Plague Doctor

Intelligence is hard; moreover, it’s a weak gene. There’s not just recessive nature to it, it’s an often, and quietly despised virtue. Regularly people seem to associate it with snobbery; I can’t deny the association exists. Through it peculiar that people imagine this as the only virtue that is susceptible. To quote a larrikin comedian who optimizes my point
‘I would take a nice idiot over a smart ass-hole any day of fucking the week, ladies and gentlemen.’
True; but what of the idiotic ass-hole or the kind hearted intelligentsia?
In a limited experience smart people aren’t always, exactly intelligent, more often these people we believe are clever cats could tell you tomes about their profession, while being lost in any words that they consider pointless, beneath them, or uninteresting seeing them as the dialect of fools. These are the ‘smart ass-holes’
I prefer people who are ‘sharp,’ willing to entertain thoughts that seem redundant in efforts of expanding their perspective. This is the intelligence that is hard; the kind that requires a will to learn. The kind of intelligence that is recessive. That is kind that Loral’s cannot be rested on. It is the kind that prizes being wrong as a necessary part of being right.
Speaking from power when you can and relinquishing it when you must learn.


Attempting To Do Medicine

Soon I’ll leave the speaking to the orators. I find myself exhausted by recounting what is obvious to me and those who have taught me. Frequently I’ve had a desire to prove blissful ignorance is as listless and vain; not worth the fleeting comfort for the Draconian ideas that so effortlessly slip past the blissful, ignorant and optimistic, skeptical of scientism. Though I feel I would miss those honest schisms. Be dissatisfied with the inference of what my, then, peers consider explicit. Can it be trusted that what’s needs be said will be? Given how exhausting necessity can be?
I trust my, now, counter parts to hold the line. Though this is just the issue; It is easier to hold a blissful front than a line held by exhaustion at ignorance that is only taxing to those who recognize it.

Blue Rosey Jazz

The instrument has a swing to it, but underneath the lilting rhythms it plays there is a sadness only music could conceal under such bombastic noise.

It’s the sadness of walking the streets in that blue late night air. It’s in the gazes one could shoot down alleys, knowing in one of them a addict is using up the last of their stash.
The tune of that brass curve will follow you round the bends of concrete and bitchumen, fluctuating it’s strength like the wind that sheers off your chipped shoulder on a gusty day.
It’ll saunter alone, drifting through the clouds as you ask a God on high to stop you from the terror you’re about to unleash.
One could sit transfixed in it’s melody passing off everyone, and all else, to pluck that sadness from it.
It sounds so beautiful when you’ve done no wrong.
Yet will make you clutch for the bottle while you lay in the clutches of regret.
It will make you scream for salvation from a nail bed of your own making, or cause you to relish a beating.
It brings those with hollow halos down to swig from lucifers chalice.
It makes turning the cheek possibl and will even call some to noir murder. It wil touch the fire in your belly till you bellow forth your true self or a flame so violent it will shred you raw.
At which point ‘where do you turn?’ With such beautiful self hatred in your palms ‘where do you turn?’
Do you project to the world a softly stoic rapsady? Or do you trumpet an inferno of rage, a jet fuel candle soul to leave a memory tarnished with no one.
With no one around who would care to correct the reputation of an arsonist.
For you see these are no vocals from an unknown sorrow, these floating clouds, these dingy alleys, these terrors or that fire.
This is not lucifers chalice, this is blue rosey Jazz.
This is my soul screaming at itself as the sax screeches at me
This is my holy horned self loathing.

Revel in Your Rebels

I find myself in a heterotopia looking for a new wave to wash over me with a gentle rhythm and quiet I haven’t felt in years. Bitter wine has washed me down and the feeling of recognising the blood running through my veins is a feeling all too rare in a lust for wall of plastic toys. I look upon my floor, laden with trash and thrust dusty garments alike, put there with a child’s delighted eyes. I dream of riches in sweet memories I have deposited to gain intrigue and collect under my bed.

