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Watching you give up

Watching you give up.
The saddest movie in the world.
The heaviest weight.
In the darkest pit.
All but you can see the light.
Blinding in its vibrant scream.
More unique than ever.
Bursting with flavour.
You are there.
Locked. Caged.
Covered in worthlessness.
Strapped with gutless hatred.
You guard your own fortress.
Unreachable.
Impenetrable.
The precious fortunes must stay hidden.
I know their wealth.
I know their unburdened brilliance.
I’ve seen them shine.
I can see them now.
Through that fearful glint.
Behind the defiant resignation.
Within that numb world.
Made by your own choice.
So many long to free you.
From this war only you can win.
Like the saddest movie in the world.
We are watching you give in.

I want to reach for you in your night
I want to hold you while you fight
I want to lick your wounds
And kiss the pain
Fill you with love
Warm the strain
I want to push you on when you fall
I want to push you over that growing wall
I want to nurse your grazes
So you can carry on
You can push me away
But I’ll never be gone.
I want to hold you up and show your worth
I want to shout it loud to all the Earth
This beautiful human
This creation of one
Stronger than before
Because they won.

Run away
It will fix itself
If you’re not there
Run away
Uphill
Away from the depths
Where it can only be worse
Which you cannot bear to explore
To confront
Too hard
Run away
From the you you most fear
That fatal truth
Too much to feel
Too much of a battle
Run away
From that waste of time
To higher ground
To the edge
To fall again

Beautiful Truth

Beautiful truth.
In all its heartless grip.
Beautiful life.
Fuelled by sadness and consequence.
Stoked by need and unknowing.
The elated numbness.
The joyful hate.
The high of the sickening fear.
The stabbing depths of the alone.
Pure.
Ecstatic in its freedom, dancing with sharp toes over a threadbare carpet of hope.
This beautiful truth.
That of no other.
This beautiful now.
Unsharable. Uncontrollable. Unpredictable.
Delicate and crushing.
Primer of pain and pleasure.
Until singularity, when everything makes sense but it no longer matters.
The last beautiful truth.
Alone and free.
The beautiful end.

Little Death

That pain no one sees. An invisible emergency, without medication. No one notices the death before them. And so they stoke the fires.
It burns, that ball of pain. Sometimes so hard that it releases flares into the world. The visible tip. The end of an internal reaction that feels so all consuming and powerful, the result unfinished and limp. The rage of motivation. An engine of raw splutterings that leaves a thin vein of gold amidst its blinding smoke. If only you could drill down deep enough to see.
Sometimes it goes out. Then there’s just the pain. The choker. The grinder of madness. The visceral mincer. Hurting so hard. Too hard. The only hope is that it will light itself again. And that hope has the last of life’s consequences at stake.
Everyone needs a little death sometimes. To fail. To fear. To be killed and left. Unbloody and tired. Knotted and weak. Humiliated. Ashamed. Abandoned. Utterly naked with truth. Waiting, starving, as the longing seethes and begs. Grappling at the feet of courage’s own death, before there is nothing left. Before it’s worn out and too rotten to care. Before the skin can rip enough to tear through the thick endless time while the dust settles a new layer and the ashes begin to shift, ready for the next blinding spark. Until then…

Crave

You incomplete me.
You hide and I am compelled to seek.
My weakness wins.
Like a cut that needs to bleed.
Unimportant death.
Unstoppable craving.
For you. Only you.
So you may lick at the wounds you make.
Chew on my heart.
I don’t want you to starve.
Dictator of a tune with imperfect notes.
I will dance.
Thirsty with desire.
More alive than in the death of life.
I will feel every pain you share.
I will carry it with mine.
Then hide away until you need me again.
Broken, but still craving.

 

Epoch of Madness – The Plan

 

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Undercarriage of Injustice

 

Since the humans of earth have decided to enter the Epoch of Madness by giving the red button to an orange bewigged undercarriage of injustice named after a flatulent cartoon duck, I have decided to emigrate to Mars. Saturn was my first thought, but its gaseous rumblings would remind me too much of home, and for this tremendous voyage and subsequent colonisation there must be no room for sentimentality. Tyrannical rule of a newly captured planet is hard enough. Red also suits my mood.

