End Up

End up in the same place. A cheap pub selling stale beer. Taking it off the brewers hands, presumably. Would be a shame to waste it. And it’s not waste. Almost, but not yet. Everyone knows, too. But, instead of letting a small fact like that get in the way, they order another drink of piss.

The dark, I don’t mind. It’s the chill that gets me. And right into the marrow too.

Although, it didn’t vex me this earliner on my walk in the country. I felt, for the first time, that I was stood upon a planet of no significance. Of course, we are meant to feel certain ways about our environment, I understand that. But, single-minded self-preservation aside, I felt, breifly, the sublime indifference of the Earth.

Not to mention the fathomless space beyond it. The blackness, for argument’s sake, is the one true father. The entity, the nothing that drives us to invent Gods. To invent a world that drives us ga-ga. Until we, finally, rot into the sodden Earth which, itself, merely exists to be blown to smithereens by the tremendous death rattle of the Sun.

No, the only true father, or true God, doesn’t give two penny’s worth about anything you do. Probably is you. The same thing that makes you smile, dance, cum, bleed, cancerate and rot. The one true father.

And beyond the fiery body of destructive life, all there is is blackness. Emptiness. Time between events. And I scurry inside the pub as though I were a premature child, aching for the warmth of the womb.

I think to myself, ‘where is the fire?’

Perhaps I feel it on my face and decide, simply, to turn away and stand in the cold like a barren tree.

Smoking.

Drinking.

Hardly living.

It’s miserable.

Yet it’s honest. An honest defeat. I wave the white flag, if that’s the fashion for surrender. If I could be bothered to get a flag, or care about its colour, yes, I’d wave it. But the look on my face, really, ought to be enough.

Is this how I will continue?

And one day, as an old man, I’ll look across the pub and see myself. He’ll look at me as though he didn’t mean to. He’ll understand but will not comprehend. He’ll glance over again, like a flash. And he’ll be wondering to himself, ‘Is that how I’ll end up?’

The 2nd Round

It’s wonderful to see. It’s wonderful. What he carries around with him is almost unintelligable. A kind of glow. A glow that shoots a man into oblivion. Across the world, in the world, somewhere, poverty is cancelled by the actions of one man.
What it means I’ve no idea. Nonetheless, it happened.

No Zone

Woke up this morning, found my friends had gone.
I sang along with the morning chorus. Argued with my feet for not keeping a straight line. Challenged them to walk straight.
Walk straight fuckers!
Then I realise that the birds know more than me, or at least they seem to. Their song is the air, is the trees, is every cell in me.
What are friends anyway? An attachment. A self selected shrine to your own ill-percieved sense of worth.
Shit.
There is nothing. There is nothing.
We clamber around in a soup of murder, insanity and illusion.
We are not important.
And the need for importance is more telling than the belief. Strike it.
Like a match.
Until the black death comes.

Nothing Changes

End up in bed or on the sofa and it’s later, maybe a day or week later and I haven’t moved an inch and I can’t crap either.

I black out. Just, ‘phoom’ and I’m out.

My head becomes a room. Grey walls. Dusty floorboards. Some rubbish. No breeze.

An apparition of an old woman swims into the room. Seems distorted by heat shimmer. It sits in a wicker chair. Black wicca chair. It’s phlegmatic hands begin to shake. They appear blurred with movement. Small stars grow in space.

A voice says, “You’re a miserable bastard. What’s the matter, constipated? Miserable bastard. Nothing changes with you does it? Nothing changes.”