I've developed a blinding frustration.
A frustration once latent that has been slowly building and bubbling away recently.
Looming until it finally started cracking thread-like lines across my surface,
branching off into intricate,
spider web patterns.
-
My vision is tunneling and my hands so often begin to shake now,
I feel like a surgeon operating somewhere in the antarctic.
A struggling attempt to contain a white-hot, existential rage.
I’m driving a vehicle of sentience,
and in the passenger seat is some invisible,
insatiable need to fight, **** or explode.
He’s begging me to let him drive for a while.

N.H.

I stood under the stars last night,
Like so many times before.
Only a slither left inside my little
bottle of Tennessee amber cheer.
I looked out over the water,
At all the town's lights,
Like Christmas bulbs at midnight.
I looked back at the unassuming patch of grass.
I can't see you now, but you still are solid as glass.
We'd laid there side-by-side
perhaps a year or more ago,
Beneath oblivion and under stars.
What more are we than spores,
Floating thin on river surface
As slaves to the universe
and it's endless ebb and flow.
-
Sometimes I don't come here...
Just because the ghosts I see,
the ghosts of you and me.
In the unassuming grass,
beside the house,
down by the sea.
I see them there, lingering so...
vivid, lucid, clear.
Your warmth, I almost feel appear.
I turn back towards the water,
And almost,
Almost shed a tear.

N.H.

You know...
I had sat in bed the other night.
And weighed both pro and con to mortal plight.
Truth be told, there's no pro in sight.
No more patience for mortal tripe,
Unsure of pleasure in afternoon delight.
Nor subtle sailing of morning kite.
I just deemed true to see the world,
Give one last chance to love unfurled.
In dawns light, beautiful curls, surprised.
Brisk, beach and bale unspoiled,
The love of a woman, yet uncoiled.
-
Truth is,
I want,
To die.

N.H.

A bottle of bourbon,
Lay at my heels.
A stubbed cigerette,
Ushers three thousand more.
-
Why?
All the better to **** me dear.
To ***** out my life,
To **** my sorrow,
To cease my suffering.
-
It's like acid upon the brain,
A burn upon the skin,
A kick upon the shin.
I can no longer lie my dear,
I can't longer let evil in.
To lie to you,
Darling,
Love.
Would be worse than any heavens sin.
I've robbed, I've killed, I've forsaken and sinned.
The worst thing I ever did,
was let evil in.
-
I need redemption,
Retribution,
Reincarnation,
Rapture.
-
But for now I'll settle for a lighters light,
And a cigarette,
If you'd be so polite.
And sip of *** would be mighty right,
And a hot warm gut for tonight's respite.
I'd be awful rude,
But tonight's the night.
Naught angels wings but demons,
Take to flight.
But care none for evil dear,
You'll rise to heavens' brilliant light.
And this one...?
Well he'll be allright.

N.H.

Do you want to know what i think makes a man? 
What makes a man…?

I think it’s a woman.
A woman makes a man,
she saps his love,
tricks his spirit into trusting and loving her
false and Disney image.

Not to trust her, but the image of her.
An illusion, mirage, a binary figment of imagination. A woman allows a man to express and relax.
To forget and forgive
like eve she gives the apple to man.
Offers adventurous life,
and in stead prizes him with evil,
sick,
twisted
and sticky evil.
But don’t be discouraged,
I’m open to a change of mind...
But I’ve yet to see a woman
worthy of the endeavour.

N.H.

Maybe I’ll never make a good father,
the world has shown me it’s ugly face.
I see things too logically,
too realistically.
The things I’ve done and seen,
my dark sense of humour,
twisted sources of entertainment
and sexuality.
My sedated emotions
and even my choice of forensics profession
all these things probably makes me
a pretty bad father,
bad husband,
bad boyfriend…
And probably
a bad person.

N.H.

I’m no longer under her spell,

I see her for what she likely really is.

A simple and boring creature,

Just another stain on the world.

Bound to be one more dying shadow.

A memory
dead and tucked away
within the dusty, disorganised, shelves
of my library, archive of mind.
Between
the bay laurel plant and the star of the sea..
Even if she ate organic
and drank of my flesh and seed,
like a goddess for a moment.

N.H.