Frigus Conscriptoris

A word is born. It grows in the mind like a babe from seed. It wriggles and writhes, and exponentially rises, until suddenly – an Idea. The word shoots forth and multiplies, becomes complex. It is not yet whole, but it doesn’t need to be. That will come with time.


Mindless babbling.
The voice of a wretched scavenger.
Nothing is clear, and everything is dangerously near.
A fully formed thought, just out of reach teases me, tantalising… touching my fingertips like a tongue to lips. Never quite close enough to satisfy, it is enough to madden even the most unhinged of minds. Mine.

“Sitting at a typewriter and bleeding”, because it is just that easy,
but my blood is not ink, and my mouth is as dry as my brain.
There will be no rainfall this year.
Words that once subverted are inverted and senseless.
Relentlessly empty.
Wordless babble posing as complex thought.
My mind has been robbed. Not violently, not glamorously, but slowly and painfully depleted.
Left for dead, abandoned, bleeding out for hours, months, years…

My tongue does not remember the taste of poetry.
My fingers do not remember rhythm.
My voice has cracked for the last time, and my soul is numb.

Innocent babbling.
Forgive me, for I know not what I say.
My words are hostage and I am powerless to save.
Who will rescue me now? When I cannot cry for help –
Who will see me?
Who will comfort me and give life to my thoughts, lost even unto myself?
I do not know myself.

My mind, my mind, why have you forsaken me?
Rambling, rambling, I am betrayed!
I did not earn this punishment,
this slow-burning fire of hell,
this living inferno that steals the very breath from my lungs!
My organs rot inside me, I must remain
decrepitly skeletal, necrotic, ashamed.
Desperate for redemption, I ready my soul
and tense each fibre of my being –
with one final heave I express the vocal gland, and-
The whispering sigh of failure without relief.


Self-ownersip: A Guide

On a Wednesday.
On a #WhereIAmNowWednesday.
Or a #WhyAmIWhereIAmNowWednesday.
Not your typical trip down memory-lane tirade, but a dig down the rabbit-hole and into tomorrow and next year and the next five minutes
where I am underfed, overfed, abandoned, and policed.
Where Big Brother watches me walk through the Wasteland, where I’m singing ‘tumbling in turmoil’, and where the Morlocks are my mind.
Moloch, their cousin, is your mind.
So you mind your manners now.


Where is the rock where you left your dreams? And where are the clouds where you left your hopes? And why should Thursday be better than Wednesday, when week-day wistfulness waits to be murdered by Monday?
Motivation was the biggest lie they told you.
That the gods of the Greats would grace your lives with their gaze,
Would wreak control and chaos in equal measures into your creative tidy-holes,
Would conjure a beautiful vision of Future and Prospertiy and Progress without dirtying their tunics to tarnish the Present.
That the Present is a gift, for the present is a curse to be overcome.
The gods of your ‘greats’ are mere ghosts of Moloch, waiting in the wings for you to shout
‘I am with you in Rockland’, to cue their glamourous and ethereal entrance.

So Shout ‘I am with you in Rockland’
and Stand
and Show your demons that you are their Creator, Director of the powerful play in which they are your pawns and Decision is yours and in which Life is yours for the making.