I’m rocking back and forth against the hull of my loneliness,
Stuck in knowing it’s goodbye
But not being able to say I love you
or I’m sorry.
I’m crying with joy and longing as I lie in the love and conversation around me,
Wishing it were mine.
I’ve been high so long my heart rate stopped going down with the sun.
Going over it all all over again all the time.
I feel like a child again, terrified by the the dark, the wind, the eyes of men.
I’m breaking down in the line at the gas station.
Looking out the glass wall at a Lovecraftian highway,
Flickering florescent lights like the ones from The Exorcist.
On my way to a cavernous husk of a family dinner,
Most of them gone now.
Just me, my mother, and my widowed, bereaved, great aunt.
There’s a stupid old cardboard cutout of a mascot next to me grinning too widely, holding up its product.
I scream and tear it’s head off it’s body
In my mind.
I have work on Monday.
This is life.

I can't ******* believe it
it's enough to make you want
to blow your own ******* head off
it really ******* is.

Crueller than cruel are the women
who make my life a living hell
lurking like Lovecraftian monsters
in internet chatrooms and forums
waiting to break my poor purple *****
on internet site after internet site
hiding their ugliness
under a ******* bushel.

I must be a dumb *******
but I really thought yes maybe
this time yes maybe just maybe
finally after more ****-ups
than a cut-price ***** has per year
and I one more time fell for their lies
and another date went wrong
and my poor bleeding heart
is broken like a duck's beak
hit by a twin-bore shotgun cannonade.

It was a warm summer's evening
with a humid atmosphere guaranteed
to make my nuts sweat freely
and we had agreed to meet
at a quiet spot in the city park
down by the old public lav
where the **** frolic after midnight
leaving the place littered
with filled ribbed condoms
after indiscrimate **** love sessions.

I eagerly re-read the print-out
from the new internet site
(www.fuckabroadforfree.com)
where kindly ******* fate had brought us
together like lost souls in a hurricane
seeking solace in hot ***** *******
and I felt sure your byline
'I love banging ugly strangers'
coupled with the open-crotch photos
could only lead to good times for all.

I hoped you would be a looker
even though the snapshots
you had boldly posted tended
to concentrate on the other end
where your twin holes
were in evidence big-time
so my readers can imagine
my intense ******* disppointment
when I finally saw you
with your tiny bald pointed head
peeping hopefully out
of the ****** rags you were wearing.

I think I was probably justified
in using the claw hammer
I had wisely brought with me
just in case and I must say
in my own ******* defence
love isn’t just a matter of aesthetics
and maybe I'm no raving Adonis myself
but you really have to draw the line
somewhere and you were on the other side
by a very long chalk
so very sadly and reluctantly
I gave into anger and let you have it
and please believe me when I say
that the sound of your death scream
will probably not keep me awake at night
as I drown my sorrows
in solitary *** and single malt whisky.
*******, brave new world!

the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.

Your profile doesn’t have a picture but you have been good conversation
Working retail has reinforced the mindset that people are snowflakes in all shapes and sizes
This doesn’t help me, I literally have no idea what you could look like
Or if you are even a person
What if I’m chatting with a scientifically enhanced hamster
If some Lovecraftian being is mingling with me through the cosmos
I asked for a pic 5 minutes ago and the outlandish ideas above have humored me until you replied
Do I read it and force the universe to give me an answer
Do I delete this whole app and live my life never knowing for certain
What if you say no
Then it must be some tentacled being wishing to unravel my very being
If only they knew that if left to my own devices I’ll do that on my own
I got the pic and now as predicted I unravel myself
Why would you like me
Why would you think I’m cute
How in the world would you find me worthwhile
You have a college hoodie on and it only serves to remind me that I am still in my rut no matter how good things have been going recently
You are the breath of spring and the other shoe at the same time
I guess I’ll keep typing, I’m glad at least the void has a face now

