Random Boo

All through Space and Time balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s precarious rhyme, of an elusive design, that ponders down a bottle of a cheap red wine.

A nonentity it has become this trivial existence, but a small light switch, in this small small room, that must forever be left in darkness. The clattering sound of a telephone’s bell screaming echoes down the abandoned hallways of my mind; the hallways that were once filled with so many characters, and are now so, no more. Old forsaken dispositions like barbarians at the gates of Rome, deviously scheming in their packs. They fancy me dead; they desire me dead; I hear them, all of them. As their fate becomes mine… I don’t want to leave, I do not want to leave….

Alas, this will be my last post…

Two point twenty-five litres of plonk, twenty-three fags, and seventeen Hobnobs past midnight, I am painting the Cheese Strings black. A silhouette of a swinging dud 40-watt bulb taunts the rubber glove that is my mind. Mocks me, plays me, and dances on the very reflection it scorned. Well it was half the truth, in the sense that it’s the good bit with the fat cut off, enjoy the fat! Are you happy? Who is? I do not know, I guess no one is really. Nothing is perfect; it would contradict with the said concept if it ever were. I love the sea, I miss the sea. It’s something about the waves crashing against the shore that sounds like a symphony of poetically captive sovereignty. The sea comforts me, like a feeling of home, in a loners devilishly self-gratification. I am the floating egg in the boiling pan of the conformists despair! Look her in the eye, turn away and sigh, every chance a last, every look a first. She stands there, slumped to the right, a burdening requirement of illogical light. She of such profound beauty, one man’s neglect of duty, another man’s treasure, a second hand pleasure. A stolen kiss, a stolen time, but she never was, neither is, nor ever will be mine. Maybe I was born too late, maybe she was born too early. Maybe instead of wine, I’ll have a Curly Wurly. Who knows? But you’re not carving my grave, smile and wave boys, smile and wave…

I’m homeless, and that what is be labelled home feels as welcome as a female Klingon with PMS. My brain needs reformatting I thinks. The cutthroat ecstasy of space dementia that cometh from but a jam jar keeps jumping out on me, with the tennis ball dropped, I’ve lost everything. You know death is nirvana right? Eh? Reality ostracized once again as itinerant monkeys sit on roller coasters smashing though the pumpkin walls of China.  And OMG!

My MINI has been hit more times than Justin Bieber on YouTube! De-prioritize! That’s the key to a successful life thingy… “How much is bravado?” “Well, ASDA currently have three-for-a-tenner at the moment”. I won’t let you kill it, it is bigger than you, I’m not suicidal, *washes hands in imaginary water* right then! Who’s first?

In an orgy of self-pity a man can commit things he believes imperative. They succumb to the fabricated sensations of pleasure galore, conceived by the overindulgence of gluttony and self-physiological-gratification.  Red plonk, cigarettes, and cake are all that is needed in this symphony of artistic contempt.  Stimulating intoxication feeds on the self-pitying demoralized sloths, and so the wretched misery surges. Depression is the product of an epiphany, there is no paranoia about being alone in this godforsaken world, for you are alone. You see depression is not a mental illness, sometimes it’s just a light in a room best kept in the dark.