and with the high street long gone, they keep nagging that
only lunatics use the internet,
me? i treat the internet as a serious medium,
it's almost despotic to treat it otherwise,
after all... internet banking, amazon,
why should Beelzebub's pixel vision
in that new medium be lesser?
it isn't, here's the big ******* F
                                                                U
to the establishment - and i too thought
that the mystery if lawlessness
                  was with Philippe Petit -
you got to admit, that's more spectacular
than that thing at Golgotha...
you even have an accent of stigmata riddling
the mystery - oh sure, i'm into esoteric
*******, because i'm about to become
a shopper -
                        people don't seem to go
into merchandise streets to buy things,
all it is is: clothes, shoes and mobile phone
outlets -
                     anyway, they walk the promenades
to be seen...
                            not to necessarily buy
and keep the economy well oiled...
            they go and do the catwalk pretence...
so that's me: a Heidegger book worth £30...
mad, ain't it? spending £30 on a book...
                  and an album by cage the elephant,
i should really buy another copy of
tool's aenima or steve wynn's album with
cindy it was always you -
                                      maybe a pair of socks
to match...                  next thing you know
they'll call it shamanism - well, any literature
coming from Eastern Europe can almost be
deemed as such...
                               and the next best thing
to fame is enforced anonymity -
                                        because fame just
= interviews.... and mostly moths / journalists.
                     nagging aunties and uncles
of the scene.
                                   oh sure, take all you can,
i don't mind... if it gives you rubies and
diamonds i don't mind... a conker
signature of mahogany print is worth more
than a table to sit about with your
******* / orthodox disciples -
                fame?          i've seen what it does...
i rather have the chance to do small talk
at the supermarket and say: well, yeah,
i write poetry, no biggie,
                                           does it rhyme?
does it have to / would it help?
                             i left Cheltenham earlier
than planned because of my left hand -
that's the deal with the industrialisation of
writing, with that quill you get to be one-sided,
i know for a fact that my hand can grip
the quill better, i left the festival early because
i felt sick with my left hand not being
encouraged, lame, not using the keyboard -
i hate leaving body parts about the place
not being used,
                            and, obviously,
when someone starts reading philosophy and
utilises the medium of poetry: he's not one
to entertain...
                           at least i learnt a valuable lesson
after seeing spoken word event -
              i couldn't entertain -
my life might be ****-up, but it's not ****-up enough
to vocalise it with some sort of
                                redemptive analogue -
i couldn't entertain people even if i wanted to:
i read philosophy, without tutoring by established
lecturers -              it's enough i studied chemistry
and thought that dabbling in philosophy would
make me seem more "human": that famous
abhorrence of scientific studies and what humanities
shun in terms of adequate perspective -
               i simply cannot entertain -
                                     maybe because i'm
entertaining myself more,
                               the shadow and glad to be one...
but they keep nagging internet opinions...
     narratives...
                          yes, i'm gullible enough to believe
all of them...
                         if the internet managed to desecrate
the high street shopping experience, and people
bank using the internet...
                         i believe every word...
      lies have short legs anyway,
        and assuredly a Samson moment comes
somewhere on the timeline with the blind hulk
pulling the temple down...
                       i just never used the internet to
use comment forums...
                                 my experience of trolls is minimal...
                  the terrible has already happened,
   i just filter any agony and transform
certain one-liners into an antibiotic:
       your writing is ****!
i.e.      pronoun noun verb noun
                                              problem solved -
and too many young people took their own lives
because no one taught them to use this barrier,
these white cliffs of Dover, this natural barricade
and the ultimate defence -
                              put the hate into a grammar
filter - apply the anaesthetic - desensitise -
                                             that's practically what
your subconscious does anyway,
                               some part of you if wholly grammatical,
meaning that you're understood,
                                 point being:
journalists have become annoying -
                         the printed press is a bit scared,
          primarily because they're offended by
our expression of democracy, they think that whatever
is written on the internet is bogus...
                      so i guess internet shopping is bogus
as if internet banking... bogus too...
                        if the internet wasn't all-encompassing
i'd agree...
                                but as usual, people have to
******* something silly rather than make love to it...
sure, i have my wild opinions,
                                       but i have them because
they are actually dialectical cul de sacs -
                                     yep, dialectical dead-ends -
           i write them but do not actually adhere to
them -
                                pretty much conversation
killers -
                          post-Nietzsche? more than
killing god... we killed dialectics -
                                     since Socrates we've been
putting god and dialectics back into the box
to prescribe civilisation innovations of how to
construct "polite" societies -
                                              the sort of "politeness"
that masquerades and is the dung-heap
                    where mushrooms like Isis sprouts from.
but sure enough: read philosophy
                              and stop pretending to be
an entertainer -
                                 i couldn't entertain people
for the love of anything worth mentioning -
                     entertaining would mean disrupting
the continuum -
                                  the very accurate biographic
sketches -
                                  well... what would you expect,
we're living in a parallel society,
                                a society where a gardener on
television becomes a chat-show host
                                  and gets a publishing deal...
               we're bypassing that...
                                            if we're living in a democracy
we're living in a badly represented formatting of the idea...
              and that great ponce of the idea of books:
more than bricks...
             i open a book, enter it, and i'm already
walking into a building of some sort...
                     few books i enter are actually left
undisturbed - i make my own feng shui alterations -
            but i wonder:
                   is eternity the place where you actually
live inside your own head?
                              &nbsp

