Running Out – a musing



Today I write of a strange vitality, the harsh wonder of experience. I am running out of painkillers, in a manner I had not anticipated, and while on a family holiday.

Having misjudged my situation I now have 7 Tramadol remaining. Aching from various mental stresses the day before yesterday (yes, mental stuff becomes physically manifest) I attempted buying Cocodamol here in Portugal…but left with strong Ibuprofen instead. Turns out you need a prescription for Coco.

Now I am down to rations.

I had thought I was doing well. No Cocodamol for months now, days off the herbal painkiller Kratom, as well as reduced doses. I brought none of it with me this holiday. I still do not think doing so was a mistake but I did badly miscalculate my needs.

To try and remedy it I had an extra Prozac yesterday. I know, I know, it has longer term effects, but based on how much of the holiday is left I thought the extra Serotonin would help my many pains.

Wish me luck.



To Burn One’s Armour – a poem



What lives is winding, wending elsewhere,

The black cruelty of starless tsunamis

Swishing, slushing, pouring in tides
Tyrannical for no substance, weight,
Wild only in imagining, forever wispy.
To wake when the stars burn out, pseudo-
Alive as the nebulae preceding proto-stars
Simply exist, in perpetua, dying to give birth,
Those old suits of heat blackened armour burning
To give some approximation of warmth, to soothe.
A cenotaph worthy of lives slipped through
Cracks in systems smoulders in the dark, tied
To entropic forces undying when even aeons
Have aspired to their true ends, perforce timing
Victims to take with them, with eyes forever blank.
Vulnerable, the body shakes without its shell,
So many discarded yet not enough, death knells
Struck in air thicker than butane, explosive
Tendencies leading to vile thoughts on those old
Suits of armour, suitable to fit bold pyrotechnics.

To Eat the Light – a poem


Apathy such as could devour stars

Rises without external cause, broad,

Burgeoning doom laden lack of feeling,

Depth unfathomable in dire unknown consequence,



The light of those grandest stars reaches not

To these murky deeps wherein darkly dwell

Such emptiness swelling as a dark sun,

Growing, sickly anti-light, a mood

To eat, to be full, to devour the light.

Scarred Simplicity – a poem

Let the knots of scar tissue itch

To remember when they were sliced,

Incised; cleaving open skin, sanguine

Ooze, flow, bubble, oxygen rich red

Sticky madness let out in harsh cuts.


Adrenaline, norepinephrine, insidious

High, brain cell bursting buzz clicking

As the blood flows in rivulets, pure

Superheated lava streaming smoothly

Over hard, brittle skin; skin of stone.

What we Call Humanity – a prose poem

I feel myself

Cut loose,

From the throng,

A wanderer solitary.

I find myself

Cast adrift,

Bobbing on strange seas,

Black sky burning.

Cut loose,

Cast adrift,

Tethered by only the most

Essential qualifications

Of humanity, or what is

Called as such by many.

I am floating far beyond

The pale and timid morality

That binds, one person to another;

A road long travelled

Is no easier to swim than walk.

In a dream I saw a man

Cast from the shore, bound

In chains of iron, wrapped like

Houdini or another magician,

Struggling to get free

As bubbles rose with screams

Of horror trapped within,

Released onto the surface

Of the lake calm despite what sinks

Deep below its still surface.

Thrashing, clanking, wrenching at iron,

I watched him struggle in his chains,

Wondering why I did not help

Then realising twas my reflection

As I looked up to the lake surface

From below, already too deep.


The above is a description that I’ve been thinking of for quite some time, in particular the image of watching myself drowning while wrapped in chains. Given my recent health problems I feel it is quite apt. All that I write is cathartic, so do not fear. I’m not about to jump into a lake wrapped in iron chains. 🙂 Thanks for reading!