Suggested Audio Candy:

 

[1] Jerry Whitman “Too Bad You’re Crazy”

[2] Atmosphere “Trying To Find A Balance”

 

 

meltdown:
noun – a disastrous collapse or breakdown

 

Giving your absolute all artistically can really do a number on you. A good case in point would be the great Dario Argento who found himself creatively spent after playing architect to the second part of his Three Mothers Trilogy, Inferno in 1980. It damn near finished him off, so many eggs invested in the one basket of splendor, and he was left with little more than fractured shells upon completion. Like any great champion, Argento was soon back on his feet and, while arguably his finest work was in his rear quarters, he still went on to enjoy a long distinguished career in cinema. The fact is that, for as much as he is considered largely untouchable, there was still a time when he started to wobble.

I’ve been knocked for twelve by my recent exertions; my frail bones creak as we speak akin to a dilapidated barn door while the inside of my cranium feels as though it has played host to a one-sided Pong marathon. Every ovium which has dropped from the cluster has sapped a little more essence from the cache, not permanently predisposed, more temporarily discarded. I have searched high and low for a refueling station and haven’t seen so much as a lanky vulture in miles. So I’ve perched my derriere here on the dusty roadside until such time as this meltdown passes. My health and fatigue bars may be currently depleted but I have a couple of potions of healing and a vial of mana to help me along the short path to recovery. I’m just praying for that merciful level up.

The process of bleeding takes a lot from your emotional reserves, can leave you breathless inside, and positively gasping for oxygen most precious. My flow has been particularly heavy of late and all that hemorrhaging is bound to take its toll on one’s state of mind. The Sandman has now decided that he will take twelve or fourteen hours from me whenever he pleases thus I sip my White Russian and engage in a little light tree-etching whilst awaiting my imminent slumber. Occasionally I rear my head up and give an affectionate grimace to passers-by, but they can see in my eyes that this is the most I can muster at this point.

Please never suspect that Keeper would ever forsake you. I’d chew off my left earlobe before contemplating such lunacy. I’d even move on to lobe #2 if symptoms persisted and would suggest you do the math. I like my ears, granted, they’re not my most essential pieces of equipment, but they do have their plus points. Without ears, I wouldn’t be able to hear Justin Bieber’s ribs shatter when elbow dropping him on tarmac, so I only ask you consider what I’m offering here. Talk is cheap, whereas truth is a bounty of riches for the soul. I speak candidly always, may spout utter codswallop like a randy leprechaun from time to time but I’m only ever being exactly who I am, that being myself. It’s all authentic and designed to delight and free minds but, like any gift, it comes at a cost. Where’s that pot of gold when you need it?

I haven’t entered into a tryst with Beelzebub or mistook my Hellraiser sphere for a Rubix cube. Nothing that shadowy, but I have shot my emotional load and it naturally depletes my creative juices. Like Mariah Carey, but without the herpes, I need vocal rest from time to time and this is, in essence, what has been transpiring over the past week or so. My scribing hasn’t faltered, the Crimson Quill has been outpouring furiously and with the exact same urgency as before. But like a hermit crab, hiding under my shell shouldn’t suggest idleness. Oh contraire! Let’s not forget that only three months ago I was ejected from the family homestead like an unfastened crash test dummy. My world, as I knew it, shattered around me leaving much in the way of sharpened debris to tip-toe around. Call it extended shock, call it feeling sorry for myself, but I choose to refer to it as emotional crucifixion. And in the words of the peerless Public Enemy “crucifixion ain’t no fiction” boyee!

My prose is fully intended to massage your shoulders while I’m absent, rub in the oils, and unknot your contorted muscles upon similar over-exertion. It’s a comfortable pair of fully lined carpet slippers, a neck pillow, and a mug of cocoa, to ease your distress and help you unwind at the end of a long day’s grind. Hell, it can even be a well lubricated finger should you so wish and quite the inquisitive digit it is too, let me tell you. Should I lurk in shadows, then I do so without intent to maim and kill. I linger with love, wishing only to fill hearts to bursting and spread a few smiles. If anyone believes they may have ruffled my feathers then I reiterate: they’re unrufflable. If an issue were ever to arise, then I would take that up personally as honesty comes naturally to me. Truth is, and will never be, an issue. Constantly answering questions you already know the answers to is however. Consider that.

