DIGI.SCRIBE

The cost for the drug treatment of cancer
1500 a day (or so I'm told as my salonist appeases me as an aesthete)
I scoff at the note, that greed is the only answer
The cost is irrelevant when there's no choice, I see mirrors in athletes

The need, not the need to stay mortal, no
But the need to be beyond that, ascend.
A human body is limited, so
We just need to only human pretend.

How can we be much more than flesh and bone?
To be a new body, to human divorce
To forge a vessel anew is technology unknown,
But maybe, bear with me, I'll be a horse.

Radiant splendour, muscle sinew alloys.
To be a stallion, one in equipoise.

If every time we fuck you're going to cry again,
About a boy or a man or a dream that I don't know,
Maybe it's best I kill you now to be done with it then.

Speak your rotten mind and find a way to show
What I can do to release this chain from the necks of men,
That clearly bleach your mind as a field of snow.
I'm tired of dealing with you after every tryst,
I’m here for body not mind, not to be your therapist.

I fall in love every other day,
I find myself lost in minds so deep,
Not with you dear, I'm sorry to say,
But with those that come to me in my sleep.

I dream more when standing than when I lay
Maybe I adore too easily, like a creep
One conversation or fantasy is all it took
For me to write a new chapter in my book.

Sleeping beauty’s kiss wakes me from the dream
I need to find more in life than what life finds in me.

With claret stained knees (my sign of youth)
I write this, staying the path not righteous, but right.
With burgundy stained shirt (a sign uncouth)
I write that, perhaps it was a wayward night.

With stained sanguine collar (I did win that fight),
I recall to myself who lost that tooth,
as I fumble to tug free my Bic light,
I say it's not mine, but who knows the truth.

Homing pigeon heart O' guide me home,
Avian breast, but mind the bones.

Maybe --      if I wrote my
                 Letters like I
Didn't FUCKING          know English
  you'd
                   Read them.

Its funny. My mother would rather me go to war than to fight,
She'd rather I kill or die trying than to see my pride shattered,
If I lost our little duel, that shame would snuff something so bright,
That my injured heart would hurt more than my body battered.

Perhaps it's the uniform, every mother loves a son's sight,
When a clean cut man with intent to kill is all that mattered,
I love her and she loves me,
But I'm confused by this little fallacy

Beautiful catlike eyes bore like vacuous curiosity,
Summer pallet hues stare free beyond angel curls.
Perfect features that I adore in clarity,
Your lips, warm with lust, part and unfurl. I

nside you, all you are, I can see in the eyes of the host.
 Patina like exotic amber, exchanged for whole countries in worth. 
An arab state would have warred from oasis to coast,
To have you, red silk ceremonies thrown in mirth. 

And yet, I had you. Without war or trade, you were more than a friend.
 I’ll mourn the loss, until I see you again with another life to spend.

If a God did make this land, she did rather well. 
Perfect breasts form hills that please the eye, a stream that forms a belt. 
Emerald skin with virtuous imperfection. A secret they’d never tell,
Is why they put man here. ‘To impress’, I myself felt.
‍
Please do not think I do not love man, and life, and the struggle to be-
For I do. I just truly believe our nature is not to one with nature...
And it’s odd that the shepherds have such disdain to see
Unsullied land, virgin to the touch, that we can make something greater. 

I see man in nature and, yes, the reverse.
My favourite words are those that remind me of earth.
I love life, but we don’t seem to love where we’re birthed.

I can barely behold your beacon light,
Undeserving, unknowing, your features designed
By a craftsman with skill, luck, perfect sight. 
You, never before had anyone managed to define.

Are the perfect frames, like Heaven’s landscape,
Evidence for a designer? I think not-
No God could ever settle for less if this muscat grape
could make a perfect wine from a harvest of rot. 
‍
You must, then, be nature’s very statement.
In a golden landscape of diamond vines, you are her agent

Dew falls from the branch,

The little robin quivers,

Burning pupils don’t.

I built a house today for a whore.
I don’t see her value, not to justify the price.
I’d rather jewelry, though useless bar for
Vanity and to feed my parasitic avarice.

I nearly lied and said I don’t understand my hatred
for this imp, for it is certainly not jealousy.
My views are simple and my safety unsated,
I believe, rather, I fear the aspects of legacy.

