Tag Archives: psychological

Glock Girl and Bayonet Boy

Nothing changes but the weather
You just think that you got better
Time doesn’t heal, it scabs the wound
I won’t cover, cover my scars for you
Victim of deceit, weighed down by your
Heavy hand; a constant battle
Between who you want, and who I am…

~*~

Here’s step one, don’t you dare run and tell me what the hell I’ve done

Elucidate and face the stars, don’t fuck around with me, say it’s all fun

You say that you’re a cannibal baby, damn, you’re eating out my heart

Don’t choke on my gristles, don’t shock me then say it was for a restart

.

Maybe I’m being assumptive, your paranoid best friend is going insane

I’m a cordial next door neighbour, and I’m just being a bastardous pain

Ironic electricity on your sweaters and the thunder shoes that you wear

You weren’t being cheerful when you let that cyclone catch in your hair

.

Discretion was not your apex marauder, and you pushed me in the moat

You testified for perjury and starved to death and I fed you my scapegoat

A headspace is what I need, thought you’ll clear my skull, not sick up on it

I’d love to interfere in your pathetic dramaticisms, but I got too much shit

.

If psychological pawns are your opiods, guess my hit wore out in one drag

I’m tired of the way I’ll have to confront the ravine if there aren’t any crags

If it’s schematic or systemic, I don’t know, my reputation’s a goddamn mess

I guess you’ll never acknowledge the bromide you slipped me under duress

.

So then fine, let’s play this game, let’s be bitching and stalking with binoculars

If I upset your shriveled tiny soul, you can find me in junkyards declaring war

Just let the alcohol subside, we’ll be as sober as rocks crashing against the tide

I’m glad to have someone to load the ammunition when all my guns have lied.

~*~

I’ll see you at the fucking crossroads
I’ll make you bite through your tongue
When you see who I am today
I’ll make you hate what you’ve done
Cover your tracks, let revenge flood
You’ve made your mark, blood will have blood!

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

psychological games

don’t you fuck

with my head

using a star

of harsh lead

and don’t you

dare fuck up

my sense badly

by not making any.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Midnight Oil: A Pantoum

(A first attempt at creating a pantoum.)

~*~

The midnight oil burns even darker

The battered quill in quick rotation

He struggles for sense, the weary writer

Wishing to create a sweet affectation

.

The battered quill in quick rotation

Ink blotted and sombre words spilled

Wishing to create a sweet affectation

Seeds of imagination planted and tilled

.

Ink blotted and sombre words spilled

And his lost sanity slips even further

Seeds of imagination planted and tilled

But he overdosed on madness and fertiliser

.

And his lost sanity slips even further

He struggles for sense, the weary writer

But he overdosed on madness and fertiliser

The midnight oil burns even darker.

Leave a comment

Filed under Fixed Poetry, Poetry

The Children of the Endless

Shall Fate be surpassed by Time’s willing hand

And thus Destiny be overtaken?

The Universe fails so to understand

Human lives are Awakened, Forsaken

Pain implores high, His Desire overwhelms

Desperation arises from within

While Ecstasy is at Morpheus’s helm

Feeding minds false Indulgence and sweet Sin

Thus Delirium gives way to Destruction

And from Decimation, Death does trouble

A clang of the bells shows Dessication

Decay and Parasite feed on the souls

Children of the Endless, forces of Hate

Fathered by Darkness, your Eternal Fate.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Cafe Culaccino

Culacinno: noun; an Italian word describing the mark left on a surface by a cold glass.

~*~

In front of me, a brown-tinted awakening potion

Stirring; very slightly, occasionally.

Thick curls of steam, a warm devotion

And a single cube of sugar melting; slowly.

.

Time ticks by. People hastily rush off.

And yet somehow I’m frozen. So mesmerising,

The whirls of kaleidoscopic patterns are

Forming on the surface; so hypnotising.

.

A slight bump causes my trance to snap

Somebody accidentally spilled their cup

Midday scuffle, but simply breaks even

As the hand points its way on the number eleven

.

I return to my coffee, in the cush table I’m alone

By the window, society functioning, passersby on their phone

Nullified existences. Nearly industrial.

Lives of survival, technology and metal.

.

Time’s up. I sip the remaining scalding liquid down

Grab my hat and my case and head off to town

All that remains, a wispy ghost of my visit

A perfectly round mark on the wooden table, a cry of a soul in transit.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry