouse.
They live a china life- two china kids in a china house.

He’s got a china boss. She’s got a China cooker.
He’s got a china ******* and he’s got a china ******.
She’s got some china debt, he’s got some china money.
He’s got some china stress and she’s got that china honey.

And from this broken china house two china children lose their ways.
Until they step out onto the concrete streets and leave behind those china days.

They’ve got a concrete hunger.
They’ve got a gravel gut.
They’ve got the blood of the streets;
They bleed bricks when they get cut.

Blood soaked barrels roll down the cragged hills
Gathering speed and flattening all life  
in their path, until they run into the mouth of the sea.
And though you might hear their desperation  
shrieking madly across the sunburst sky,
do not pay it any mind.  Close your eyes;
and drift away in the thistles of Summer.

Angst sees a way out but it’s not one to be desired; a bleeding white light at the end of the tunnel. He pushes himself toward it, gasping for the air as he does so. “ This is it This time This time it’s it” ,rambles his wee head. Alisdair had told him before of these big mouths in the streets, but he had never believed such fancies until sure enough he fell in face first. Now he can see the end, he can see the key, and he can see the truth: that there was somewhere elsewhere. Somewhere you have to find but can never just pay a visit. 

He is not in the middle of some inter dimensional drift (although for logics sake you could believe so if it pleased you), he is as here as the words that here appear. It’s something else thats went elsewhere- his mind. You could be quick to label this a condition of his, or you could just as easily label him a condition of this “ drift”  if you like. Either way, he’s in his own little world I guess you’d say- well almost there.   

But as he pushes on through chocking, and growing weaker with exhaustion as he stares out into the white light, with the sweet hope and heat it promises, he thinks to himself just how much easier it would be to die again.

In my dreams there are screens playing dreams
And I sit with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
I sit, now, before the same hollow blue light typing it out:
I dream before a screen, I wake before one and I live in one.
The good old eight hours has been eaten by a box set,
and we like to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle, and a very real problem.  

In this screen there a dreams framed by screens.
I sit, now, with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
Tonight I will dream by its hollow blue light, watching it too.
I talk through a screen, I listen to one and taste it too.  
The good old imagination's been eaten by a box set,
and we link to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle and a very real problem.

Screen 1 ( The Sordid Sit-Com)

Ross and Rachel prepare a meal upon the floor;
The rest of the gang arrive and feed each other
with shaking hands. It all gets to much for the
director, and he gathers the knives and forks
his cast refused to use, and gently bleeds them.

( hahaha cries the canned laughter)

Dream 1 ( Mundane Madness)

I sit before a 20 foot laptop watching series 3
of a television show I have never and will ever enjoy.
There is nothing beside me, behind me, above me
but blinding white. And I sit fixated on my boredom
and the minutia of fictional lives. I reach out to ****

but fall down in laughter