irsinkast

There’s a heat wave. Statistically even. It was on the news and all. And that’s where all the truth comes pouring out, no? That’s the moment we look forward to so we can feel informed. I’m sleeping like a charm though. If I take some precautionary measures. But during the day I’m dragging this awful thing along. It hangs from my spine as if it is attached directly to the cord inside. The pain is like metal flashes of memory cutting and slicing away at my breath. I feel bereft. Cleft in twine, straight down the middle. It made me think of the wounded, dying girl that cut off her own face as she sank to the floor. Not to be recognized, nor remembered. I thought about the reason for that mutilation in those last seconds for a very long time. Because I did not have to convince myself that it made absolute sense. It just did. I even liked the concept. I don’t just talk to myself, you know. I do speak to others about this amour for the negative. It still is a delicate subject cause it makes ...

I once wrote these lyrics in my hardcore days: “These metaphors, don’t tell me who I am. They classify me in a box and feed me to death. Now I am dying here, in your euphoria. Your soft coercion, I name chains. I don’t need your new age doctrine, I don’t need to shake your hands. I don’t need your pretty pictures, I don’t need your promised land. You spread your lies, like rain across the land. They live your lies, savages… “ and so on. The song was called ‘Box’ and the thought of it kept me awake last night. Or maybe it was just something to do while I was awake anyway. Serves me right for listening to this 108 compilation (which you all should get if you want to know shit about shit) over and over again in my car, to and from work. I got up to piss and while I strolled into the bathroom, I saw the light of the washing machine which sprung the voice of my girlfriend saying: “I’m gonna put in this laundry, but – shit – it’s gonna suffocate if I leave it ‘til the morning. Ah fuck it” (w...

It can be a day, warm like the inert surface of a vibrant lake or the loose skin of a silver serpent. Slithering through our shadows. Something hoary and ancient. But still seething and bursting with your most venomous and murderous fires. Warm days can feel truly cold and dead. Whereas frozen, damp and dim places can be the most heartwarming of them all. They seem to be. My warmest moments never had anything to do with the weather or the outdoors, even the outside world was far from there. Our skins did burst with rapture, making real nasty gushers of melancholy and promise but also of unanticipated pleasures. Puncturing our unripe senses and unleashing something of a god on our souls. I felt it. Haven’t you? I’m floating and bobbing languidly on layers of thick sentimental drivel. My pathetic goo of discontent and a thick sense of abandonment. A sorry excuse for empathy, which I seem to lack completely. And, let’s be honest, somewhat of an extravagance. Lavishly and shamelessly self-...

Uh, it wants me. Wheezing in my neck, dripping and slurping at my lobes, soaking my shoulders in its viscous mouth water, glaring at my stale carcass, grabbing at my feelings, all horny for my breath, ruining my wanton virtue. A many legged undead something that outstretches over the skies, flaking and propelling its warty scales into my forcibly unlocked, broken jaws. Discharging its reeking sick from gaping and spluttering orifices for it to come down on me in foul, oily rains. What a sight for knifed eyes. It stands and spans over all, for all the world to see its bitterness. Clasping its claws into volcanoes and crevasses, holding on for dear life, to immortalize the second in an era. Behind its murky mantle the atmosphere is ablaze, heaving intense vapors of amethysts and emeralds like a downpour over its horned and spoiled back. Dripping and spitting from its loins into our open wounds. Blended with the sour sting of its festering boils. It is wrapped around the globe for all to ...

One can manoeuvre around one's own self half the time and just be plain oblivious the other half but still find yet another ‘extra’ half or whole to be thoroughly miserable. What does that tell us about ourselves? What does that really tell us, except for the fact that we have too much time on our hands. Idle time for the psyche to construe more layers than we can deal with, up to the point where we split in half or in thirds or more. The trick is to keep busy and not to find or give yourself the time of considering the gist of things. The thick of it. Every thought endures a process that siphons you straight to the same end. An enchanted figment where the rainbows touch the ground right where you stand, leaving you ankle deep in tears of joy. Engulfed by the warmth of bitter love and protruding harmonies as to wring the very nature from your bodily vessel. The evaporation of the last drop of effervescence in your words, since words are useless there, and the decimation of the myri...

What a day. Such a wonderful collection of dear moments. Every next one more magical and compelling than the last. The sumptuous meadow I’m lying in. The embracing wire fences. The stumbling calves and the smiling herd. The hillside I’m repeatedly, vigorously, compulsively rolling down. The mitigating warmth that tickles me. The flow of scents that pulls back on my fleeing through the wild. The willows that reach down to sweep their plush branches against my head. The crunching echoes of the old tree trunks releasing their outer bark. The staggering sounds that whisper and kiss my battered drums. The length of time that opens up in front of me. The absolute simplicity of every former step. The gentlest of hands to loosely clasp my dried out knuckles. The earnest thoughts of leaving everything for only this faintest of possibilities. Pushing out the realities that stab their mortal judgment and oppression into my softened gut. Banning the bitter sting of the grime that pushes in, to ove...

Most of the time I try not to feel entitled to anything at all. But occasionally, when I do slip , I profoundly feel I have the right to be annoyed by the evolved state of things that used to matter to me, and which I have failed to consider for a while. And before I regain my desperate posture, a vast amount of disgruntled thoughts, has already made it to my disfigured mind. Many of the influences and input and noise that we get bombarded with, is teeming and bursting with plots and vicious schemes. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel totally disconnected to myself. The deepest of feelings are ‘construed’ and ‘displayed’ and ‘facilitated’. It’s like soul is being marketed, easily achieved. I hate that. Really! It goes for anything nowadays. People think they are buying slices of downright purity while they are really spooning filthy shit into their open and vulnerable hearts. All unsuspecting and innocent. Concept used to be the direct consequence of context. It needed valida...