Moods


If my psychosis was a colour
It would be purple.

Screaming violet dreams of pain and pleasure
Obscene
Streams of consciousness
That never
Surface beyond my mind.
How I treasure
My own emotional extremes.

Until I am brought down by
Brown and green
Moods of the lower order
Servants of disordered
Rationality and boredom.

Joy and misery define life
But purple defines me.

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Addiction


I want to adorn a page with beauty
Write with Byronic poise
Across lines of truth
But my mind is stained with age
And my fingers are
Tangerine dreams of literary nicotine
The cigarette smoking pertained residue
Of my propensity for purple prose
Deformed by keyboard whiplash and an addiction to self abuse

Like a star that descended before it shone
My birth Mother is the cosmos
And the earth that I inhabit
A mere shadow
Of the dark side of heaven’s sacrificial son

Sunday morning sickness


Sunday Morning Sickness

Chemically unbalanced
Half the world is made insane
We are dependent on prescription pills
With unpronounceable names
Pharmaceutically overdosed
On the concepts of suffering and pain

Consuming substances, like Big Mac suppers
That make us do as we are told
We are chained, like dogs, to our T.V. screens
And warned never to grow old
Affectively blunted
Like Frankenstein’s culturally constructed bride
We are the emasculated end product of our creator’s terminal ill health

A marketable sickness, the human condition bleeds, like an open wound
And whilst, medicine eases infections
It cannot heal the soul
Predating conception, we were born to destroy ourselves

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