Life after limb loss

‘I want to walk again’ they say
‘I haven’t walked in 40 days’
And this is the goal I’ll help them achieve
But it’s not as easy as they might believe
They’re in grieving
Numb - denial - and bargaining
‘It’ll all be okay
on the day
I walk again’
They’ve lost so much
Butchered
Now first I teach them to touch
To clutch
To poke and ****
I know it feels odd
Got to desensitise
It’s sensitive but try
Press into the scar line
Scar tissue can’t be allowed to entwine
Keep it subtle
It’s brutal
‘What’ll happen if I don’t?’
‘I can’t cope’
‘It doesn’t feel very nice’
Inside i’m thinking
Please heed my advice
In time
They’ll need to cope with pressure like a vice
I hope
we make it that far
‘Bla bla bla’
‘How can I drive my car
with only one leg’
‘I just want to walk and drive’ they beg.
We start at the start
Long way to go before we get that far.
I have such admiration
For the shear determination
they show
Can’t imagine even loosing a toe
Whether to trauma, cancer or disease
Limb loss below or above the knee
Come to me
It’s my profession
But my confession
Is I really care
I really will be there for them
Any way I know how
We’ll plough through the technicalities
Gait training
Draining their energy
Learning to use a prosthesis
But there’s more to this
I want to teach you more
Than how to get up off the floor
There’s life after limb loss
Only they know the cost
I’ll be there for you
I swear to you
I’ll truly care for you.

I've been listening to La Luna by Belinda Carlisle on repeat for days now. I guess there's nothing particularly odd about daydreaming to intimate love songs. But I feel as though the fantasies I imagine in my head aren't quite the ones the song intended to convey.

Sea salt hair, the sand kissed skin – I can see that.
The cobblestone pathways of small Mediterranean back alleys. Lover's fingers intertwine as they lead each other to the quiet seclusion where is it just them and the moonlight. - It's all clear in my mind.

I think the immersion falls flat when my fantasy involves two lovers who looked like the overgrown emos you see on your tiktok front page. Bright coloured hair, **** cuts, mullets, piercings, the My Chemical Romance t-shirt, cuffed jeans and scuffed up converse. A sense of ****** and binary ambiguity, I do not know who they are. But they're all I can think about.

Yeah, the immersion is definitely broken.
And I, am definitely gay.
G-A-Y. The word almost feels like a jumpscare every time it comes to the forefront of my mind.
So I keep repeating it over and over to try desensitise myself but it never works. The thought fills me with dread, an overwhelming sense of shame and fear. And yet, I still keep listening to that song.
I prefer to call myself Queer for a better term of use.
Queer with a Q that feels like a tender kiss when the word leaves your lips.

Whether I wanted it or not over the past year the walls of heteronormativity began to gradually shatter and I felt as though I was shattering along with it. To see the world through Queer-tinted lenses. It's a beautiful yet overwhelming experience.

To be free? Should feel liberating, but I just feel lost and exposed. A part of myself wishes I'd have had this realisation at 14, 15, 16 even. Anything but 24. I feel a sense of grief for all the life I have wasted, every date I've sat through with straight men who truly believed they were Guts from Berserk, yet their words dripped with the blatant misogyny they were trying so desperately to keep inside.

'Crazy ex girlfriend' I've been her, I've heard of her over 100 times. And yet all of these men are still hung up over her? I find it fascinating that they cant see it's inside themselves they need to look. I guess I still hold a sense of resentment for all the years I spent mothering men who wanted nothing but my body, when my body would recoil at the sight of theirs.

It's not that I'm not attracted to men. I am. In fact my preference is for masculinity, but the difference between masculinity and  the standard straight man is stark.
The standard straight man takes: takes your body, takes your worth, your sanity, your words.
You are perceived but never seen.

There is a softness, a sense of humility within the Queer heart. A silent, unspoken acceptance for whoever you are. Some scream it loudly, for others it's just the small smiles exchanged between each other when you know you both feel comfortable in each others presence. Because you are seen and you are safe.

Safe. A word I am yearning for.
I've not felt it in years now.
Love, A word I am yearning for.
I've not felt it in years now either.

La Luna, whoever you may be. I'm excited to meet you one day.

Her eyes, round like pills,
desensitise wills and
make the bravest
of men shrink away.
She doesn't say much
but her touch says it all,
when her arms fold around you,
you just want to fall
in love.

I self medicate
"the sickness"
desensitise
with ***,
overdose
on pleasure,
on pain,
to numb this
parasite
screaming
in my brain.