The possibility that my presence is secondary,
or worse, that this is how it is meant to be.

Beauty is narcotic, and I’d pay to consume it.
 A vision of perfection and it grips man by instinct,
It’s a honey poison that can corrupt beyond minds we see fit,
Affection and its endless hunts cause damage more distinct
To the humbled and the needy which no doubt we label eagerly discarded.
Why then do we chase not happiness but prize?
Is it natural that our tastes, exclusive, make us Able
To be hurt by our love, pride, trust, by those whose wandering eyes
Refuse to see our mirrored feelings, projected beyond weight, maybe grav-
ity can give no more pull, I am the worst lover you’ll ever have.

I really don’t know what you want.

I don’t. 

I am all that anything could be.
 I am moonlit paradise, a lake swanned by angels.

 Perhaps you do not wish for a paradise.
I am little more than everything,
And that is not it.

You wrap dark curls abound your ring finger,
I, in turn, feign my last breath is for us.
Watch how your crimson heart cannot linger,
When knowing lips tell lies of love and lust.

Your heights were mine, I have marks as proof
Of our minds already being in chains
We coaxed dopamine by our act aloof,
Hot breath and your vampire bite will remain,

On David’s sullied skin, cut from marble
-A woman complete, a sight to marvel.

What an elegant man, silhouetted
By the takeaway lights of our destination
His audience inside are as taken, besotted
As I am- held firm in admiration.

One hand drags a cigarette, burning slow
and illuminating his tatty sleeve,
The other aims his cock, targeted flow
Canary splash window, urinal belief.

Not an unusual sight, to know better
Better out than in, says the go-getter.

Amid a city's harsh lights, steel and stone,
Two souls found love amid a brutalist display.
In towering structures they found their hearts sewn,
They danced amidst the concrete through night and day
‍
Open seeking hearts may find and be found in grace
Among an urban nightmare they still find their place

Yeah, I bet, I bet your neighbours love you.
 I bet they do. Bet they can’t stop thinking
Or wondering ‘bout everything you do,
Bet they wish you’d drown from too much drinking.
They don’t love you like I do, not a chance.
 I’ll chuck vomit at the thought of you nude
Then I’ll wipe my lips and ask you to dance.
I hate you, cunt, I adore you and brood. 

Serpent, are you? All scaled sharp and green,
Harsh tongue, stone heart, a perfection unseen

I’ll hope and pray they end you, your neighbours,
I hope it’s quick. I hope a speeding bus
Renders you smeared, it’d save the labor-
It would, there’s no room there to discuss.
From ‘cross a street I spy your burning blind,
The lives you’re ruining by living yours,
Have you fed them today, O mother kind?
I have faith in you, but there is no cure.

Slit-eyed snake, split tongue and fated alone
Snuffed candle embers still smoke under the stone.

Nebula beauty, litany pigment.
Beyond the touch and prayer of man.
Now beyond reach, was it mere figment?
Perhaps it was gone before it began.

Nebula beauty, from supernova,
Or embryotic growth - Which one are you?
Lingering dust, or cosmic ambrosia,
Were you destroyed, or to be born anew?

Nebula beauty, mortal mind raptured
Celestial cloud unsullied, uncaptured.

Give me an eternity on you,
give me all the time you've got.
Give me it all to peruse
and I'll show you my thought.
‍
Make time for me, create it anew.
I'll show you what I see, why I know I love you.

Hold the hands of time, stun them with grace,
Like you’d hold mine before you plant your lips to my face.
Stubble sharp to your flesh, I laugh at the fact
That you think of caterpillars when your skin’s chapped.
Smash the hourglass, brush the sand under the rug,
I need this moment to everlast, alarm clock unplugged.

With eternity behind me and you to my front,
I would ask Skoll and Hati to end their hunt.
For just one night, that’s all I can ask
An endless night, a simple task-

I’ll count each freckle and adore the perfection,
I’ll need eternity to properly show my affection.
An hour, a day, a year’s too short.
A life’s not enough to bring words from thought,

So freeze time my darling, for me, for us.
So I’ve time to tell you your beauty in verse.

