There is a darkened corner of my hated head waiting to be smothered beneath a wallowing, pillowing ball of bed.
No, it didn’t work as an exercise in preventing me wanting to self-harm. Yes it is sorta solipsistic and yet ha ha, joke’s on you cos it’s from Strawberry Fields Forever.
In the bargain bin
Of my homespun,
Failed and faltered
Bullshit mind of flawed philosophy
I search for ragged clothes.
I search for worn opinions.
I rummage through the never-loved,
I spend each and every other month pretending
Not to feel.
Halfway down a bottle of blue Smirnoff
I unlock the castle gates,
Unleash the hatred,
Free the rage.
I raise my fists.
Look for some enormous cunt,
On whom to satisfy the Freudian,
I have dreamt of since the tender age of five.
My dreams are all of death:
Murders brutal to the point they would be excised from a film.
I hurt myself again.
I smash this howling head against a wall not hard enough
To send me into dreamless, screamless slumbers.
I hate the sky.
I hate the floor.
I hate the in and out of every breath.
Most of all I hate my rancid,
Grown-up baby steps
And pity myself sobs.
It just gets harder
With the passing of relentless,
And raked amongst the embers
Are you a danger to yourself?
Have you made plans to harm yourself in anyway?
Do you mind if I notify your GP about your current state of mind?
I was asked them today. And others. Decided to go to therapy session despite leaving a message in the week saying I was not certain I would attend. Admitted to therapist I had no idea why I was there as the last thing I want to do is talk about things. Was persuaded to give briefest outline of what I’m struggling with and why.
Some of that might have triggered their system’s alarm bells anyway but the forms they make you fill out prior to each session would have been their biggest concern. Huge scores for depression. Higher than they have been in a long time. Years.
Guess the GP was not that concerned as I received no phone call from her later in the day. Nor from the mental health crisis team. Maybe they’re overstretched? Maybe they view my scores differently? Maybe I wish I’d kept my mouth shut r stuck with my original intention of skipping the session. Maybe bed is the answer. Maybe there are no fucking answers. Maybe I don;t give enough of a shit to write any more.
The dead make secret noises
That whacked-out, witching weirdos hear
And things go missing in the night,
Cross my palm with bullshit,
Tap the table if you want to see
Whose soul is sterling silver
And whose blood is Romany.
I see a long short journey
Over land or sea or into space.
You see the desperation
In a gullible, grieving, fallen face.
Is there anybody there?
Behind your deadly death-mask eyes:
Why am I even surprised?
Beating up his first wife.
Psychologically bullying and abusing his first wife.
Terrorising his sons because of the beatings, bullying and abuse of their mother.
Stealing money from his wife’s purse to spend on cigarettes and gambling.
Stealing from his eldest son’s foreign coin collection because some of the coins would fit slot machines for cigarettes or gambling and the rest could be sold to provide English currency for cigarettes and gambling.
Throwing his eldest son out of home when he was most vulnerable and thus ensuring said son would end up sleeping rough and eventually arrested for vagrancy and trespass.
Telling racist, homophobic or otherwise inappropriate jokes to minors.
Walking around believing it is perfectly fine to hold racist, homophobic or otherwise bigoted opinions.
Telling his first wife that he was far better looking than her despite being a) as fat as a fat fuck who is fucking, fucking fat and, b) not being good looking at all, actually. You’d think he’d have worked this out, the amount of time he spent (possibly still spends) admiring himself in the mirror.
Believing that his first wife wanted to divorce him because he didn’t bathe frequently enough. While his personal hygiene could have been better the very notion that it would be how he smelt rather than the physical and emotional abuse providing her incentive to want to rid herself of such a cunt would boggle any sane mind.
Calling those who disagree with his own, incorrect version of the above events ‘mental’.
And he still claims to have no idea why I disassociated from him some years ago. What an arsehole.