George IV – A Saint in Hades

There is a journey, which some of us have to take. A journey of self destruction to the outsider, but self discovery to the self,  and until we hit the absolute low, the extreme edge, and exhausted every single hole, where there is no further to fall, only then may we consider returning, but return a better person we will. Perhaps.

Just give me back that normal time. I’ll do anything. Take all my insides out, take them out and drop them into the incinerator, the same incinerator I disposed my last soul into only last weekend. I never learn. Normal time; Monday mornings, empty mundane mornings, empty toothpaste, off milk, no milk, no career, ill prepared, but the wheel turns regardless. Waking up with a hard on, hard toast, hard times, exhaust fumes, folk moping through town like wet rats. Same people stand in the same place on the same platform for the same train to do the same job for the same money. They call it professionalism. They never learn. I suppose being in shackles keeps one safe, keeps one saved? For another life of this? Or saved from freedom? From the freedoms of forming your own kismet? We work the seam of the pockets of our bosses and complain there are no jobs for life.

Pound for pound the head pounds like no drum ever could, time has bent its axis around my mind and what was normal, dependable, reliable is now alien. Who was familiar last night are now staring ghouls, they stare but never speak, scattered limbs like a demolished factory around this grim, grim room. This lightwell, this darkwell, this pigeon infested shadow of dampness. Someone comes in, then leaves, I think, possibly, not sure, difficult to tell anymore. So stupidly cold, so delightfully numb. I drift from armchair to sofa without moving. My head is spinning sewage, crunched, compressed, with mild to concerning vertigo from these encrusted springs. I need bleaching I do, but whose hands will wash this pretty filth.