Every little birthday is a bit of a nightmare.
I dust off the rotting wooden table for you,
You stare at me with scorn and sit right there,
And I burn the candle and lay plates pour deux.

You shake with fear when I hold the knife.
I point it at you, so you understand your place,
You understand that our engagement is rife
With all sorts of sin and disgrace.

The lights are outside now, their sirens too.
They shout through broken windows and mothbit drapes.
“You shut your fucking mouth” I snarl at you,
As you, with shaking lip, sit with mouth agape.

“Smile for me!” I growl, the dark makes it hard to see.
As you struggle to smile and ichor streams from your lip.
I didn’t mean to cut you, that I guarantee.
Or, I think I didn’t mean to, maybe I slipped.

I know you’re better now. I can see it on your skin.
Blood ichor wine, from a fleshy little grape
You taste sweeter than I knew, where do I begin-
Palette so rich - life’s flavour reshaped.

They’re here now, with their flashing lights and screams.
Did I play my part well - did I meet my mask persona?
It’s all quite numb now. Blood leaks from peppered jeans.
I think it’s dark now. Thanks to you, my Desdemona.

Curvy season is over, he mumbles
under his breath to assist his spelling.
His nails are dirty, something antifungal
needs prescribing to stop it smelling. 

Fat digits slam unwanted thoughts publicly,
the truth (he thinks)- he knows they’ll all agree.
That’s the fun of echo chambers, you shout
and hear your own voice untwisted reroute.

Other men, so equally dejected,
quickly join in with glee. “We’re not alone!”
In their space where dissent is rejected.
 In their space that reeks of sweat-stale cologne. 

They love your very form and hate your mind
You don’t deserve be, you exist as defined.

Guy’s got anti charisma,
 Everything so fake and forced.

Guy’s an enigma,
Mouth some foul exhaust. 

Guy’s like a kid, 
No one listens to his chat
‍
Guy’s disappeared,
After every joke fell flat.

Tug at my roman collar, maverick.
Pull my wretched neck chain closer to you.
Kneel at Cupids altar, little catholic.
Mi amor, worship me where sins withdrew. 

 Venus’ body in this ash-lit hue
Or are you Eve, drawn to the fatal fruit?
The devil himself leads you to taboo,
Or Bachus’ ichor stems disrepute. 

 Sueda bless my tongue, tell me, how’s it taste?
Kiss Adam, my Volupta, give in to grace.

Stella star, can you see me from afar?
I see how you shine, how you shone for me.
 Black sky of guiding lights, astral bazaar,
You were the brightest, spied from oversea.

 Ivory skin, alabastar marble.
Face, figure and shadow carved by my dreams
For here, what else can explain this marvel
Than subconscious sculpting beauty supreme. 

Though, now, your beacon has dulled on this shore,
You’re there when my eyes close forever-more.

A squire sits in his office chair, laden
With plastics and chemicals- all sterile.
He shines the steel and fancies the maiden
Afar, who ignores the petty gentile.
Lordship comes, boots of ebony leather
Harken like clapped applause up the stairwell.
We feign our silence- you can hear a feather,
But we’re paid to. You’re beyond meek, Bombshell.

Cladded up in vestiges fine, like God,
Your mothpure cotton belies a facade.

#

Were this squire, a squire true- He’d be with horse.
He’d be in stable, brush ahand, tending
To walking gold. If it were true, of course,
He’d do as told, or at least pretending.
When beast arrest, and rest they will, the squire
Will tend himself to court. Bitch of marble
they say abreath'd, jesting as they retire.
Besides the candles, perhaps it’s more carnal.
‍
King athrone’d, crown appieced, he guides the crowd
The squire sits, bored, appeased, head deeply bowed.

#

When all’s done, court’s closed, candles burnt to wick.
A courts-maid teases our little hero squire,
his cleaning so distracted with her tricks,
By a moonlit room, this cherub's face he admired.
They were all that’s there, the last of the flock.
And we know where the heart goes, when so young-
Or I did, always too keen to defrock.
So they did, by marble bodies of heroes among.
‍
Her fine figure rests on the hardest throne,
And the squire, well knowing, stifled a moan.

#

Shame then, that he’s no squire, nor our hero.
He’s a man, like you, boring and stifled.
Sat at a desk, wishing to be Nero
And failing even as a disciple.
To be inspired by greats, and wish of them too,
And to want to leave our life behind-
It’s fine, it’s human, we wish for life new,
Especially when it’s gotten confined.

