The incessant whisper nagging at my door, the door to my soul. The sole purpose of the band striking up a tune for the final stand, crying god for Harry as they face volley & thunder. The thunderous applause of an audience so naïve & nuanced they cannot see the inevitable, onrushing collapse of society. Societal norms pushing outsiders to the edge, marginalising & labelling the mad. Madness, affected & performed by the deformed outsiders, the few who recognise a hawk from a handsaw. Scribbling, scrabbling, bubbling, babbling, the incessant whisper nags at my door. Dormant in most& for most of life, once awakened it wreaks a revenge most sour. Manic with desire you’re pulled apart by the fire that burns a gaping hole through the lobotomised knoll to the sorry soul down below. These are the things I can no longer stand, the incessant nag, the futile war band, & the madness that defines, defiles, delineates eliminates & tugs at my very existence, daring me to write, as the only means of fight left in me, a final hope, a way perhaps to right the sins & woes of my life. & so here goes, I’ll dive in, pen in hand, dipping pink toes in an inky blue sand, & when the flames within are once more fanned by the rage built up inside, we’ll merely glimpse another chance of life , of an identity, the proposed, & therefore possible existence of a me beyond the ampers&.
The new look is dark, will this theme continue in your work?
ReplyDeleteA fair amount of my stuff seems to be quite dark, so I figured it deserved a more appropriate theme. There will undoubtedly be more, possibly even darker, material appearing in the not-to-distant, but it depends on the form my inspiration takes at a particular moment.
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