Don't Bang The Drums

The shadows of time, the scenery of unkempt deciphers wittering on a scroll of shame. But who's to blame and who really cares? You're waiting in the distance with the time-honoured tradition. From sedition to sedation, the elation didn't last that long. It became a disaster that time has been unkind to. In discomfort, the lines have been drawn and there's no such thing as cabin fever. We were there, we understood. Time can't return - moving on to reap the rewards of a cruel outlook. But who are we to decide the rules?

Damage is done, ergo no fun. We speak in riddles before telling the truth. I'm a cryptic catastrophe living in unheralded infamy. Move along to the same song and everything will be fine. Don't bang the drums too loudly - you've never had it quite like this. Moving backwards for the sake of a societal collapse. Collecting traps that'll never fit - it's all very considered. You're next line starts here, to boost your earnings click here!

The ideology of a broken home from a broken system of a broken country. Magic starts elsewhere, you're allowed to fight. They'll look for excuses though, they always do. Nothing reminds you of futility quite like living in it. It just drives you to distraction because it's the only thing they can extract. It's happened before and will happen again. And we'll see the paranoia kick in at around about this time too. It's enough for some to join the Ted Kaczynski fanclub. Another mistake brought about by rotten greed.

Closing In On Traditional Middle-Age

Elicit dreams of guilt. A sense of something that runs on compassionate grounds. Ideals and thoughts along the faultlines of the decency of humanity. We seek, we dream a new religion but nothing washes away the stain of that feeling. The panicked feeling of being ignored. Muted out and drowned for good reason. The fight's not there and never will be. You can have it all if you turn away right now.

I wanted some company as misery only to make jokes and feel less alone. The feelings of idiocy linger long after the thoughts have subsided and accepted the unity of pain and go it alone. Moving to secrecy and leaving no one but themselves. The static burst and the dreams retreat. Live in grey solitude. The harmless wonder. You never wonder why your friendships are ruined and whether it has something to do with you. You shouldn't live your whole life feeling you've been put upon by the world.

After all you were so self-contained as a child, it's no wonder you were made to feel that something was wrong with you. Maybe there is but it's too late to care now you're closing in on traditional middle-age. These days only the cat's scrapes across your hands make you feel alive. Better to accept reality that you're more than half dead.

Broken and wounded, people aren't for you and you are certainly a joke to them. 10 years have gone by since it crippled you, no use in crying over proverbial spilt milk. Layers go by and the diagnosis will be come soon.

The Energy Vampire's Guilt

The guilt lingers on for things that were said. Outstay my welcome, I can't argue against how you view it. Isolate the idiot, there's no two ways about it. I just wanted someone to talk to but I must've been a drain. An energy vampire that needed the silent treatment. There's no need to say any more, you were right to do what you had to do.

Saliva's Spawn

In polite quarries to quarrel over time and nature.Your nature hippie vibe came with you in a tarot reading. Framing every other gesture as a threat of some sort, we had our best time while complaining on the way home. No wonder why we're so alone. Rickety wooden houses with glass structures, torrential rain to view from a VR Dome. Medicated on the past and the future playing at the same time. The consequences were never made clear. Saliva's spawn and the nature of regret.

You made it sound like the chance was looming. A modern romance so touching and blooming.

Midday yoga's interrupted as the cats come to sit on your face. But there are a million other ways with which the day could start and you're with your friends. Made space, made time - the chances are receding further. But I've got time to take my medicine. No time for squalor, no time for anything at all but the buzz words of a generation so lost in itself.

Could it be that by the forms of disease, I become a victim by certain decrees?

Photographing yourself getting older every day. The shade and filters of neurotic cigarettes, the token gesture of an anxiety attack. If I could have walked in the forest alone. To see what junk was left behind. The targets of many an escape clause come closer to make one feel good. To see you in that rickety old house way off in the forest. We are with time, a closing statement finalising deals for how our deaths will go. Small print, fine print - the legacies of greed we've left behind and still I wanted to feel like I had a chance to spin the wheel.

The next time you put on your disappearing act, let it be that your clothes are intact.

In The Shards of Our Past

With time that passed we line up again. Your legs take you only so far. Dream like sequences with blurred vision. New derision from calls made a thousand years ago. Or so it felt like when passion called and fashion had us sold in an embrace of acquaintances. I slowly make my dreams in the shards of our past.