But at least be inspired, break rules, be great.
Or your dreams will never be your fate.

Two distant royals asking for a line,
Watch the stiff upper lip, don’t spill any.
They laugh, I know they don’t get it, that’s fine,
They bring nose to glass, the first of many.

Imagine a rose, if you will, just one-
Think of how it sits, rooted in beauty.
Is it beautiful? In the perfect sun
I think it's what we were all taught to see.
These boys in their fine clothes- that they can't name
Are like the rose, quite undeserving of fame.

Pretty blue blood runs in your veins, you know
But when spil't I can't see the difference.
Were you taught that we're all quite so below,
Or did you learn it all by inference?
I'll never get it. You squeal just like us-
You squeal hellfire when prodded and shaken,
The fat crackles in fire, so treasonous
That we won't try this gilded bacon.
‍
You look back at me, confused. It's okay,
Be ignorant. It won't matter anyway.

A million men walk on cragged rock,
Paying dues to the gods that forsake them.
They wear their lacquered black torn pastor frocks,
and march with feet that have long turned numb.

Bow’d heads mark the pilgrim, showing respect
to the unknown. I know, though, they’re hated
by those they love. Rejected little sect
will find their kingdom throne vacated
‍
Should they find their heaven, Ivory towers
stand tall, vacant, untouched yet undevoured.
Speak more of the pilgrim, you ask of me.
Sure,  I say, my sharp tongue primed with venom.

Their prayers are simple. Love, prosperity,
riches and glory. It all, and then some.
If we ask, we may get. Begging for gifts
is always in the meek nature of man.

Prostrate, bleed, gash your hands on ragged cliffs.
Show your worth, earn it from whence began.
When we see crimson ink on begg’d parchment-
your blackn’d robes mark a fools garment.

Were the gods there, once? I can’t truly say.
I know of the kingdom. I know of the spire.
I’ve seen the throne and it’s vacant today.
The streets are quite quiet- ashes in the pyre.

Rub my palms in ash, feel its grip like chalk,
so I may pray harder for Eyeth’s kings.
Granite tears my skin, I weep for my flock.
Words won’t call you, perhaps tears will praise bring.

They patter down, ruining my scripture.
Peace bar spasming breath forms a clear picture.

What is an identity not suffered?
You may identify as man, or king
but this is what life for you ushered.
If you seized the crown, that's another thing.
‍
If all you are is what you were born to-
You barely deserve your returning breath.
Your identity is that which scars you,
And that which should live beyond your death.

That scar, that strife, or that yearning pain
That's yours, it means more than your name
‍
.You were broken once, and yet here you stand
Each piece has aligned once more, in new form.
A new sculpture, so improved and unplanned,
It's part of you- like a rose and its thorn.

Or were you not broken, instead reforged.
Through your sweat and toil, Lamarck's theory true.
You poured yourself into the mould, transformed
Through that work you became a body, anew.

I can't tell you if you're done and settled,
All Man's beauty lies in the unfettered.

I feel your piercing eyes on me again..
Don't worry. It's natural. I'm a friend.
I mumble, 'If not now, then when-'
I bite my sweating lips and resent the pen.

Your looks are unwelcomed, but expected,
I can't tell you how many times I've been affected,
But I can count on one hand when I've been rejected-
And less still when I come to myself, neglected.
It's every mans goal to find perfection,
Not just in himself, not that warped, petty reflection-
It's welcomed, mind, but more welcomed's you and your complexion.
I want to see your words change their inflection.
‍
I want to see you love me, and how you change
How you change your breathing, how you say it's strange-
How I fit in, ruin your plans, gotta rearrange-
It's only natural, dear, it's the art of our age.
I wanna see your breath in the air-
On those cold cold days where we wouldn't dare
To be caught so alone in our little afair,
without our clothes, completely bare.

If you listen for a second, just press pause,
Stop the music or tug out those headphone cords,
Give it a second and listen to the sorts
Of noise out there, nature's applause.

Words cannot adequately describe the disappointment in our life. That is the only thing that, to me, can justify or begin to explain the absolute state of self destruction we seem to obsess over. It’s the complete erosion of self, the complete destruction of structure and the complete replacement of precedent.

