Despondency and Lethargy as the Winds Blow Northwesterly

The  days go by like water from a leaky pipe

Slowly but consistently, in spurts with dry spells in between

Sleep, boredom, and self ignorance is the last remaining gripe.

An insomniac at the precipice of life,

between waking and dying

between living and laying,

Surrounded by one’s fellows, but utterly alone,

like the madness of a statue sealed in silent stone.

A cup may runneth over, but how does one atone.

Time, food, and money in plenty, but nothing less to waste,

No activity, no fun, no lesson, but all is done post hate.

An insomniac, who lays still, stiller than the dead

Listening to doubts and worries, yet all is in his head.

Clubbing and Associated Misadventures

After a night of loud music, sweaty people, and shoddy dancing (among other things), I want to clean my mind out. So I’m just going to write things and hope it’s art/artlike/resembling something that someone somewhere at sometime has called art/ amusing. 

A pitiful mess in a volcanic dress with the desire to find the one and escape the mire. To find love and from clubbing retire. Yet there is the pretender, whom we all remember as the unlucky lad who thought he had had the girl of his dreams back at his pad. A silent flat he awakes to and unhappily finds the girl of his dreams has changed with the times. He went to go out, to erase his pout with cheap alcohol and associated gall to find a girl and not always feel sick. Tear stains down her eyes because her boyfriend’s a dick. She intends to go and she intends to go quick. When a friend comes along, whose life’s put together and there for her regardless of weather. A trip to the washroom became for like a posh room for when they came out they left no doubt that to see the girl in the red was worth dropping dead. The unlucky lad, the insufferable cad, had one too many a drink and had become slow to think. He stood rather stoic, but before he would know it, he saw the formerly hot mess in the volcanically hot dress. His drunken attempt to forget with contempt had been harshly uprooted as the thought intruded. That his thoughts which made him randy had turned far more dandy. The unfortunate pulling of his heart strings, the pounding background noise that made his ears ring conspired against him and added to anxiety, barely aided by his current insobriety. Though she was scared and afraid, her face was determined and brave. She still wanted to leave, but her friend would not believe any excuse or take verbal abuse. She was then pushed by miss Brutus to the  habitually clueless unlucky lad who may have been sad. They danced rather poorly, but with foolish grins, and surely, but slowly, events proceeded uncontrollably. One ran from love, the other from sorrow. They had a tomorrow and the truth of the matter was in the clubbing clatter of mindless chatter in the depths of two hearts shattered, something did live and that thing did grow, though not without woe.The exact end is impossible to know. Others say lust, more still say lies, others shout it’s a must that one of them dies. In those moment of life, of petty strife, of dramatic romantics wielding a knife, there are times where two mistakes can lead to a right and in the debauched sense of that night, good things could happen and now then… Goodnight.

Then it occurred that I really did write that. Nonsensical drivel, not fit for an epitaph. The whole thing is not what I now speak of, just the sappy bit at the end, not the possibility of some meek love. That just makes me sick, so intolerably queasy. Parodying cliches is remarkably cheesy and incredibly easy. It’s a cheap trick and if you read this, you deserve better. The length of this, my mind did fetter. I humbly beg thee for thanks, I’ll say goodnight now before my mind…. blanks.