 

I will, as a token of my superior rule, be giving free emancipation to those humans who wish to join me in kicking this old outdated planet aside. I understand that some humans may find the thought of leaving their home planet daunting, in which case a no win, no tree kidnapping service will be provided.

 

You’re welcome.

 

It must be understood and emphatically agreed by all kidnappees, voluntary or screaming, that my thoughts, words, and commands are absolute, and I will not tolerate any disobedience, free thought, or knitting for the duration of your enslavement*.

 

My first task as supreme ruler (imperial only) will be to build a 60 earth feet** wall around Mars, and I shall require some hands capable of such hysterical…historical megalithical sculpting. Therefore, only slaves with hands will be allowed to take part in the construction of aforementioned wall. Slaves without hands must collect dust which will be piled higher than the Olympus Mons, making the largest mountain in the universe as monument to my selfless deliverance of the unhanded from inequality and subjugation.

 

Once built, the wall will provide the perfect eclipse behind which my plans for the exploitation of Earth’s humans will take shape. Such will be their misery, their hopelessness, their brutal sadness on their outdated planet that the craving within the pleasure part of their inferior brains will swell with longing. With the flood of unhappiness engulfing their meaningless lives they will do anything to fill the skull splitting black hole of inner despair. And I, ruler, tyrant, female woman thing, shall be their heroin of misspelt heroes.

 

With devious efficiency and belligerent force I shall infiltrate the underground pleasure providers with a weapon so powerful it would make all red buttons to the earth’s destruction melt into a pool of pathetic plastic goo. This weapon, feared by the orange one, and other undercarriages of injustice who believe they are in charge of their mounds of soil across the earth, will secretly spread dopamine across the lands, filling the oppressed with glee, the depressed with squee, and the repressed with the dignity of upturned mouths. What is this weapon you ask?

 _niu8khx

 

Cats.

 

Specifically baby cats.

 

Specifically laughing baby cats.

 

Humans have such weakness for laughing cats. A human’s weakness for laughing cats is laughable in itself. The fine brains of these creatures worked this out long ago, during the times of Egyptian rule when the Sun God Ra shimmered at the squeak of a playful kitten, making him sink behind the pyramids before opening the back door. Such outrage did this cause the Lord of Cats that a vow was taken by all cat kind to oppress those with the opposable thumbs via the art of LOLing. Having held extensive strokies with the Lord of Cats I have procured the loyalty of the Purring Army through a mutually agreed act of pleasure exchange (chin based). I impress upon you the magnitude of controlling force this weapon will bring me, and you will do well to heed its effects upon those which you will leave behind. Any thoughts of sorrow, any moods of compassion, any hedonistic leanings of love, unity or solidarity will be beaten from within you and dumped on Mercury where it will be scorched into oblivion along with your left nipple.

 

The LOL will rule, and thusly will I.

 

*until the end of time itself

**Feet will be provided by excess slave legs. (I hear stump blisters cause the most unbearable pain; just another perk of the job, other than the getting to do what I tell you to do bit. Again, you’re welcome.)

Mind Wars

I’m spending this weekend with The Mother. I haven’t seen her in the flesh since March, seven months ago. Then I had protection in the form of other people. This time it’s just us two. The relationship between The Mother and me is a whole tortuous book in itself, so I won’t bore you with it. All you need to know is she’s a controlling person, and I have let her be that person with me. She does that through fear because of childhood things, exacerbated by secret alcoholic husband, which, in that context, makes it totally understandable. Now.

I can pinpoint the exact time I decided that I wasn’t going to be like I was anymore. I wasn’t going to take this shit from her. Or anyone else for that matter. I’d had a bad year. Most years up to then hadn’t been good, apart from the odd moment here or there after I escaped home and school, and the heady days at university when everything was possible. After that came a complete breakdown, but all good things have to come to an end somehow. I regained some stability with my OH for the last ten years, a home, and two cats. Thank fuck! However, all good situations have their evil side. The grass may be greener, but there’s still perennial weeds in there.  The home situation with an autistic step-son, his not so interested mother, and my OH had got out of hand. When I say out of hand, I mean it hadn’t been dealt with. None of it. It was impossible to when that part of our lives wasn’t within our control. We weren’t allowed to make the decisions. And, looking back, I don’t think we wanted to be making them either. Without the OH’s Asperger’s diagnosis it was difficult for us to communicate about anything properly. Like a cushion trying to understand a hammer.

