deadset on killing myself

EVERYTHING IMPORTANT YOU NEVER REALISED YOU AIN'T HAVE: https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com INSTA: @QUANTUMSUICIDE666 TWITTER: @SookieKid

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I read my name on a binder that was yours An age or two ago There was a smiley face but it wasn’t mine Because in those days I never smiled And these days I don’t either So I guess not much has changed Except your older And I’m older And you don’t write my name on your binder anymore

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The Highway Is It’s Own Destiny—When We’re All Gone There’ll Be Nothing Left But Road. Bury Me Under The Overpass With My Name Written In Aerosol And A Bloody Tissue On My Bitumen Tombstone.                     🚘🚘🚘🚘

We’re not right for each other

We’re right in the line of the machine

Rolling on

Down that dusty highway M8

Everyday

Until there’s nothing left behind the stealth-screen of dust

But a closed alley

That goes everywhere

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Alleged human bone deformity. Unsure of source. 

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Woman with cutaneous horn. 

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Domestic Bliss

https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com

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Dedicated To The New Style 

I wasn’t a portrait painted in photoreal colours

I was a study in disillusion

Congealed from shadows

And my heart was nothing

But used charcoal

https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com

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A Thimbleful of Tears

There's enough pain

In a thimbleful of tears

You could extract the DNA

And make a human

That only cries

And can only feel the ache of life

And if we could isolate the H20

There’d never be a drought again

And then maybe we would't feel so guilty

About crying

https://wordpress.com/posts/koalabeartea.wordpress.com

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👹👹👹👹👹

https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com

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Propaganda Department

I want to work for the government in the Propaganda Department

And manipulate minds

Like a sadistic computer technician

Engineering consent for horrible crimes

I want to paint dead kids in the hue of freedom

And fill factories with labourers

Who think we need the bullets

Because the only way to safety is through the sternum

And between the C1 and C2 vertebrae

With bayonets of strong rhetoric

I want to work in the Propaganda Department of the next Total War

Punching out death sentences on safe white paper

Because life has been dishonest to me and treated me poorly

And now, true to form, I want revenge

Not détente

I want to perpetrate the same crimes on another

That I am bruised with

And condemn them to the same treatment I’ve received

Feeling superior as I watch them suffer

When

I can be happily blind to my own hypocrisy

I will have successfully indoctrinated myself

Into the world

Photo by Camille / Kmile on Unsplash

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Afraid of the Weekend 

The habit kicks like a mule Leaves a nice bruise right in the middle of my chest between heart and manly areola Another scar I’ll try to pass off as a birth mark. How do I propose to cope? I don’t. Though I try to avoid my special bad places as a general rule Except sometimes I visit the ones I love there. It’s hard to live carefree when each moment is its own unmedicated breakdown And such a confused mystery to itself like a dog chasing its own tail. So you put space between whatever you love and can thus hurt you And the general anaesthesia of numbness that giving up affords   And just stay within the fences of the moment, Breathing in the legal, boring drugs that circulate in the air One breath at a time like the lethal drips of water torture. Staying indoors watching the TV coz it soaks up the silence that’s inside leaking from the walls   Ignoring texts from your family that are too hard to reply to.   Once more I grab the remote, leave the TV on just loud enough to think over Become the static I feel humming at the core of my being and become it without seeking anything more. No answers This house is just an expensive box of warm air and nothing else Built on the gravestones of infected clover. Cycling through channels with no destination, The cycle never ends, the returns may get more distant but the transit’s never done A cross look on my face as I wake up for another day, head hung and sober The weekend’s oncoming binge like a B-double about to jackknife and block all the lanes Until the program collapses and there’s just static left to ponder, leaping excitedly but dead No one left to unpick my family tree for all loose threads Even I just carve graffiti in the trunk Hum along to the music of the power outlets Numb

Sook Samsara 2017

https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com

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The many faces of The Great Muta 

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[surrealismart]

Over and Above #14 1964

Clarence Holbrook Carter

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I wake up with a hessian hood of morning fuzz over my eyes. My mind has torn its pull-cord ripping at it so hard and now the engine screams like a buzzsaw in my inner ear. And still people wonder why I wince walking out into morning glare. It’s not my eyes; no, my eyes are fine. They are connected by some nerve bundle to the part of the brain i need them to be connected to. The problem is not my eyes but what I see. Each worried mother, each anxious child tottering off to school, each red-faced driver screaming spittle at the inside of his window. Constant construction noises and building anxiety. It’s like rubbing salt into your eyes and having a staring contest with the sun. I’d rather watch some prehistoric graffiti on a marble pillar slowly rot. I don’t want to be a retail assistant. I don’t want to be successful. I want to be my own man. I want to lay here depressed and only have myself to let down. I don’t want to march on out into the day like another young-boy sacrifice in a war that means nothing to me or our Freedom. I want to sleep the day through, the month, the year. Another cycle of the sun. I want to close my eyes on it. High in the sacked palace of my thoughts I consider jumping into the dragon’s mouth so that at least one of us can get what they want. At some point I will assassinate myself so thoroughly that I will be able to jut my foot from doona cover onto frozen floorboard and I will, I know it’s just a matter of time, put on the uniform and the boots and the cracked smile and the mask and go out into the modern world. I may be late— first I need to tattoo under one eyelid my serial number, my office punch-in, my address and passwords; and under the other some inspirational phrase I can chant like a koan. But right now my bones are too heavy to transfer in this odd receptacle which smells like dust and cigarette butts. Smoke in my eye. Morning goo in my eye. Conjunctivitis of buildup of filth I digest and purify and spit out as pretty pellets of either wisdom or humour. My system is sick with it. And when I march in through those automatic doors so accomodating into the hypodermic fluorescence of the office I will shield my eyes and think about coming home eventually, if I’m lucky, into my warm sack and rolling around on the Egyptian sheets of my 800 thread count drug highs, my eyes getting red and tired again.

My 24 karat molecular vivisection and lego renaissance .

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You scream, I scream, we all scream, and suddenly the TV isn’t as loud and I can’t hear the crowing in my head.