Standing on the edge of the world
Is quite different from what you may've heard:
It’s quiet but with toneless droning of as if
A swarm of bumblebees in striped adorning
Buzzing relentlessly and aimlessly;
No waterfall or chasm or nothing it’s
Just, well, you know, reminds you of a list
Perspective: one step ahead and you
Are back again; no wonder it is so
Decrepit and shackled and you may
Not believe it but feeling of something,
Like, you know, of everything and nothing
At a time; something Lovecraftian;
Indescribable; inexpressible;
You just stand stranded and derive an
Energy from this darkless-though-lightless-as-well
Being in nothing at the edge of something;
Edge may be a little bit far-fetched;
You may be’d rather prefer a rim;
So be it so
A rim of the world; no end and no
Beginning, you know, just it somewhere
There aloof from everything and still
So close to all you know and feel;
Dunno; you just stand stranded on the
Sand as though at the edge of the ocean
No motion though is visible or tangible
But breeze you may feel tinkling on your
Face imbuing droplets of sweat but at
The moment of realizing of thinking
About it it drops and vanished and you
Again just standing stranded on the edge
Of the land abandoned on the rim of the
Horizon of events as reverse gravity’s
Rainbow is arching the other side of the
Universal plate where nothing at all but
Everything

The clouds, low, thick and suffocating
Made the world feel compact
The airport has normalized
The strange metal beasts
That fly unhindered by gravity
The clouds hang low
The beasts fly high
The sounds of Engines
And Trembling Sonics
Are now heard without context
An otherwordly screech
By some lovecraftian horror
About to pierce the veil
And plummet into our plane

Perhaps you’re made to be the perfect mirror for the sky:
An earthmade object of vanity, dazzling and bright.
I think it’d make me far more comfortable
If I could just see through all this reflected light.

You’re cold, sharp, and shallow at the edges,
Even though it’s half past July.
I must dance atop of your mossy stone
Then stop when a familiar dark shape slithers by.

And when I finally reach the point
Where I have to desperately flap my arms
Like freshly plucked chicken wings
Just to stay on top of your unbridled form,

You’re strong and steady
In rushing past me to the right,
Pulling me along
In a current that is difficult to fight.

All the while I am forced to think of what is beneath me,
What can fit in all your space between me and your mud covered ground?
A scaly hand of some lovecraftian horror reaching up, up!
And grasping my left ankle, and pulling me down, down, down.

And you are the ocean aren't you?
This ceaseless undulation,
This orb of brine,
That floats in the speckless expanse of my other mind.
Your depths are unfathomable.
A planet of its own to explore.
What lovecraftian horrors do you hide?
What bio-luminescent wonders wander your depths?
Even in the darkest reaches, life pulses.
The transoceanic transmogrification that I partook in allowed me truth.
The salt ate my eyes, the wind burned my flesh, water choked my lungs.
Seagulls picked clean the remains but still I stood.
A ribcage still with breath.
No eyes to guide me,
No lies to see,
The ocean had drowned something already on the fringes of life.
As my bones marched a perceptionless place,
muscle soon formed around my frame.
Then skin,
Then eyes..
I found that I was whole and fresh.
Into still water I looked at myself anew and said
*"Hello."

Overthinking concepts then,
Conceptualising my overthought thoughts,
And being wrought with Lovecraftian insecurity,
Words stumble out like it’s three at the club,
Thoughts confused like it’s three at the club,
Existential then small; then harrowing then disparagingly normal,
Repeating points and the still being lost from the point,
Frustration as we weave around the point,
Where’s Wally-ing the words I’m looking for,
A million in one,
I wonder what the exact Wally statistic is,
Am I bi?
Or straight?
Or confused?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I happy?
Or sad?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I loved?
Or lost?
Or alive?
Or real?
Every problem upscaled to reality,
An anxiety manifested in universal proportions,
If life is a story, then why’s mine so close to not being boring?
Like a film with the wrong director but the right script,
Through hardship and pain,
you would hope I became,
Something more,
Or learn a lesson,
Yet every lesson I learnt is being rewritten,
No solid thought,
Just liquid existence,
It’s all in connections,
Nature is woman,
And harshness is man,
The link exists I’m sue,
But finding the words I’m lost,
Scores of wondrous ideas with no real reason,
Life has no reason,
Life’s full of reason,
Life is the reason,
I’ve never truly lost,
I only get kicked from group chats or families,
Without family we lack identity,
Without reason this poem lacks footing in reality,
My reality lacks footing in reality,
Is this meant to happen on the daily?
It’s three at the club,
Waiting for the taxi,
Writing on the memo app,
Hoping that when I wake up these words mean something,
Or if they don’t then at least they read well,
In the morning,
Where I’ll be ***** and yawning,
Forgetting these events as they’re fleeting,
I’ve been theorising that all people fantasise about dying,
Pushing ourselves till we destroy it all trying,
Die an icon,
Or a *******,
Either way end up forgotten,
Controversially, I would call myself an optimist,
Not traditionally, sure,
But this longing is the purest,
Confused.