Hiphop 0.3

This is what it feels like to feel alone
locked into my house no longer feels like my home
this is what it feels like to feel nothing
staring at the walls straining for something
holding tight just trying to keep from crying and cutting

Self-injury a way to somehow feel something
or to stop all of the pain and alleviate the suffering
when people die it isn’t them that feels the pain
the left behind are the ones who feel the shame

This is what it looks like in the mirror when I see me
locked inside my head where nobody can hear me
ain’t really smiled in months not since the time you last saw me
I guess I have to understand that you must really hate me

I cannot stop believing that you wish that I was dead
it happens when I’m struggling with the demons in my head
happens often at night when I’m in that lonely bed
wonder what I’d look like lying drowned in the riverbed

Self-injury a way to somehow feel something
or to stop all of the pain and alleviate the suffering
when people die it isn’t them that feels the pain
the left behind are the ones who feel the shame

If I believed in any gods I’d be on my knees and praying
but there’s nobody listening to a single word I’m saying
the walls are closing in my eyes blank from your betraying
nobody to hear the music and words of my emotions fraying

I been reaching and searching for something I cannot find
trapped inside the horror of the loss and in my own mind
making beats nobody ever hears with my own rhyme
each one sealed and delivered and with my grief self-signed

Self-injury a way to somehow feel something
or to stop all of the pain and alleviate the suffering
when people die it isn’t them that feels the pain
the left behind are the ones who feel the shame



Bones bleach fast in the withering air
and I would rather mine lie in desert than snow
picked clean by lizard and vulture and insect
by coyote and puma and the desiccating calefaction
of relentless sun
White and scattered with the rocks and the dust
relics on the landscape lost in time
I will be strange artifacts as a keepsake to be found
by some yet-to-come archaeologist
the heat bakes and boils the air in strange shapes
by the creosote bush in the blaze
‘til the crepuscular gloom brings forth to feast
on flesh drier than ancient leather
from whence all moisture fled
those scavengers of the dusk
Blood seeps from sunken eyes as skin sags
on exsiccated bones, tongue swelled and black
as words finally flee in delirious stupor
muscles cramp in agonizing contortions
until the delusions of dehydration
render meaningless those torments
Will that archaeologist wonder
at these scattered remains?
Will salt still cling to sunken cheek?
Or will this lie unseen forever in desert oblivion


Depression kicks like a Nazi in the tube station
somewhere around midnight
brown boots and leather
the crass spill of the takeaway
and unopened wine
some guttural call
to toxic men
kicks to the face and bravery in numbers
Nazis wear blue and you called them
to beat down the broken
to undefend the defenseless
who lie in unfailing truth
some vicious scream to conformity
and deference to authority
and depression demands
the deserving

with thanks to The Jam for suggesting some of the imagery. I wrote this in under 2 minutes so please excuse its primitive nature


Swing then! In gentle breeze when you reach the end of your rope
the bloated corpse of the past and the rotted flesh of no future
tongue swelled and blue against sallow skin in moonlight
eyes bulged in lifeless stare under boughs and stars and moon
redemption at the end of the line

Stare then! Empty-eyed gaze into oblivious night, eternal
endless – dreamless and bereft of breath or beat
some calculated drop with body weight and fall and the short snap
of neck, or the slow gasp for breath and swollen lips
drawn tight over old leather skin and crushed pipe

Sleep then! Dream not of days past of lost hope, no tomorrow plans
or years to come. Dream nothing now, forever lost in dark grasp
with no tunnelled blaze or angel’s song, no demons await just this
desire for the loss of all sensation and being and end
redemption in the grip of the noose

Tie then! That noose that awaits us all, just sooner and more violent
than most that wait in shadows and the gathering of loved ones
and if in violent ends these delights do bleed, then be it so
best that than ever aching need, for that which is gone in your blink
be brave and end this nonsensical being

I apologise in advance for the mess


Stick figures run across my pages in jagged lines
short sharp sprints to the end of marathon weariness
they join hands and form words or phrases across pale-papered fields
they race or fall, broken and failing before the finish line, in their hundreds
and thousands. Each one imbued with some meaning to me or to you
or the chaotic melee of some mortal battle

