Routines are easy,

routines are hard,

imply discipline

(and cloaked petard!)

… Trash day,

Broken Soul Prospekt.





If there’s a knock on the door

and your spirit within bristles

and your soul curdles:

don’t answer it,

especially if the knocking’s insistent.

Instead, hide.

Imagine the worst, that’s always the best…

Imagine for certain,

it’s Chekists at the door,

and know, they don’t want your co-operation,

they want your pain.




Last night Dionysus.

Today, I pick up the pieces.




Anniversary’s are hard.

Yes, they keep you in touch,

like picking at a scab makes you bleed.

Pain rekindled.


they remind you of how little you’ve progressed.

And how fucked-up you really are (as they say).



Blood and piss.

I guess it depends what your anniversary is.




Imitation, they say,

is the sincerest form of flattery.

Well then, family

is the sincerest form of battery.

And “friends”?

Always wanting more

(cock-sucking whores!)…

Life, open page,

Quiet and deafening rage.




Yes, things suck, I quite agree,

but it’s hard to imagine it being




So, let me be…

In relative peace

and comparative security.






The fine line between tragic and sad

sometimes ain’t that *fine*.

My life and yours,

redolent of farce.




And so you make do with whatever peaceful moment you can grab.


No matter how banal.



Just wait!

It’s a hell of a way to live:

Waiting for the next catastrophe,

knowing it’s gotta be near.

Knowing your mediocre “idyll” won’t last.

Knowing a complication is coming,

fear, fear, fear!

Half-Life lessons.




They consulted their paperwork,

the list,

so as to speak.


They came for me,

because I was

one of us,


it was enough.




Another day,

another pain.

Another week,

another bleak


visceral pain,

as you watch your life gurgle away

down a clogged

bathroom drain.

Blood and hair,

existential despair.