The Madness of King George

What is necessary, is to write
I fear I am drifting into the unnecessary realm of doughey contentment.

It should be taught
That the gaps in productivity are not
Highly organised or phallic
Or in the madness of King George's Head
They can sit in your soul
Like tiny green witches
Hunted like they are.

You all laugh
And say
You know
But what do you know?
You know nothing
And nothing begets nothing
All will circulate until we are dead.
And now that I am done with you
You may go.

6,775,235,741

What choice of words
Or mix of memory
Could be conjured upon you?
Sugar-pie,
Moon-beam,
Sweet-cheeks?
Not even predictive texting agrees with me.

Would you have me remember that your skin smells
Like play-dough?
Your brittle hair, such a glad
Contrast to your soft face.

And then you mean the world to me.

My worst quality shines through
Even now -
Emotionally stupid.
You, somehow,
A Mythical Other
You,
A sovereign sex.

I look at how we talk, how we attempt
And guess what The Other means,
We both intertwine and combine,
Become parabolic prophasis, reborn in ambiguity.

It takes a moment
Before I remember my solitude,
Or decide once more,
Unclench my fists,
Feel the hot irons of tension release.

It's not self aware. It has no self.

That love is no commodity?
And If I would do my best,
If only I always remembered
That it was my own electrical impulses
I adored?

That those best suited to love
Would choose themselves first?

And as I remember, the Earth has gone full revolution
Twenty one times already,
Whilst six billion, seven hundred and seventy five million, two hundred and thirty five thousand, seven hundred and forty one eyes stare back, into the gaze of the
Burning desolation of the sun,

Celestial bodies who coexist with each other
On a small planet,
In the middle of nowhere,
Dearest lovers, bigger still than all of it.

Learn to Return

It took me seven hours
Seven pints of watered down beer like piss
Seven grams of ecstasy

To look at the past seven days of the World,
My, small world
My personal world
Made of one nose
Two ears
Two eyes
Two hands
And too much assumption

To watch people dissemble to objective reality
Watch Fathers curse their kids
Watch Kids balk and wail in streets in their own interest
Watch myself get tattooed by people's phrases,
To wonder,
How much power I had,
Whether I was in control,
Since I could never know
The modes of operation,
When all of our beings
Are made of assumption.

We'll fight each other
In a ritual of self loathing,
Apes on a treadmill.
And I'll start muttering under my breath
Take the car out more often
And drive nowhere.

Where I'll take
Seven bottles of whiskey
Seven grams of cocaine
And take seven hours alone,
Where after constructing something
I can understand, I'll forgive it all
And learn to return.

For Mother

Oh mother, I’m a lone dog
Walking myself by the reservoir
Loyal in starvation
Ignoble in reason
Driven towards discomfort
Where sleep is for dreamers
Watching my hairy skin
Age before my eyes.

Are you Mother?
I had asked to a woman of no dissimilar
Stature
Height
And appearance.
Yes she called
And she took me away
Where I became another son
Another girl’s boy?

O mother
You have made this lone dog a girlboy unique.
How many more sleepless nights?
How many girlboys with pale lined faces will traipse
With me
Towards school today?
Consigned to lol and omg I’ll brb.
When I’m ready, when the time is right,
I’ll sleep again, I promise but the night is long yet
Mother, for a dog girlboy,
And I’ve got all these years to go.

NN

Thefateofneutralnorway.wordpress.com

This is where everything happens, see, it's relative to what goes in and on and up and down and round and round. Nothing but anything is worth the bluffing or rebirth that I give this but it lives with bliss so listen,

Bitches.

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On The Sleeve

Do you ever think you're ill?
I do.

I'll share this with everyone in the room,
My grandfather died in pain.
When I last saw his body it was
Just skin wrapped on bone and he was dying.

You don't smoke do you?
No Grand-da.
And he punched me lightly on the cheek.

A man I could never be.
My other grandfather,
He whistles for his wife

Whe-whe-whe-whe-whe-whei.

And when he dies
I won't shed a tear.

And so it makes me wish
Makes me scream at my wet ceiling
makes me balk at the heels
That I didn't
When John Sheppard
Last good man on earth
Died with a tumour removed
That was bigger than
My own sullen and aborted emotion.

Charlie Cojone, Therapist.

Charlie Cojone
Why did you ever think
That if someone likes you
There must be something wrong with them?

Because you're reassuring them
With your pathetic affections
Mumbled love
And pseudo-erections.

Lah de-dah
Oh your aching heart.
Having a hard time
Telling yourself
That they are okay.

You can't fuck
And come
Because you're busy
Patronising them with an orgasm.

You can't help but
Do a sickly sweet smile
At every little thing they say.

There must be something right
With someone
Sticking their neck out for you
Like that.
Letting you fuck them
Letting you think you're therapist.