Spent All Weekend Sitting Alone In Cafes Writing About Sitting Alone In Cafes

I thought about how cafes are places to sit in a corner and disappear.

I looked in the three other corners of the room, and saw no loners.

Just empty cups of coffee, cake crumbs on the tables

They ‘d all successfully disappeared.

I judged myself with words on a notepad.

Rubbed them out with fury

to prove I can too. Here, I’m not.  Continue reading

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Vibrate

Mmm, I love those vibrations.

Oh yes, I let them run all over my body.

It’s such a buzz to feel it on my throat.

I get high from down below.

You can even add a sound, it creates double the fun they say.

These good vibrations come from different places, different times, and different faces.

It’s not the content, but the sensation.

It’s not the context, but the gratification.

And when I see her there, those vibrations aren’t there.

So I just want to go home, to look forward to feeling more.

But they are no longer there.

 

 

 

 

Blocked Unblocked

Over time, but not too much time, I found myself to be blocked. My head was full of wax, it started to coat the brain. My nose was stuffed with a full roll of tissue, you could pull it out like magic cloths. My mouth, packed with debris. I breathed and ate through a hole in my neck, but even then there was a blockage of syrup to contend with. It spurted out like blood in a zombie flick, and you could spread it on toast.

Then there was my stomach hanging in a web of bubblegum, and the intestines could barely contain all the gravel I swallowed on my travels. My heart pumped against a layer of Lego bricks.  I was clogged up, blocked up, fucked up, funked up, gunked up. Continue reading

Dead Job End

There she was, my dead grandmother lying in her coffin, waiting to be burned. I felt incredibly anxious studying her endlessly sleeping, noting how her make-up was far better than she ever had it living. I tried to point this out, but no one would listen, insisting she was always a master at powdering. I thought it unwise to bring up her drug past in relation to this, so left the room to have a panic attack about it all somewhere else. Continue reading

Morning Commute

He arrived at the bank at 8.45am, clutching a series of filled change bags. Once he’d arrived in front of the queue, he realised that there wasn’t much of a queue at all. Instead he saw a street full of bodies lying on the floor, lying in the road, lying by the door. For a minute he considered a massacre, but he began to notice the sound of snoring, the rising of snot bubbles, and the turning and scratching of backs. That morning the world was still asleep, and he watched the dreamers, simply wondering how much change he had.