Man In The Radiator

 This is a sort of unintentional follow-up to a poem I wrote quite a long time ago now. Nearly two years ago. A strange, miserable little poem that I handed to Nick Cave when I was lucky enough to meet him at a book signing. It was hand-written so he probably couldn't even read the damn thing. And it was filled with dire descriptions of atrocities and feelings of intensifying loneliness - if only I could have seen what was to come in the next few months.  But it is not only that, it is also an attempt to write something towards those that are lucky, or delusional, enough to see the beauty in all things. All I can say is; I tried.  Is There Anything Left? Expired night seeps through my window A porous blackened sludge Spilling, flickering, spouting Out from smashed specimen jars Scattered across my crudely harvested body Memories of the worms calling you  With a synthesized wheeze, I see you falling upwards, forever upwards Reaching out, I’m caressed with violent spas...

Writing anything as of late has been nigh impossible. August has become an increasingly difficult month in the past few years, and it has only proved to get worse. Too many reminders of things dead and gone. Too many opportunities to cast myself into the shadowed regions of all the memories I am trying desperately to repress but conversely want to hold dear to me forever more. There's nothing to be done, I've said that many times before but it only becomes more and more inescapably true the longer my life drolls on for. The person I keep unintentionally writing about will never read any of this, and likely couldn't bring themselves to read any of this - and I don't particularly blame them. I have to stop sometimes and realize that a huge reason why I even publish any of this nonsense online for anyone to see is due to a vain and idiotic attempt to inadvertently reach out without actually going through the horrific folly of actually contacting them. It's pathetic. An...