Short of disgust, revulsion and hatred of where our lives are and, indeed, where they seem to be headed, what actually leads us down this path?

Not just talking of suicide, or homelessness, or anger, or loss or promiscuity, or racism, or discontent, or extremism, or fear or hurt, or pain, or the full obsession of causing pain, or the full interest of laughing at pain, logging it, detailing it, manipulating it for humour, or the obsession with vanity or the eagerness to spend, to waste, to ignore the insane hoarding of capital, or the ignorance of corruption in our very institute, or of how politics is full of spineless vermin that chase their own tail in the pursuit of self indulgence and retaining their seat rather than pushing for worth, not even the hatred and utter use of other people, moulding the malleable masses to meet our malicious misinterests.

No, instead it’s collusion of all of that and yet none. We choose one thing to blame and ignore what we, ourselves, may contribute to this. This is desperation. This is hatred of all self that we are. This is clearly a collage of what can only be described as desperation to start again.

Our legal structure is in ashes - criminals, paedophiles, rapists, murderers can be let free due to their unique circumstances of‘ stress’ and ‘fear’- and yet assisted suicide for those who are in screaming agony continues to be on the forefront of the state. I consider, too, that drug dealers are not punished for the mere fact of selling contraband and harming the society- the state doesn’t care about that, really. The state cares that you didn’t pay your tax, and the man on his little mahogany chair with the pretty aubergine leather seat didn’t get his bonus. Refusal to adapt to liberty, love and guidance is their core structure. We could regulate, benefit-all and cleanly-so.  

Our culture is dying. Judges pass damning sentence or none at all, often the inverse of what the law asks for. The judge will bend to public poll- for what? Is precedent irrelevant in favour of your public opinion? Let that fucking mask slip.

Your very thought is malleable, too. You don’t think to question why you care about anything in your head anymore. Half of the policies you obsess over are new to you, too. You probably haven’t even researched it. If you have, you’re different to the flock around you. Your interests, your opinions, your views and your thoughts are not your own anymore. You are constantly blinkered by media into their abattoir. You don’t even realise it. You won’t feel it on your head like leatherbound blinkers. You won’t hear it whispered into your ear. Of course you won’t, because then you’d realise. You won’t notice this until you do- and when you do, you’ll question every thought and stance you hold. You won’t be free, then, but you’ll be closer.

There’s no sensible explanation for this common nonsense bar accelerationism towards some sort of reset. I beg you find your structure, you find your sanity, you find your reason to love. I beg you find your culture, your art, your raisond’etre, or it’ll be lost before you know it.

Blood in the water, Bleeding heart martyr-
And those little hands that cling, dead, to sand
Bloodied hands as I tug them to harbor,
They brought it on themselves, you understand.
‍
Don't think me bitter, closer to callous,
It looks to me like the storm's abated.
You're malapropos in this palace,
A usurping corpse to seize the hated

A burial at sea would be fitting,
But you're a sign of more, unremitting.

Burning despair grasps me in its gauntlet.
I feel its icy touch, the harsh metal,
Segmented like truth, bites me and nought but
petrified whisper can my lips settle.
I can not even shiver anymore,
That life, that warmth is drained from me wholly.
All I can do is peer through its evil form,
Lie to its gaze, fruitlessly, it knows me.
‍
It squeezes me, I feel my eyes bulge out
Onto my cheekbones before I can shout.
‍
Let this be my end, free me from this life.
I’m not sour, angry, I’m not afraid.
It’s a relief to be guided out of strife
By you. By you. By you. I’ve overstayed
My welcome anyway. I can scream so much,
But you’re all deaf to it. Blind, dumb, uncaring.
Ferry me ashore, dunk my head and touch
My forehead with ash of past unerring.
‍
Swaddle me all in black for my rebirth
,Bury me deep, never to be unearthed

.I feel your dirt patter on my bare skin,
I’m undeserving of ebony casket.
Open face, beautiful in grey Berlin,
Bury me next to our old club, just past it.
Let me feel regret at the last second.
Like if you change your mind after you jump.
That screaming regret as gravity beckons,
Before you hit the asphalt, crash and slump.

