I wanted to find a poem for you
Not for any very good reason
But because I had fallen under your spell
And thought I could make a deal
Offering you some pretty words
In return for my freedom

Then I realised that  I am free
And anyway you are a Viking Princess
And not the Dark Priestess of my dreams
Not even the post punk femme fatale
That I’ve been avoiding and conjuring
For most of my adolescent life

So I searched hurriedly through the collection
And quickly came to realise
That none of my wordy trinkets
Were worthy

So my fair and infuriatingly beautiful lady
I come to you empty handed and humble
Offering you, instead of the usual pyrotechnic psychobabble,
My friendship and my thanks

Part warrior, part princess
All lady
You are truly
An inspiration




On Being Broke

Broken inside but still ticking
No way of knowing
Where this train is going

So many dangerous words
Dangerous thoughts
Evil beckons slyly

For a chance
To flower

Poison dripping
Into my soul

I would have to save this whole awful world
To make a dent in my perfect wrongness

Or just go away
Quickly and quietly
Before doing any more harm


Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down


I have a confession to make. I sometimes listen to the Carpenters. In fact I’m listening to Rainy Days and Mondays right now. In polite company I probably wouldn’t admit this – would rather reference Jimi Hendrix’s Manic Depression. But, well sometimes I need to cry, and Karen just seems to turn on the waterworks best.

Manic depression or, as those with a more dispassionate scientific idiom prefer, Bipolar disorder, is not everyone’s cup of tea. Definitely not for sissies. And, the ubiquitous studies have shown, can be fatal if untreated. Fatal in the sense that between 15 and 17 percent of sufferers choose suicide as their preferred mode of getting the fuck outta here.

So what kind of lunatic would choose to experience it. Choose to soar the heights and plumb the depths at the whim of an unstable neurochemical environment.

Well this kind of lunatic for one. And for the sake of the scientists amongst you I’d like to try and explain why. Well maybe not for the scientists because they’re a famously unsentimental bunch. Perhaps just for the closet Carpenter fans out there.

When I take my medication everything is grey. Don’t get me wrong, grey is ok, but it’s never going to be the new black. And it’s definitely not colourful. Not black, not white and not colourful. Actually fuck grey. I’ll leave it for the accountants.

When I’m up I’m a ninja. Or a Jedi. I can do anything. Well yes, if I’m up I would say that but what’s the evidence? Well, for example, I can get the job, or get the job done, get the girl, steal the show, charm a corpse or even an accountant and solve some pretty major philosophical problems. All before breakfast.

And have. Every major achievement in my life has been stolen from pandora’s manic box. Oy – that’s a horrible mixed metaphor. Should have categorised this as NSFW.

But honestly I’ve done some pretty rad shit from a position of manic invulnerability.

So. What’s the problem, you ask? Well it’s the old Icarus effect innit? Not a pretty sight – like Wile E. Coyote when he looks down and realises that he’s running on air. If he could just learn to not look down. If I could learn to just not look down.

But those magic neurochemicals that open pandora’s box don’t give a fuck about my sanity, my mood, my usefulness to the world. And when they turn, they turn 180 degrees. Stop on a dime and all that is pure and true and fluffy and light suddenly turns to deep dark drek. And it’s hello abys my old friend, wonder how deep the hole will be when I land.

How many friendships will I have irreparably burned? How much money will I have burned. People let down, possessions lost, time lost. Dignity lost.

So why don’t I just take the fucking little pills? Well, I just don’t like grey. I like to live in colour. Rainbow colours. Peacock colours. Blood and guts and pyrotechnic colours.

And no. I don’t expect you to clean up the mess 🙂




Be Kind

There’s lots of crazy shit going down. Something to do with having incarnated on a planet with a very troubled history. As a wise person once said – hurt people hurt people. And it all seems just so overwhelming sometimes. Is overwhelming sometimes.

But I do believe there is hope. Not hope for a political or technological solution but hope for the simple efficacy of good old fashioned good will and random acts of kindness. Faith can move mountains but can also sink entire civilizations – depends on what one has faith in.

Have faith in your ability to make a difference. No matter how small. Faith alone may not be enough but without it we’re all fucked. So do the world a favour and have faith in light and love and joy and kindness. Have faith in spite of yourself. If you can’t do it for yourself then do it for your friends or your family or your pets or the lesser spotted woodpecker (Dryobates minor).

So forget about all the worries and hopelessness for a while and, I challenge you, do at least one act of random unsolicited and unrewarded kindness everyday. It will change your life noticeably and immediately – I promise. It’ll change the world too. 🙂




I sometimes think that the things in my head that don’t want to come out are the most dangerous. Things that stay lurking in musty corners of my mind for years. Sometimes decades. That can’t be good, right? God only knows what twisted mutations happen in the darkest corners of a troubled mind.

This thought, the one I’m chasing with you now, is a real crafty old bugger. One minute it’s a ghost then a lie then a fantasy. It’s there though – I can see the empty spaces that it leaves in the process of its concealment. I can notice the missing joy and peace and energy that it uses to power its invisibility motors.

Can one catch a thought with a thought? Perhaps I’m being too ambitious – maybe I should just throw likely words in the general direction of the gaps in my mind and see what sticks? Words like shame and guilt and waste and ….. denial.

Fuck I just saw the ghost of my mother. The hole in my mind, the hole in my soul, is in the shape of my mother. My mother is ancient. Older than anyone should be made to be. She’s been that way since I’ve known her. There’s always been a feeling of primal misery and decay about her. It was once covered in young fresh skin and now it’s covered in sagging wrinkled tissue thin skin. There’s something frighteningly timeless, almost vital, about her decrepitude. An endless fuck you in the face of innocence, beauty, youth and joy.

