40+ greying, poet and failure

[thesourcesota]

To anyone who has published a book whether it be through a traditional publishing house or self publishing on Amazon, if you would be willing to let me know the pros and cons or really any words of advice I would be really grateful. I'm in a quandary.

[thesourcesota]

Will I be the echo of a person

who never spoke loudly enough to exist?

[thesourcesota]

That guy’s looking at me like I’m the meal he didn’t have the nerve to order—and now he’s stuck watching someone else enjoy it.

- The Consultant

[thesourcesota]

"Allow me to explain our reasons in condescending order"

- The Sourcemen of the Apocalypse.

Episode 9 - Linguistic Rot

Available 16th April 2026

[thesourcesota]

All hail the Signal.

Not the clean tone they sell you—

not the flattened, filtered, algorithm-safe whisper—

but the real one.

The one that stutters.

The one that spikes.

The one that howls when something’s wrong

instead of buffering it into silence.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

Not anger for the sake of noise—

but interference.

A disruption in the broadcast

they’ve spent years smoothing out,

polishing cruelty until it reflects nothing back.

You’re not shouting into the void—

you’re corrupting the feed.

And somewhere—

through the static,

through the distortion—

someone hears it

and realizes

they weren’t crazy for noticing.

That it was wrong.

That it is wrong.

That the quiet was never peace—

just compliance.

So let it crackle.

Let it distort.

Let it burn through every soft lie they’ve layered over it.

Because a clean signal

never changed a damn thing.

But a broken one?

A broken one makes people listen.

- The Sourcemen of the Apocalypse

[thesourcesota]

Biggest mistake?

Whichever mistake you feel like sharing 😁

[thesourcesota]

"You've made me cum a hundred times" he said, "yet never once laid so much as a caress upon my skin, how can this be?"

She looked at him, understanding shining in her eyes

"Thats simple" She said, smiling

"You're a massive wanker"

[thesourcesota]

I am launching my exciting new platform. Its called MushPage.

Its Antisocial media. When you try to sign up it tells you to fuck off.

[thesourcesota]

Credit Where It’s Due

They say—

give credit where credit is due.

So tell me—

where’s mine?

Where’s my credit for not following you home after you cut me up at that intersection—

for not returning the favour, with interest?

Where’s my credit for watching you slip the line—

that smug little sidestep— and choosing words over wire?

For saying,

"back of the queue",

instead of wrapping consequence around your throat and pulling tight until manners finally click into place.

Where’s my credit, for restraint?

For the quiet violence I refuse to commit every time someone like you mistakes patience from someone like me for permission.

You drift through life unbothered, unbruised, unchecked—

and you think that means you’re right.

It doesn’t.

It means the rest of us are doing the work for you.

Swallowing it.

Deferring it.

Letting it pass because no one wants to be that person.

But understand this—

every time you get away with it, every small theft of decency, every casual act of being a selfish little c💀💀t

it isn’t because you could.

It’s because you were allowed to.

Because someone, somewhere, decided not to teach you

what you keep begging to learn the hard way.

You’re not untouchable.

You’re just standing in a long line of people

who chose not to touch you.

[thesourcesota]

Janey: Do we become who are, or we simply what is left when the last mask slips away?

Dr Michael: I would argue there is no difference, the self is merely the mask that endured, not because it was true, but because it was useful. So what you are - in essence - is everything the world failed to remove.

- Sourcemen of the Apocalypse

[thesourcesota]

I have been saying this line for a long time but I have a creeping doubt that the original inspiration for it is not my own.

"my cringe reflex is now so finely tuned I can clench my face into a fist"

[thesourcesota]

Go on, write something upbeat about love for a change.

Fuck off!

The Rot

It’s not that you’ve “grown apart.”

It’s that every atom of their presence now itches against your skin like fibreglass.

You used to laugh together — big, helpless, giddy fits that made your faces ache.

Now the only time you laugh is when life punishes them on your behalf.

They stub a toe? Bliss.

Spill coffee on themselves? Ecstasy.

Because for one brief, beautiful second, they shut the fuck up and grimace instead.

That voice you once called music?

Now it’s a symphony performed entirely on broken violins by tone-deaf orphans.

Every word that spills from their mouth is another screeching reminder that you’d rather perforate your own eardrums with a screwdriver than endure one more of their half-baked observations.

Their laugh. oh God, their laugh.

Once, it was the sun breaking through clouds.

Now it’s a hyena choking on a bin bag.

You’ve memorised their faults the way a prisoner memorises the cracks in their cell wall.

The way they breathe too loud.

The way they chew like they’re auditioning for a livestock documentary.

The way they leave the toothpaste lid just loose enough to dry into a cement ring.

And it’s mutual.

They hate you too.

They think you’re petty, small, cold.

And they’re right — you are.

Because somewhere along the way, the love died and left you both in its rotting carcass, and now all you can do is claw at each other to pass the time until one of you finally works up the nerve to leave.

You don’t want to fix it.

You don’t even want closure.

You just want them gone — not in the tragic, tear-soaked way, but in the boring, clerical way a pest control company removes a wasp nest.

One day you’ll see them on the street and feel nothing but the relief that they are no longer yours.

Until then, you exist in this shared purgatory, where the only common ground left is that you’d both be perfectly fine if the other one got hit by a bus.

[thesourcesota]

I call him Dark Light.

No matter your mood, no matter the subject—you bring him something bright, he stains it. Quietly. Thoroughly.

He sits at the centre of every conversation like a spider in a web spun from silken trauma. Not moving. Not rushing. Just waiting for something warm to wander too close.

You think you’re speaking freely.

You think you’re in control.

But you’re already caught.

A rhetorical fly

twitching, wrapped,

and about to be slowly devoured by misery.

[thesourcesota]

New Single from Marasmus: Feast for the Forty Sphincter. A title that demands answers, and offers none.

- Echo Monk

[thesourcesota]

Its not the end of the world

It’s not the end of the world, it’s the body refusing the dignity of death. No final breath, no stillness, just tissue forgetting what it was for. The lungs draw air out of habit, wet and laboured, pulling in smoke and calling it oxygen. The heart, that stubborn, treacherous muscle, keeps beating long after it should have stopped, circulating rot instead of blood, feeding every limb with the slow permission to decay. Skin sloughs in quiet places, peeling back from the bone of cities; we paint over it, call it renewal, call it progress, dress the wound and pretend not to smell it. The nerves are the worst, still firing, still feeling, every fracture, every infection translated into signals we’ve learned to rename as normal. This is not collapse; collapse would be mercy. This is a corpse taught to mimic life, organs twitching in borrowed rhythm, a mouth opening and closing in a language of denial. And we, we are the consciousness trapped inside it, aware enough to feel the rot, too afraid to pull the plug. It’s not the end of the world. It’s the long, conscious experience of being inside something that should have died already.

[thesourcesota]

I need to recalibrate. Where's my Hammer?

[thesourcesota]

What!? Of course I respect your beliefs.

Just not enough to alter my life to accommodate them.