It was a lonely time for both of us. I sought solitude, which then sought company in some of the best friends I’ll ever have. That’s what it felt like at the time anyway. Then, suddenly, all my friends had got boyfriends/girlfriends/lives all at the same time. I was left alone. Isolated. Again. [Insert boring record of not having any family at all other than The Mother and inadequate training in social interaction due to alcoholic father here]. So keen was I to not be lonely for the rest of my life I’d put myself behind others, be there without question, the best friend they’d ever had. I’d been there for them, and they just left me. Obviously, that feeling has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me. The way it felt, the injustice, the pain of rejection and forced isolation in the middle of a situation that was already unstable, was intolerable – and I mean intolerable, to the point of physical pain that had only one way out. I put myself out there more than I’d ever done before. Prostrate on the floor, metaphorical innards bared. And I got hurt, obviously.

Turns out that’s the best thing they could have done for me.

It was on an excruciating week’s ‘holiday’ (she called it this. I call it a week in enforced hell with en suite) in Cornwall with my mother that I decided I wasn’t going to put up with her or anyone else’s shit any longer. My innards healed over and put an extra protective layer of fixative on top. I physically felt it one of those long nights stuck in a converted barn in the middle of nowhere with my life long guilt giver snoring in the next room. Once that huge, ugly monster (of emotions, not The Mother. Although…) had been encased forever inside me things started to show themselves from the other side. Their shapes were different and their overpowering repression not so overpowering anymore. That’s when the ever present Rebel sitting at the back marched forward and said, “I’m driving this body now. Get out of the bloody way Anxiety. Shift your fucking fat arse Self-Doubt, I’m taking over, you can all fuck off!”

I’d felt Rebel before, but this time was different. Instead of Anxiety throttling her on the spot, Rebel fought back, hard. They tried to push Rebel out before she could strap herself in, but Rebel was too strong and had been ignored, crushed and bullied for far too long by the others. She has won nearly every battle ever since. Rebel was finally able to teach me how to have confidence in my own intelligence (knocked out of me at school, of course), that I could work this life thing out myself if I just put in some time and effort and really used this amazing (and controllable!!) blob of grey slime in my skull. Rebel appointed Stubborn as Mind monitor. Stubborn was strict about things, making me read things that really helped me learn about how this bunch of cells I call my body works. Stubborn made me stick with battling through the nonsense commercial (bullshit) self-help market and find the real information. I learned about my biology, my chemistry, how it creates those intangible things called feelings and behaviours and reactions, and how I can control them with this flimsy thing called Mind. Defenceless as Mind would usually be, Rebel has released its full force. Now that Rebel is in charge I’m allowed to have confidence in myself as a fully formed human person (to the point anyone can be approaching midlife crisis age). I care about what people think about my writing, the way I look, what I think and say, but at the same time I don’t. I know that I know how to know stuff (think about it), and I know that I know how to unknow the old and inknow the new (I make up words. Problem?). I am capable, in my own way. Different to everyone else’s way. Good.

Those friends? After I’d hit the bottom of the pit and struggled back out again some of them turned out to be actual friends! But the majority turned out to be not worth any effort at all. And that’s fine.

Of course Rebel has to have the odd holiday. We all need a rest. That’s when Anxiety comes back for a day or two. Or Self-Doubt, with the apprentice, Self-Loathing. But they’re only temporary staff.

Fear (Scribbling)

You Fear the moment won’t last and you Fear you won’t get the chance of it again.
You love because you Fear not being loved.
You love because you Fear you’re unlovable.
Every decision you make you do because you Fear you will miss becoming something you’re not now.
You Fear the regret, the shame, the broken-heartedness.
You Fear time, that it will wander by while you edge closer to the end.
You Fear the end.
The final silence, where you have no more opportunities, no muddle of choices, no more to make of yourself.
The end, where you are complete.
A product of your Fear.
To be forgotten by omnipotent time.
You Fear the pointlessness of your effort.
You Fear that what you thought to be futile actually is. You Fear hope for hope’s sake.
You Fear yourself.
Being alone, only with you, the self you Fear, the one you made.
You are to blame.

