Catch something caught finally collided in the net widely 
cast, cascaded, castigated, turned half-crazed; related to 
aches and pains allayed by affirmation outside of the 
thing most-prized - to say  in the mirror that today is ok,
that its actually alright. 

But rigor-mortis mind rakes arrays of mistakes stiffened and ice cold
facts of times when I failed to fight attacks by ideas black and blue 
battered and flayed on the merciless altar of never being good enough. 
Not good enough to measure up to the impossible scaled heights
and pedestals where mistakes are never to be found, where 
idealistic heroes stand and stark silver spoons protrude from their jowls. 

But mistakes can't be overshadowed by fake snake oil salesmen 
lying to show just how great their ascent has been and pointing out how
you are not one of them, yet maybe this is just a churlish  illusion of a half baked brain
unable to see the reality that it is half baked. 

So half baked brain looks to clasp some reality where the other half has a 
chance to learn to develop a sense of actual self then. Living in the realms 
of seeking affirmation for every breath and cell division, is this ok? Is this
good enough then?

Mom doesn't think so as she rails and deflates the person you should have been.
Is this something actually something then?

​The child chastises itself and fails again.

Steel pin claws pine for brazen company
underneath welcoming folds of delicious numbness
mouse lays in warm arms, eyes swimming contentedly 
while Vultures gather outside of the mouse trap, taunting
the mouse in final jeopardy, unknowing of the fate
as inevitable as Autumn.

Mouse can't see that the place of refuge is death,
instead cling tightly as tiny talons twitch
turn body into the side, push steel spike into rib flesh
as dream tears dry on singed sanguine fluffy lies
as dark flies gather to consume mouse when death finally arrives.

The mouse trap hidden from prying eyes a, steel death spike 
underneath waiting to spring a loathsome surprise.
Cirrhosis skies, purple clotted clouds
Vein lighting shudders across
the horizon of life's deluded miles.

A million mice asleep each in their own mouse trap. 
 
Mouse sits suddenly sensing the trap.  Pull aside the cotton layers,
the deceit is revealed to screaming eyes. This was never your bed.
This was NEVER your friend. 

Mouse bolts out of the cage before the trap is sprung. 

Vultures move to the next cage, this one is done. 

Owning onerous memory, fledgling flapping mouths yawning nest-mounted in unsteady awnings
Dangling feathered Owls teetering-teasingly on the edge of falling down
No good morning only asking strangers to unpick the monstrous dawning
realisation that your mind has been pick-pocketed by cuckoo-faced porcine snarling raiders
Raising the potential of living this life without any real idea how to stop life just from pouring 
from every pore, feeling poorly pressing against the door, unmoving, mourning.
Removing orange stains from carpets where wrists were torn open blood-letting in letters
using words as blades, fawning at every stranger offering you even a hint of relief from appalling
flashbacks and PTSD dreams. Yawning. 
Sleep now, another trauma day is calling. 

Flashing frames of vintage film reels
flickering mental images flit-flit hitting
retinas with memory segments accumulated
from years of flailing, self-flagellating behaviours.

Hitting one's self with word nails, steel sharp vowels 
reneging rapidly on promises, retracting and withdrawing ideals
stamping out any sense of belonging, sabotaging any potential
back into the wardrobe where no one can see you.

Switch on the projector. Rustling film crawls through sharp mechanisms
mechanically extracted memories flushed out of bones. 
Break open and siphon out the marrow. 
There is always tomorrow. 
Tomorrow. 
​

Thankyou time, withdrawing all sensibility
blinking once or twice each flicker a week
spending fleeting slivers engrossed in depleted
freak shows, speaking meekly of intentions to
overthrow inertia like some laden-down snagged camel
dragging the corpse of a deposed master by the ankles.
Anvils attached to each leg, arm and one around the neck
Don't be upset by that vision, it isn't real. 

Instead reflect upon the times when you crushed the 
steel burdensome weights like cotton-candy snakes,
coiled at first around sinew and stringy tendons,
thrown off like confetti, abandoned and sniffed at
like some sorry imagined magnet mangled bracelet 
abandoned on the boiling substrate.

Stuff this stupid feeling of going backwards.
Lean forwards, push your weight full force supine 
into the manacle, feel the pressing choke of the 
yolk yanking at your enfeebled vertebrae.
Yell tall obscenities until this blasted thing
begins to drag dumb angel shapes
in the scorched earth.

I'm sick of this figure-of-eight state of play,
praying for the day when the same shit retreats
from every act preordained by some ghostly male 
progenitor, a pale general with no horse to ride to war on.
Running sideways with one arm tucked behind his back
hiding crossed fingers that reveal that this whole thing is some 
massive cosmic error. 

So lay back and stop worrying.
There's no reason to regret neglecting the pursuit of wealth
only to find yourself in a place where material things are immaterial. 
Lie down like a cat and feel the vibration from a trillion 
tonnes of pointless earth pressing against your body, tearing your 
atoms into ever smaller particles. It doesn't matter.

Laying on the bottom of the well floor
dry dust like flour 
white dot signifying a higher power
high above black tube walls 
a disc above like an unidentified visitor
from another world.
So lying there face up 
waterless tube dropped down into
lungless earth rock 
low as to the centre of magma heart
this is a clear metaphor
for feeling an eternal distance from normal.

Close my eyes and feel
a third person
who is it?
an imposter or saviour?
It is me without the burdens, weights and saddles 
of memory or dreary trauma.
I lay here contemplating, feeling numb
Is this tube a grave or a rifled gun? 

Wrestle sage voice, wise kind words spat out,
sitting flat out on the ground surrounded by rats
acting on impulses projectile-vomit scraps scraped
from compliments uttered by strangers meaning well,
dwelling on the other side of the black coin, the dark Queen
a deep well of insults going back to time immemorial 
kind words are molecules in the slick inky depths,
memories sink but feelings bubble to the surface

still 

sage voice speaks on lowered notes, noting times
when things were better, softly spoken tones making it
through the rejection filter. A younger fitter body 
long dangly legs and blonde locks shocked by the stunned silence
sliding in between violent scenes, crying out pointlessly
Scenery that was green, grey-tinged with fall-out dust
the fall-out from arguments, pitchy shouting voices
failing to make a mark on the scars already laid open,
barking mad dogs starkly marking territories

reach for something liquid to shut out the voices.

Come in now !
​Gather all come and see!
One more time, one more time 
queue myriad slights of thought 
like caverns covered in bat droppings
upside-down ideas flapping in the blank,
banking on some emerging idea to 
spark a light instead of yet more 
rank-and-file man-handling 
insignificant plankton-like
top-down decrees 
empty-headed 
automatons,
aggravated by 
sights and sounds
of even the smallest hint 
of thought, cue mental break-downs
so keep your powder dry to unleash on
minion-clowns crowding cretinous caverns
all eyes fixed on the mottled underground,
all ears tuning into the slightest sounds
...don't give away your position
crawl back into the 
dark calm of
submission
​

Smile this end accepting social blending
stalked eyes crabbing sideways around crowds
creeping with guile trying not to be noticed
hiding in full view chest puffed out 
deciding whether to run or stay put
doubt smothered by pretending dances 
advance or reject advances
hide or run full tilt 
into walls or the arms of your clown self 
spy crowds, take flight into darkened 
recesses push deeper into enveloping 
arms except these are clawed spiky 
nasty death embraces where strangers
Hide true faces.