Passion, Faith and Death

What atrocities of a confessional Would unstitch the truth from my lips; That I do not in fact know what I am doing - “Don’t worry I’m a professional.” - Persistently paradoxical, a professionally unprofessional; never wants to think too hard about anything, caught in a treacle thought - til one finds nothing but the not-end of an auto-cannibalistic self; think philosophical fervour, melancholic murmurs lacrimal lamentation Obfuscated obsessional -“Don’t worry, I’m a professional” - I should however qualify that I am not qualified; I am not qualified. Please do not be surprised if I am, once encountered; thusly incompetent: unknown and recalcitrant. I am here (I suspect) simply by clerical error In the broad expanse of the universe, Kafka’s gleeful in-coffin celebration of his costectomy at my happenstances. One-in-a-million. Billion. And the ruins of Roman Roads all lead home to me; more house than home; more worn brickwork and drought ridden grass in the contested patch of front yar...

Break me, down into my components; the pieces of my lack of personhood. Please,  objectify me; I do not feel like a thing anymore. Comment upon my body; The way I forget it belongs to me. Personify me, anthropomorphize me, drag what remains of who I was out of the catacombs of the empty shell I've become. This sullied skin, this flesh, is a grave, I have broken my knuckles beating my hands into the lid of this coffin. " I am in here " I tell only myself,  because I don't know if I am lying, because I can no longer make those kinds of sounds, the words strangled by the superficial 'I am fine thank you's that cut their way up from the pit in my stomach and bloom knotweed out of the dirt in my mouth. Something is rotten here, the state of me, I hurt at the nothing I feel about my apathy. " Please, I am in here " and I don't know how, because I ran out of air so long ago; I am gasping - choking - on poison, my body feels sick, " Please, I am dyi...

I pity the time traveller, because I too have learnt to fear deja vu, to know what it is to live a life afraid; afraid that all of this is temporary, the paralytic dread that all of this means nothing. You will wake up one day, and the last three years will have been nothing but a dream. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is to wake up adrift in time, the days turning into weeks into months, shrouded by a fog too dark to see through, pretending as if you were present for those lengths of time that only your body lived through. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is like to be given a power that you were told would save the world. I sit now a doubter - the world doesnt want to be saved and I, I am nothing but someone who was peddled false promises, fighting paradoxical thoughts. I pity the time traveller, the one who has witnessed their own death a thousand times, who has seen the infinite possibilities of a life in which they were never born, who th...

What do they do when it's all too much - these little people under such a big sky? When they feel too much? How do they breathe in the too small rooms of houses when it feels like the walls are caving in and their lungs won’t work and everything is too fast and too slow all at once? When they forget what the stars look like? These little people with hearts all synchronous, thrumming like a message in their chest. Hearts built, back before steel and concrete and rigid rules. Hearts that pump an old stolen fire, that calls itself passion, through their little bodies. Little because their souls feel so big and their skin aches with want, the want to fade away like a ghost so everything it holds in can be free. What do they call that? Do they have words for it? Do they have words? Maybe they don’t need them, their hearts all in time, all sharing one mind as they beg with nothing but sound for a storm, for a wild thing. They are all wild things, each with a different but similar scream ...

I wake up to dark thoughts; I say "today is your last day" and I mean it, for all youve done to me, to my family. The first name on the list of all my enemies. People talk about 'an eye for an eye' but I, for one, know this has to be done. I've had it marked upon my calendar, counting down to the advent of this gracious day, knowing when you've gone away, at least I'll find a piece of peace -  my own variation of (pre)meditation. I sit in silence, all-consuming thoughts of violence. Where did all my love go? Lost somewhere in my destructive designs. I think about my mother, being the maker of a murderer, and your mother, because with your death I've murdered her, but a promise is a promise. I use to think that too much hate would eat me up inside, lay waste to my mind; all these Job like lamentations, but from it has sprung a purpose; momentous resolution, near divine revelation. I have a clarity of thought that's followed my decision, my vendetta ...

You think about Salvation , You do, you think about Salvation , You think about how the meek will inherit the earth, you think about all the sh-tty people who’ll get what they deserve, you think that all this; this back breaking, soul crushing, never retire sh-t, All of this will mean something, be worth something. Worth something more than the end of the month paycheque that goes straight into the pockets of your price hiking landlord, of the mega supermarket chain, of the government that underpays the doctors keeping you sane.   You think about Salvation, you think – often so you don’t forget- that you are a human person with thoughts and feelings and you mean something to someone. Even if your boss’ boss’ boss in a country a private plane ride away, who’s thinking about how the bottom line will look if he axes a department, doesn’t know you from Adam. You think about Adam.   You think about Adam and Eve, And while yo...