From this Fear you cannot run. It runs with you.
You are the factory. You are the instigator. The inspiration.
You craft it with your own body and your carry it with you like an unburdenable tumour.
It weighs you down on your already heavy journey, causing you to turn where you shouldn’t, seek refuge where you mustn’t, take you where you strive not to go.
It obscures your view and stains the maps you make.
It slippens your grasp and bloodies your tracks.
It rips and tears and keeps fresh the wounds, cuts deep the new, suckles and chews.
Nurturer.
Provider.
Murderer.

You are the devourer, the taker, the glutton of experiences.
You are the creator, the crafter, the twister, the giver.
You create wrong. You create pain. You create tangles and messes.
You scribble over time and doodle on delusion.
You continue to fail to make the answer.
Still.

STILL.

How heartily Fear feeds.
Would you deny her sustenance?
You want her to think you a selfish creature?
You would distrust her for yourself?
Feed the belly that feeds you.
Unable to uncreate.
How heartily she feeds herself.

You will never do it right.
It IS pointless, and continuous.
I am here too.
You ARE already the answer.
You are sharing in silence with a world of messes, and Fear allows no entry.
You are creating with another who is creating with another, and together you build the intangible elephant that groans with its lonely lack of acceptance.
Time, alone, listens to its only companion.
Which time is the one you’ll pick?
Will you recognise it when it comes?
Will you have killed too much of yourself by then?
How do you know?
How, when you are blind?

(You are never wrong, only scribbling.)

Pluck loved his mound. He’d made it himself over the years, adding bits of skin here and there and laying Matilda’s babies safely inside when her time came. Flies aren’t that fussy where their babies hatch, as long as it’s warm and moist, with some form of breakfast nearby. Pluck always saved a bit of meat from the dinner table to put in his skin mound. Mother usually liked everything from a human carcass but she wasn’t that fond of elbow meat, so father didn’t mind if a few bits went missing while he was cooking. He even gave Pluck scraps of skin before crisping the rest up in the fire. Mother’s favourite!

mound 1 

One piece of skin had been taken from the forehead of the great crustie warrior Fionn MacCumhaill, so his father had told him. It had the dark shiny patch from the burns of his own spear, a technique used to keep himself awake to protect the citizens of Tara from the fire breathing man of Sidhe, which proved it was the genuine forehead, said his father. True or not, it did look pretty in pride of place at the top of his fleshy mound. Until he’d had to remove it to make a choker for a girl he’d liked at the Bodyarium.

She was a trainee doctor and he’d served her some toe gruel in the staff canteen. She came over before she left to thank him for the lovely meal, which was unusual in itself. The staff canteen wasn’t renowned for its culinary prowess (blamed by the head chef on the doctors stealing leg, hand and feet ingredients from the cool tunnel). But it was the way she smiled at him, the way her eyes flickered slightly as she gazed gently upon him, and how she had touched his fingers like a whisper as she’d left that made Pluck sure she would pick him as a potential suitor, IF he got the gift EXACTLY right. He crafted the choker out of dried gut and hairhemp and prepared the story from the crust of the legendary MacCumhaill. He waited for ages until she finished work and gave it to her on the Bodyarium steps. She didn’t say much, and he didn’t see her or the choker again. At home his father had given him a large cut of shoulder skin, saying that Mother hadn’t fancied her human crispy that night. Unusual.

Anyhow, Pluck covered his mound entirely with that skin and vowed never to forsake his fleshy friend for a girl (or any subterranean for that matter) ever again. As he drifted off to sleep, Pluck caressed his clammy friend, and, in a way, subtle but affectionately, his mound snuggled him back. 

mound 3

 

Inspired by Russel Cameron’s Fleshy Mounds, which you can find here, and more over here…

http://russelcameron.blogspot.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/RusselCameronArt/home

https://twitter.com/russcam79

https://www.instagram.com/russelcameron/

Dark Matter


Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light, literally. We travelled through there long ago.

When we were the nothing of the universe.

The nothing of matter’s something.

The dust that settled, then gazed up at its maker for the answer.

We are the universe trying to understand ourselves.