New lives, new dawn, new ways to drown all preceding hope. Intercepting lives is just a phone call away. Living as a ghost with flesh and bone. New dreams to call your own. To call off when the time comes. The anxiety you induce privately, switches to publicly seduce all incomers. Remember the price that was paid while your health does the shimmies, the shakes and the jolts that come it.

Sell me a dummy and I'm your perfect fool - the pain in my body means I was practically worthless to you. I'm just exhausted in the art of pretences. Wallow in misery with a withering intensity. I alienate myself from everyone I ever talk to - and there are those who will do so before I say a word. Too much damaged goods, too many brave faces. I never could relate anyway....it's probably why I'm here in the first place.

To Heal, To Dissipate Once More

The rain soaked image on the lawn has become us all. An object of despair and fleeting happiness. For what it is I don't envy much. We become victims of desire. Walk to the hilltop and make a wish. Run a marathon, walk a mile. The many secrets of our crooked smiles.

Speak in coda, the crimes of fidelity. Leaking in the image, the common presage. Reserve to preserve. She's not like you, she'll spin cobwebs from the faithful wounds your mind made many moons ago. And the memories remain, the ones that never happened or almost did. Your second life, the cover dial that made you feel old to her youthful allure. The elixir for which you could never own, never get near.

Had you the feeling of being one with nature, you would deal with healing your own sutures. The wreckage you caused, will erase over time and those will disappear in time. Emit the refracted tale of our love stories we fabricated for someone else's time. You could never make me forget my disease. I'm sorry you wished for an energy I didn't have.

To heal, to dissipate once more. What more could we want for staying like this. I feel rinsed from inside out. Never had the clout to be who I used to be. To be part of a medieval dream once more. To heal, to dissipate once more. What love once was, changes, slips away into the mists of time!

A Bundle of Anxiety

The disconnection resounds. How everything revolves. I am everyone's rejection. I've seen it all before. Your words can mislead a simple fool like me. To want something out of greed. I know you'd rather look away. I'd do the same if I were you.

Here lies the animal, broken, brittle and confused. The cliché lines in a lover's arms. Just like you to get into something you'd rather you didn't. Why do I feel sorry for the people who enter into the garden of pain and despair with me. Even if unwillingly. It's not like we do these things for free!

Masking tape, there's no escape. Whatever lies we've made before, I stupidly count the score every single time. I obviously give off the wrong vibe. I don't know how I can change that.

Run off on decoys, when I'm the one that destroys everything in sight. Nothing stays in light, you could kill me now and save yourself the misery from hanging on to a twisted mirror image of a forgotten time. 

A bundle of anxiety, a dress rehearsal for that heart attack.

And All I Ask (The Past Is Done)

The past is done, the morning resides. The years fall away, there's no desire left in me. A stubbornness lives on, nothing more. Pain accumulates. We don't live in the same scenario. I take what's left. The energy dwindles. Damaged to a crawl. Remote conversations keep me going. Maybe it's the identity I want to play with. Maybe I have nothing more.

You dream of nothing more than to sit in silence and get lost in images. To figure this thorn of broken desires. Feelings get thrown out of the way. Perhaps I just decided there was nothing left in me. I'd only be left in debt at the energy bank. Dreams are built differently these days. Passions play a part but you're known to drive people away with your demeanour. You're just like all your favourite songs - a broken man destroyed by life and someone who alienates.

Feels like there's nothing left. 20 years of further alienation compounded by grief and trauma. You believed in lies because they were all you had. Brief moments of happiness were tantalising but your health worries caught up with you in the end. The humming drone of death rumbling in your subconcious. How easy it feels to be loved. How lovely it is to love in return. Even when sabotage wants to play a part.

Front-on/Side-on views. I've lost the taste for appearances. I know the things I used to love always had an element of thrill and fear. Now there's only the fear of certain elements. And all I ask is for something else to take my place. All I ask is for something that doesn't get twisted by the selfishness of others. 

Whatever you need is gone - you have to make do with meagre reserves. The thought of an illustrious present and future nothing more than a cruel joke to laugh along with in secrecy. You're not the man you were 15 years ago. If only being morose could pay. But then what's the point in it all - nothing good would come out of it anyway!

And all I ask is a different world, a different identity, a different way of life - something to take the away the pain.