An endless capacity for incapacity – a problem for every solution. That’s me old mum for you. Even the best of her days are endless, horrid and grey.

What’s that? Why does this bother me so? It’s hardly my fault is it? Just ignore her and she’ll go away. But don’t you know the saddest ghosts live the longest.

I left my job in the city to engage in a spot of ghostbusting. Just in case it would help the endless proliferation of symptoms. Help fight the anxiety, the despair, the addiction, confusion, anger, lostness, lack. Told myself, wouldn’t it be nice to spend some quality time with mum while she’s still healthy enough to hang with. Go for walks, have some lovely little chats.

Fuck. Was my capacity for self deceit so strong? Now there are two sources of endless darkness in my life. My mother and my mother’s ghost. The Mother, the Son and the Unholy ghost. What a clusterfuck.

Well I can’t rightly leave us here in this mess. It’s not a fertile mess – just a merry bit of madness. And, believe me I’ve tried, there’s nothing to be done with the woman herself. She’s oblivious. Her misery and darkness impenetrable.

All I can do is align myself with lighter beings, brighter beings. Be a lighter and brighter being myself. Be a channel for the light and love of god or, if the g-word offends, of the Universal Mind. No good carrying candles into a black hole. I’ve spent my life smashing my serenity – bouncing against the implacable event horizon of mother’s misery.

Wish me luck with that 🙂


Just a little pinprick

I’ve been wanting to have a drink today. No problem you say, what’s your poison? Oh I’m not fussy really, a Black Label or a Castle. Or an Amstel. And a pill or two. Just a few milligrams. Of codeine or diazapam or, for good measure both. Well that can’t be hard. Certainly not the codeine bit – what about an adcodol or myprodol? I suppose I could rustle up a valium or ativan too at a pinch.

Of course you know I can’t. In fact even, my imaginary sponsor might say, thinking about it too much is not a good idea. Because it’s never just one or two is it? Well, that’s not exactly true. Two or three beers at most and two adcodol and I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to write, do some art, read a bit then, later, sleep like a baby. I’ll probably even have those really vivid dreams just like I used to. Perhaps the ones where I flap my arms and start to fly.

On my way home I was trying to hold some quite delicate thoughts and emotions in my brain. So I could sit here and download them onto my laptop. Capture them, without killing them, for the sake of science. But I think they seeped out into the general noise and dirt of late evening ennui.

You asked if I were trying to protect you and I think I said that to protect our fragile intersubjective space I would have to protect you too. That to protect our relationship we have to protect ourselves and eachother. Because things are so much easier to break than they are to put back together. Said that the ephemeral things, the fragile things need to be protected the most. Even though the armies of chaos will win the war there is some dignity in the battle for coherence, for innocence. For beauty.

Perhaps I have become just a bit depressed. A bit oppressed by thoughts of cold dirty puddles, rusty benches, cancer growing quietly in a million oblivious bodies. And I’m seeing some really sad aspects of us. Of this space. This process. And I know you want to go there with me but I don’t want to infect the fragile infant space that we share. Because I have gone down that route and it never turns out well.

People are not drugs. Even though loneliness is the disease, company is not the cure. My loneliness could eat a fair sized stadium of bright and innocent well wishers and still wonder about what to choose for the main course. I can’t feel the heat and the light of your sun if I let the darkness out. If I let you in.

I have my imaginary sponsor to deal with that shit. He says sit with the feeling. So I’m sitting with it. And writing about it. And waiting for the cold tide of terror to ebb. Waiting for my little spot in the sun to come back so I can breathe a bit easier and do my bit to be a source of good instead of an ambassador of pain and decay.

Cheers 🙂


Sublimating Sorrow

I may be getting a bit manic I said, giggling nervously and thinking of the next 50 things that I absolutely had to say in the next 7 minutes. What makes you think that? Well I did sleep a good 8 hours – over the last three days. And have been blogging like a demon, solving the meaning of life and planning to sell about a decade’s worth of art for small change.

Why do you think it’s happening?

That’s refreshing. The official script reads – “Have you been taking your pills?”
Look, far be it from to condone neurochemically irresponsible behaviour. I would love it if we all could chill. But the thing is some of us can’t – I can’t. Perhaps there is a chemical solution to the condition that is called David. But having just timidly exited a 37 year long experiment in sublimating sorrow with chemical potions I don’t think it’s possible.

I’m sorry to do this to you!
Do what?

Well it can’t be easy. Yesterday I’m all sunshine and rainbows and butterflies then today I’m down in the dumps. Did you say it’s ok. Or perhaps let’s discuss it. My brain has lost Terabytes of information since then. I can’t remember my dreams on your couch and I can’t remember you in my dreams.

It can be unsettling. You meet me and I’m happy and charming and energetic. Then next thing it’s tears, misery, sulleness, aggression.

Was that how it was for your girlfriends?
For some of them.
Is that how it is for you?

I’m not sure. I think alcohol and codeine made it less painful for me. Did fuckall for my significant others though. I’m getting a taste of my own medicine now – being stuck in an abusive relationship with myself – without the fuzzy distant feeling. That wonderful warm fuzzy distant feeling.

Perhaps it’s a form of sublimation? The mania that’s coming on. Sliding seductively closer – like a fucking out of control freight train.

I’m looking at the artificial orchid that I thought had magical powers for 3 months. Wanting to look at you. Your eyes have magical powers. Don’t they? Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as magic.

You’re fired
You’re joking
Perhaps I am

I can sublimate libido, turn my desire into silver words but how do I sublimate sorrow? Without drugs. Without sex. Without madness.
Time is up. Time is always up. Suicide is easy, god is dead and time is up.

Nothing matters unless I let it. Is this right? It seems right.

We’ll discuss it tomorrow ….