Tag Archives: death


‘I can do anything’ she said

‘Just put a crown on my head’

‘There’s four growing from my neck’

‘and I think I’m better off dead‘


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Fag Ash Lil

We called her fag ash lil until they found her

Heart attack they said

But her tits and face had almost been burnt away, there was no hair left and there were holes where her eyes should have been.

We figured it was how she would have liked to have gone. Cremated by the things she loved the most.

Her pet dog had eaten her toes.


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It Was The Vodka – A Redundancy Story

She knew she shouldn’t really give a fuck about it, not now, not after so long, but she did, and she was beyond exhausted with her restless brain thinking on and on and on… and on into the early hours denying her any rest. That’s why she drank. It wasn’t a social thing, it was a sanity recoverer, without it she’d end up a zombiefied husk of a human. Her cat liked the new sleeping pattern, or lack of. It meant when he scratched at the bedroom door at 5am she would throw food in his bowl instead of scream profanities in his direction and occasionally open the door brandishing a well heeled shoe. ‘Fuck’ she exclaimed to the wall. ‘Fuck fuck FUCK’ she screamed out the ajar window to a random early morning jogger. She considered that she might just have everything out of proportion as she twisted the lid off the half empty vodka bottle and drank deeply. It was 5.43am on a Tuesday. The headache once again thundered in with the thought of getting her blouse on for work again. It would be the ninth day in a row. She fell on the bed with a heavy thud, drops of vodka leaping out of the bottle and on onto her forehead. She sighed as the cat jumped onto the bed and started licking the running droplets out of her hair. She never stopped him, although after he drank neat vodka from a cup and staggered into the TV stand she was more vigilant with the amount he drank. Cats really shouldn’t drink neat spirits, but then she figured cats shouldn’t be called ‘Shandy’. At least she always had a drinking partner in the small hours. ‘Fuck’ she told him. ‘fuck this shit’ and quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Two minutes later she opened them to find everything a bit greyer. Even the sun couldn’t be fucked to get up to full mast this morning. She felt herself sinking into the mattress. Even the spring in the middle that always tried to force its way into her spine felt comfortable. And she sank further.

It was 1.32pm, she opened her eyes to see Shandy curled up around the now empty vodka bottle, and sixteen voicemail messages on her phone. She dialed and listened, last first, ‘…imcompant for the last time, your…’ She switched off the call, she knew it was over. She stroked Shandy for some form of comfort. He was cold and still.


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Skin – A Love Poem…

I breathed in your skin

And gathered your warmth

Broke all your bones

So you wouldn’t walk

Then made a fire

Out of your hair

Sewed shut your eyes

So you wouldn’t stare

Danced in a circle

Poured your blood like wine

You won’t leave me now

Not this time.

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Posted by on February 21, 2016 in poem, Uncategorized


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The Virus

I’m just not sure if it’s infected. I mean, I’m infected. Just a cut on my elbow, probably, and that’s nothing to be worried about, or it could be something… Worse. It’s coming up to dusk, too silent in an age of transport and electricity. But there is nothing out there, just the autumn leaves being picked up by the wind. The city feels dead.

There was just so much going on, the darkness, the mass of bodies, dead, alive and in-between. They are worse at night, more active. We got cornered in a convenience store, the lights were smashed and we didn’t realise how quickly twilight turned to night. If only we had looked at the moon the night before. The place had obviously been raided for supplies way before we got there, the amount we tripped over shelves, limbs and empty baked bean cans. But backpacks were filling, it was not a wasted trip after all. But we needed to go, six of us in a volvo, with filled bags and bottles would be a tight squeeze.

Then suddenly, and let’s now in hindsight say expectedly, they came, more graceful than the movies portrayed them, and when we say ‘them’ you know. But still on the same mission, and you just couldn’t take it personally, it wasn’t their fault, and being a small town faces looked familiar, though now more twisted and greyed and snarling. It was the virus that was guiding them now, they couldn’t stop if they wanted to. And we panicked. They clambered and we tripped. They reached and we cowered, moving further into darkness and from where we should be. Then the screams, I don’t know who, it was contorted, almost a gurgle of panic, and we ran, we split apart and fought for our own lives.

Somehow, some blind luck or muscle memory, instinct took me and I ended up here, at my parents. I’ve not ventured this far out before, for fear of what I’d find. Somehow finding nothing was far worse than what I expected before I put the key in the door. And now I’m trying to work out my next move. It seems they only venture out when the darkness takes over, and before the stations went blank there was talk of vitamin D and sunlight. Like most parents, mine didn’t really change my teenage bedroom. They thought I suffered with S.A.D., but I was really just playing at Goth, but they brought me a lightbox anyway to stave away the blues. Could it stop whatever might be swimming round me. The power is out, but in their wisdom they bought a portable one and with a flick of the switch I’m bathed in light.

They are at the door, I can hear them pulling of the handle, they still seem to understand what things do, though their sunken eyes tell a different story. Are they being drawn to the light or can they, the virus, smell uncontaminated flesh. A reverse decay. I told him I loved him, I sensed him there, next to me, before I ran. We didn’t have a plan if we got separated, everything moved so fast talk was minimal, no preparation. He’d never met my parents.

The window is not going to hold out much longer. I tried turning off the lightbox in case it was enticing them in. There seemed to be no difference in their vigour, and it made me feel ill, though in the pitch black the disorientation would have anyone spinning. I’m in catch 22, can’t run or hide, or really fight, not through so many. I’ll

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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Something wasn’t right, not right at all. I took a sniff. The brown caffeinated bubbles of liquid gas tasted like death. I figured, after a while, that someone had put raw meat on the ice tray again. Most probably me, as I lived alone.

Mom keeps bringing bits of flesh over, dripping with blood and unidentified juices, as a way of saying ‘we know you’re struggling, we don’t want to pry, but eat something real’. I don’t digest ex-living critters, haven’t done in three years, but I’m sure if ma ‘n’ pa knew they would be phoning the nearest priest to come over and exorcise me. Or at least send for the local doc again to give me a pill.

I drank the coke down anyway, thought of the extra nutrients. I decided to make a meal of the cubes too, crunching the little slithers until I had the vague relief of brain freeze. ‘Shit’ I thought for no apparent reason and carried on with whatever it was I should have been doing.




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Suddenly I remembered where eggs come from, and threw my half digested breakfast back up again

Unborn creatures, on this earth to be born, grow, eat, fuck and die, and be eaten by others at any stage. They know their place in life.

I don’t

Skimming through peoples lives, dog-eared photographs of memories dotted around, achievements – none, half way through living and spinning dangerously into the latter part with no control or direction.

Then someone reminded me they were unfertilised anyway, the eggs, so they never would amount to much.

Then I knew my place in life.


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