I fucking hate you, I hate how you do this,
I fucking love you, I love to reminisce.

I've brought you flowers this morning, doll-
It's nothing much, just a gesture is all,
It's a thought I had when I was out for a stroll...
I saw them and thought of you, so I bought them at a stall.
They smell like you, like honey and summer-
And they look like you, I always tell you you're a stunner.
I thought 'Those pretty violet hues are perfect for my lover-'
I was right, wasn't I? They really suit your colour.
No, it's fine darling, it's the least I could do.
The way you make me feel, I never even knew
that I could be like this- you really threw
every preconception of my sadness adieu.

You're such a romantic, she says to me;
And does that funny thing where she
presses her lips to mine, smiles and I guarantee
that before long she'll dream that I take a knee.
Sorry, doll, you can't tell but that won't happen.
You look into my eyes and they gleam with passion,
But that's fake, you see, my brain really blackens
when you expect emotion from me, can you imagine?
No, of course not - this facade I've built is uncracked,
The mask unslipped, truth kept far from fact.
I'll stroke back your baby curls and I'll keep up the act,
It's so obvious what I get from this pact.
‍
You're a beautiful distraction from what's on in my mind,
Something so perfect that I'm so happily intertwined-
But I don't feel anything - Not to be unkind,
But it's really rather muted. Love, like a lover, is blind.

How fragile is life that mine is gambled,
And that yours sits numbly at my knife edge.
It glides by veins like a fox through brambles,
'O almost-martyr, I'll save you', I pledge.
A pledge I'll break if this job's mishandled-
And my life follows, or so they allege.

A human life is worth so little,
A hundred thousand for an acquittal.

I feel the explosions through the rumbling
bass that shocks my heart back into function.
They're not here yet, so focus- you're fumbling.
Once-nimble fingers sweat with instruction
I seal the bleeding, through gauze it's bubbling
He'll live though not long. Organ malfunction.
‍
I wipe your insides, now outsides, on tar
stained sleeves, and yearn to see the open-night stars.

I've nearly forgotten how they stare back
at you, gleaming teeth in a yawning maw.
I've nearly forgotten how that jet black
breaks into burning bliss, as moon withdraws
and our hunters look in still dust for tracks.
We hide from that sunlight as if in awe.
‍
If we were seen to walk that perfect light,
Our well eyed foe would quickly end our fight.

Born from a rib torn from flesh, so it’s told-
I count yours with my finger as it drifts
Down your side- you’re frozen, ice won’t grow old.
I can grip under your rib cage, and if
With a pull I could grow you, in a mould.

You’re dead to the world but will live in me,
Thoughts of repentance guide all that I see.

To reveal oneself is to shed our skin,
Or so says the idea literally-
But the thought of you seeing what's within
In truth, it scares me considerably
.And so I'll wear this, my wall of Berlin,
Armoured and hiding deliberately.
I choose my truth, neither fiction or fact,
It's just another character to act.

There's an abject fear that burns hot like ice
deep inside of a tight, derelict chest.
The fear of care, risk, failing to suffice
to meet or even to provide my best. 
The grander fear, still, is realising I've
no skill in that which I obsessed.

There's more peace not trying to leave a mark
Than to fail upon the shores you embark.

Bring scalpel to scripture, talons to art-
Show me how the flame can taper fabric.
Watch as all ethics and morals depart
when we balance the sublime and tragic.
Should we, in time, draw light to blackened heart
the shadows dispelled will cause new panic.
Bliss is found not in truth, nor deception
But in balance' both, Faith's main perception.

The fabric gets trimmed, we draw wheat from chaff...
I see shining, glistening core unsealed.
Offcut dust falls from the yet-golden calf
,Steps from perfection, nighing the reveal.
Carved deep, pulling new life from epitaph
a shining frame, architect borne ideal.

Flesh unworn, like nature's true invention
Stripped back form, to reveal her intention

Yet another tale learned from an angel
is etched in stony flesh by divine quill-
Flown down from heav'n to this unfaithful
undeserving wretch, and taught by her will.
Messenger o' heart, count me so grateful
in mine testament new passion's instill'd. 

 Upon cloud so golden, we'll sing our psalm,
And bliss beheld should you take-hold my palm.