Friday, 25 November 2011


Would a dream be death?
What would it be?
If you closed your eyes
And forgot
The question upon one’s lips
Which were once.
What is the point?
What would the breaking point be?
What urges a person to just bite a vein,
Instead of playing it?
Some horrifyingly sweet self-abuse,
As you’d take photos of it
To sell them in kiosks
Next to scandals
And ugly ladies
Who people masturbate to.

I’ve flicked through those papers
With a moon shaped wound
On my thumb
I had a chocolate cookie tied to it
Because my dog likes my blood.
Fuck all the dog food.
He never asks for it.
Pat sits in the corner,
Waiting for old wounds to open.
The dog would never soothe.
The dog would just go on.
Licking and scowling
Not touching the flesh.
I agree on the fact that it’s gross
That he’ll never take my meat in his mouth.
He’d just drink,
Perhaps of the example I’ve given.
But the liquid I drink,
Reminds him of the toilet
While blood reminds him
Of life
And the cookies.
The food he eternally misses
It’s disgusting
I’ve tried it
He’s tried it
So did he try from a lady?
Whom we’ve seen at the store yesterday,
Buying milk,
Some chocolate.
Wounds are too easy to see,
They’re just not there.
But the flesh sticks out,
Where there might be blood,
Where the dog would pull.
Exposing the sin,
And the bliss which surrounds it.
Trying to kill
The food we eat.
All of it
Makes us bigger
Lets us grow
In some diagonal direction,
Which doesn’t allow Pat to eat at all,
So I’ve asked him once
He was eating,
The eyes violet,
Like the colour he’d love blood to be
Because he’s read about blue blood,
When we were kids
And Pat had longer hair.
And he laid besides me.
He had been taller
And he stood on two.
He had worn suits
With a bell on his head
Which would sing with every nod.
He told me when I had asked him about death.
What was a dream?
That we resurrected after every single night,
So I asked
Was death a dream?
The dream was a fall
While death was a rise.
You’d become the sun
To sink in a year
And that year you’d dream,
If you’d have enough.
You’d dream
The last dream.
It would be your life.
So I asked Pat
So would life be our last dream?
He nodded, saying perhaps
Being older and taller
He knew the world to me
So I had never known what to do
With his age
He told me water could keep a person alive for days
And the person would need food.
So that day,
When he had laid,
Shirt unbuttoned,
Of some dream.

I had fed him the humanity I’d have inside me
He’d ask me what would it be
I’d tell him it would be
And he’d suck gently
To ask for cookies a day later
So that he would lay
Looking so young
A shaver lost
As I had been the one to use it
I’d watch him grow weaker every day
Telling him that this had been the dream
And not the stands with women he’d seen


I also wrote this on the course.

If I could I'd just make everyone a wander, like Mark Renton predicted the world to be, but hey, love, we're getting there


  1. You actually are a very powerful writer. Your imagery is strong and compelling. I like the whole feeding, symbiosis, sharing of humanity thing. Very cool!