I’m merely a 39-year-old man-child, presently somewhat disconnected from reality, leaning disconcertingly towards vampiric, and with the eating habits of a bulimic cheerleader. On weekends I get to see my boy and that is the world’s finest source of spinach right there. Two days with my little cherub and I’m all “Ug, Ug, Ug, Ug!” Fuck Olive Oyl’s pasty bone rack, I’m heading down to the Cyber Shack to find myself some real honey pots to drizzle over. Actually no I’m not. Such a place doesn’t exist, at least, not locally. Instead I shall sit here in my tool shed gestating like a pensive bollock whilst spewing all kinds of ridiculousness your way. I shall be sitting right here with my permanent marker, Until the reaper calls HOUSE!, praying for two fat ladies and legs eleven. Had I mentioned that I’m suck llama balls at bingo?

If I sit within my Facebook HQ for three solid minutes then five message feeds minimum become active and the white noise returns; delicate sounds of thunder within my cranial conductor. Running at around 25% hull integrity means I can scamper away like a nut-clenching squirrel or run up the nearest tree with eyes wide and tail pointing towards Nutbush City Limits. I will of course throw my acorn to y’all, not to be rascally, but as a cheeky diversion tactic while I timidly cower in shadows and recount my nuts. Once a little time has passed you will notice I have clambered down to your coordinates once more. Feel free to pet me at this juncture as I am not a malevolent breed. I’ve always got time to love and be loved, just not always the answers to 1000 questions.

 

ill:
noun – a problem or misfortune

 

When my metamorphosis is complete I hope to have sprouted the most resplendent crimson wings, unfurled to span and flapping with vigor. I’ll soar across the skies akin to a fine feathered paintbrush, painting fresh vistas of grue at every turn. I’ll never unload on your umbrella, and if I do, I assure you I didn’t aim for you. Come to think of it, it’s actually good fortune for the recipient. I’m just here to even the odds after that pair of espadrilles you left on the table or the brolly you opened in your vestry. Never wishing to harp on, I do however feel clarity is necessitated through my out-of-character disappearances.

Creative minds are destined to be misunderstood. I bare my soul daily but still come across as a mystery to some, even though the writing is right there on the wall, in coarse neon brushstrokes no less. Revealing all of oneself can be a rather exhaustive process (said the subway flasher to the insomniac) and I partake in such daily remember. To those I frustrate, all I ask is that our time together be joyous, as the first sign of amateur dramatics and I’m scurrying away up the nearest willow to weep. My real life, although I would argue this too qualifies as such, is something of a mess hall right now. Chances are, I may well already possess 99 problems by the time we connect, so please don’t nudge that up into triple figures. I mean no harm, unless you’re the editor of a tabloid, in which case, explain yourself immediately before I cut you down where you stand. Even Justin Bieber, whose snotty little head I have envisaged bouncing off my artexed wall many times, would get one shot to keep his spleen during the mortifying prospect of our paths ever crossing. Only one mind.

Bustin’ Justin

 

 

One to the cheekbone two more to the ribs
seems the best kind of combo to open this with
you may think yourself as some true supernova
but a flick of the nut sack and it will be over

 

Today I’ll supply you a real good stern spank
then cram your numb skull in the treads of my tank
you must have been suffering some kind of fever
to think that Anne Frank would become a belieber

 

 

I’ll take off my slipper and tan that white hiney
then do so again if you choose to be whiny
If you think that unfair well I don’t really care
there’s an Airplane-style queue forming swiftly behind me

 

Here comes the downer you’ll have to be winded
just need to make sure that you’ve fully rescinded
should you take what is coming then once you fall silent
I promise, well kinda, to be far less violent

Should you be reading this Justin… then… GET TO FUCKING BED! Banter aside, I’m benign to the spine Grueheads. Remember this please; should I have vanished through the cracks without telling you what you’ve done to upset me; then there’s sound reasoning behind my actions…you haven’t upset me! Don’t take it personal as I’m not that kind of cat. I’m more the sit in your lap and rub my anus across your cuff links kind of kitten and certainly no predator. My mind may be a sprawling metropolis of vague wisdom peppered with mild dementia, but there are few mammals as simple as I bizarrely enough. There’s also nothing more ill than miscommunication and Justin Bieber is living, breathing proof of that theory. We all express in different ways; it’s simply my way to do so through prose. Here I can solve Rubix and change lightbulbs without scalding my phalanges, there I can barely tie my shoelaces. Think I’ll stick to the former you know. Never really been one for illness.