The fusion within my soul that my heart inclines me we all pulse toward, is tangible! We’re all blending and it’s beautiful, though those years we have drowned in damages and trauma in an attempt to deny the life we truly could live. We’ve bobbed like boeys in this water, dripping with sarcasm drinking in and away our comforts.

I find myself on a crest gazing toward what is to come, a period of frantic change to be sure; if nothing else.

It’s sure to be marked my shells on the beach miles of unknown souls like the memories under my bed. Truly. They will be alone with no being to listen. All those moments discarded as the mass of water pulls back, pinning us to our final motif.

While the crest lingers I scan my floor only guessing the routes that month old candy wrapper could have traveled to land there, stranded forgotten.

I begin to hear whispers from quiet birds this is to be our place, as memories stranded in a purgatory where there is no pain, no fulfillment, simply a moment when one day the wave surge on back, an insumountable coulda-water-shoulda-didn’t. While the waves call like sirens I seek not a comfortable crepuscular cocaine high nor do I wish to lay on the shore with the din of old Eden’s colliding, to surrender to a fate I did not create.
I think on countless momentoes momentarily lost, to be found deep in the linings lint.

We see our path ahead only through accomodation and the fusion within us to temper the waves to come. But no force nor any other entity could pull from suits a stop the bathing bloody flood
The cranes take their roost soon and the migration is cancelled we must choose fusion with ourselves and our planet, our only perfect planet! Or let ourselves was away with shells, dirty socks and candy wrappers in a drunken binge. Human sacrifices to our legacy, ones with no living heirs and few suitable successors.

We must have final and ultimate respect for fused memories and hope in accomodation and by no other means. Lest that accomodation be held at extortion till the price is too high bar some slim few in deboutched pleasures. While most sit in the jaws of hell’s firey urban jungle long before we are swept to sea the beauty of which we will never set eyes upon again.

But ahead plotting in futures in a peak of pleasures and miracle tonics we are yet to notice our coming pergatury. Remember the blood running through you.

The blood of slim miracles.

The blood of unspoken changes.

The blood of our mortality.

The blood from the wave that will smear or smooth us.

The blood of us.

The small, the powerful, the pointless, pointy headed, red, deaded, the living, the lifeless, the meaningful, the mental, sentimental, fundimental, unintellegable, surreal, women of steel, men of carefree zeal.

Remember the blood you inherited from the slimmest of chances to Beatles to pussy pimples. Remember the blood that rebels with loving hatred to the entropy that came before you could have ever enjoyed a breath. Remember the blood that will one day lay with you at the end, stilling with the last pumps of your heart. Remember the blood cycling within our view to be taken or shared in good faith. Remember the blood of us, rebels defiant to the impossible void and oncoming waves. Rebel accomodating the infinite who coulda-shoulda-and-did.


Photo Credits: Blythe Allan




Lights in the Dark

See how easily it takes over friends? The numbness and rabble of everyday news tragedy and immoral breaches to anyone considered normal. With all these pains what is normal? Should I wish to break through the standard parables and glimpse a few dimensions higher, maybe just to feel the weight of it. The energetic movement and co-ordination that came from placing this beautiful universe into action with a will and a wave of the hand, that these tragedies happen for so little is sickly.

But in a moment of recognition, realizing all you had to do was move your finger to the left and the world unfoldeth hundredfold differently, is that not a light to balance the spires of dark we hear from the horizon.



Winter lets me know I’m real. As I pass the place that she knew and used, under the fig trees she figured out her due doubts, sundered in two.
She had one thing of a few that she knew, now, at least how to feel real. And 4 or 3 later she is pattering around the edge of matter and consequence. I seek recompense from henceforth, she hit the peck ages ago and now the creaking floor boards that she poured her tensity onto in every last bitty litty bit sit moored.
it was her litany and he remembers just how lies got let loose the mutiny was caused by the pauses between the clauses of the sentences exchanged… and strange how dangerous talking can be.