These joined figures carry weapons, sharp and deep, cutting
wounds torn from me in bloody ragged gouges
mimicking the scars on my body where the pain became
overwhelming and too much to bear
They come frost-rimed and in intolerable heat
torn from darkness into the harsh light of exposure
they bring no catharsis or solace, reflecting more than healing
as the lacerations you left grow deeper, infected
with sorrow and grief and the asperity of these words

These figures rush like lemmings to their inevitable demise
to be as forgot as their author, in hours or days or weeks
moss over the unmarked resting place of both
growing wild midst martyred love and shattered saint


The last meal I ate was back in March
those four months past
the day before you threw your bombs
with such immaculate precision
and I’ve dropped some weight and become
a little malnourished. But I have no
appetite for food or sustenance
I cannot recall when I stopped cleaning
the house or caring for what was once
the place you came to be with me
but the time must be similar
as the debris and dog hair and detritus
build around me in drifts and piles
and I care less with each passing day
Where once you might have been shocked
you would now surely relish my decline
my physical and mental faculties in freefall
without parachute or landing zone
to the razor rocks you placed below
and as it makes no matter to you
nor does it to me nor any other


I’ll take a shovel and dig a hole
six by six by two
lay myself down in that cool damp earth
and close my eyes
You can come by then, take up the shovel
and cover me with soil
watch as I disappear under with each spoonful
of black earth — and do me the favour
of covering my face last
and finally replace the sod
Leave no marker there to say
that I was ever here

Wrap me in funeral shroud
or any old sheet you find
and weigh me heavy with stone and iron
cast my form into cold dark water
where the sea creatures can do as they will
and you may smile as I sink beneath the waves
Place me high on a final pyre
where if breath still be
it can be snatched away by smoke and flame
and I will stack the logs
with my own hands
burnt offering to ancient gods who do not care


I looked in the place, where the gifts still sit
ungiven on your birthday some seventy-two days past
I wept great sobs into that empty room
and fell to the floor, foetal and shivering
I though of how I had imagined
your smile and your joy, and how that brought me such
a lift in my heart.
I looked at them there, and at the unopened card
romantic and sexy and practical and sweet
and all carefully chosen
because I know you so well, or thought that I did
I lay there, keening your name in desolate gasps
and remembered how we fell
into breath-taking love and the promises we made
and how in the blink of an eye you forgot
and abandoned. And I remembered stolen
moments and Christmas and how you told me
you needed me. Your name is an invocation
on my lips now, but it always was. A heartfelt prayer
that only you could hear.
This is my life, tears and grieving and sorrow
sleepless nightmares and daytime terrors
The gifts still sit, ungiven and forlorn
unwanted and undesired, taking space
that should have been yours
keeping company with me
into dissolution


The sun has risen over the sucker-punched morning
your shining blue eyes gaze back from the wall
where I stop to pray my greeting to you
and my lips taste the salt of my tears

Birdsong drifts from without this glassed-in cage
some carillon melody in chromatic scale
unheard as I covet the hymn of your voice
and my lips taste the salt of my tears

Coffee brings a tang to the breathless air
bouquet of wakefulness and dreary day
I dream of the scent of your skin and your hair
and my lips taste the salt of my tears

Fingers bleed over pen and stained page
howling mute mournfulness where love reigned
how I hunger to be writing those other words
and my lips taste the salt of my tears


The first time I died
it was in flame and smoke and blood and fear
in broken body and shattered limb
to wake to resurrection and nightmare
and a life of jump scares and acute vigil
The second time I died
it was in great sobs of alcohol and proffered pills
in broken spirit and shattered mind
to wake to charcoal and stomach pumps
and shame
they asked me then, aren’t you glad
you did not end, is there not reason
for laughter and love
My reply I remember was clear
that I would not have wished their saving graces
or heroic efforts to bring back from death’s empty gaze
I saw no shining lights nor warm embrace of peace
no beginning in that end
there is nothing on that other side and nothing was
what I sought
an insignificant end to an insignificant presence
If asked today I would still reject those efforts
to keep my breath alive, those intervening years
only more sorrows and loss
so I await some merciful annihilation
the dissolution of decay in the consummation
of being. A coda if you will
these words spilled in ink and blood on
pages of notebook and screen
none of wisdom or wit or charm or sagacity
just the paltry musings of a lonely man