See, now stalking a stranger, her Facebook has majorly changed she’s cooked and estranged from the girl hurled into intensity curled like the pinky of propensity around her sanity.

The vanity was only a product of her improper conduct, and struck he is in the muck and grime that maybe in the time beyond school you’re more of a fool. We were blessed to be climbing with the best of friends, not those you may close your interests on later, see mate the, alligators are, out in number, but our minds are still under the clout of slumber. Just without the hunger.
And without the same doubt she made a blunder.
but one hundred years will pass and a close group of peers would still bring the truth nearer to your ears than the jeers, cheers, sneers from those only linked by beers.

🎐 🍙

Dart Hearts

Today you try once again to leg go of a crutch you’ve held for far too long. So write this in honour to the longest love of your life, she was there always no matter where your heart would roam, you would come back to her battered and she’d be all the more willing to make you happier, but not without the sharp dry wind that subtly reminds you.
‘You dun fucked up.’
She would seem like the perfect lover but she’ll deceive you, I suppose it’s only fair when you’ve felt her hair so many times while another is sitting right there, you felt her kiss and assumed no remiss, so it’s not surprising she’s cheating on you and with that other girl too.
Then she’s not so special sitting there on the mantel but she’s got her sting in you, now try go a second without asking when you’re gonna see her again.
Then you walking into an alley and she’s dallied out and you’re tongue tied, you won’t bide your time any longer.
‘I thought you were mine?’
But in the end were all trying to pleasure this mistress.

And we all have our little tricks just to make her wink in our vicinity and stroll up casually and plant a light hearted and headed kiss on us.

And for an instant we remember why started it, this cruel love affair, there everywhere you go. But you wake the next morning and you’ll tell her it’s over, that she’s bad for you throw her across the room, and beat her, but when she’s shoots you a stare and you’re right back there, lying in bed with her on top.
Subconsciously beg her to stop, but your hand drops limp while the other remains to hold her in cause you’re so scared to lose her.
What a fuckless comfort.

You push her of when she’s done; you tried your ways to make her more playful even though the lord our saviour already knows missionary is the only thing that fills thee. Blimey you got in this again.
‘fuck how did it happen again’
you see you’re friends who steered clear of her and you remember telling them, how much she soothes your worries and cares on through.

Now how they gaze at you so glued to the alleys and lanes, hell even windows just for a chance to dance with her again. She has MJ’s moves just not his voice.
Eventually you realise reality, you’re addicted to the she-devil, you’d admit it but all attempt to level yourself and keep your distance fail. Even when you work in your butts and spliffs and your move on has just begun she don’t just begone because she misses you and your clothes still smell like her, from all those late nights when she was the only one at the end lying in your arms, locking palms.
All those threesomes she was only so gleesome to bring you to, or bring her to, can’t really tell can you?
You’ll rinse your clothes a thousand times and your hair a thousand more, but smell you will, evermore.
Everybody gave you the warnings boy.
‘Don’t toy with her! She’s poison to your mental and toxic from the first kiss silly.’
But she seems to appear everywhere now just as her musk cloud that surrounds you has dissipated; you smell it on every second cunt…
‘Oh fuck it.’
‘You’re a fucking bitch, I thought we swore an oath at the start of this shit, you promised me I’d be cool, you forced me over boundary lines to many times and I’m sick in the stomach and sick of your shit.
Your breath is rancid anyway and while you’re fucking my friends you’re mind fucking me with glee because you know you got me, harhar Tartar.
Aren’t you funny you stupid gateway whore, the fuck do I pay you for?’
‘Why do you pay me so handsomely?’
‘Because deep down I’m still addicted to the way you bring me to my knees, praying, please make this train.’
When we kiss in the rain, nothing could ever be the same.
‘Sorry I’m leaving before you ruin my brain.’
‘I hope you do the same.’

👘 🍙 🐾