ode

Stuck in this godforsaken dark room, Eyes screaming like they’ve been sprayed with bleach, Hands twitching like malfunctioning Tesco self-checkouts, My body shaking like it’s front row at a Motorhead concert – Head banging into oblivion, Neck snapping in rhythm with the pain That torments my poor sorry soul.

Electric shocks crawl up my spine, Lightning bolts cracking down into my doom pit, My despair echoing like a pensioner’s cough in an empty bingo hall, Tinnitus whistles through my skull – Steam trains rampaging through The fragile tunnels of what remains of my brain.

Vision fractures. Darkness descends. I lay there convulsing like a broken Tesco rotisserie chicken, Limbs flailing in demon possession, Shorts soaked in sweat and piss, The air thick with the pungent green stench – A Liam fart that could evacuate a small village.

And there it is. The demon weed wacker Spinning around and around in my skull, Shredding what’s left of me Into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.

But deeper still it drags me – Past the pain into that hollow silent place Where blackness becomes the teacher, Shaking becomes the prayer, And decay becomes the doorway To glimpse whatever comes next.

This is the jida journey, mate – The demon your mirror, The weed wacker your unholy crown, Doom your disciple, Despair your only true devotion.

Here in the dark room, Spirit fractures, Mind collapses, Soul endures – And I become the darkness itself.

🩸 “My brain feels like a demon weed wacker is shredding it into salad garnish for hell’s buffet table.”

🩸 “Convulsing in piss-soaked shorts, I met the darkness and it called me home.”

🩸 “This is not poetry. This is survival with a sarcastic scream.”

🩸 “The tinnitus steam trains whistle through my skull tunnels all night long.”

🩸 “Pain is my ritual. Shaking is my prayer. Darkness is my god.”

🩸 “British humour, demon weed wackers, piss, and doom. Welcome to my living hell.”

🩸 “Sometimes I wonder if Motorhead is playing a secret gig in my spine.”

🩸 “The demon weed wacker spins. My soul is shredded. It’s a vibe.”

🩸 “Darkness teaches me what light never could.”

🩸 “My suffering is not beautiful. But it’s real.”

       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
        experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

         “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                  By storm and silence, I survive.”

                      🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

In the season they call SAD, when the clouds refuse to blink, And rain is just sky sweat with delusions of grandeur, She came like a banshee on a Bonneville, Tyres hissing spells in the petrol dusk— A woman? No. A prophecy in leather and eyeliner, Named Albertine, Long-suffering wife of Death himself, Who sulks in a wheelchair and smokes cloves ironically.

Her hair: a demi-wave abyss. Her smile: pure tarot seduction, One glance and even the moon blushed, Then wept behind cirrostratus shame.

Oh, Albertine! You ride like prophecy, Read palms with a sneer, And throw cards with such venom They hit truths no therapy ever could.

She is palmist, astrologer, Tarot priestess of all things doomed, With a Motorhead patch sewn onto her soul And eyeliner sharp enough to open portals.

By her side, in his wheeled throne of bone, Death groans through another solstice, Wearing a “Don’t Talk To Me I’m Mourning” T-shirt. She calls him Mad Moon Ms. in public. He hates it. We love her more.

They arrive at Ritual Panic, That sacred sabbat of forgetting where you put the damn wand. She lights incense that smells like resentment and rosemary. He levitates just to show off. She tells your future with a flick of the wrist And a voice that sounds like bourbon-soaked prophecy:

“You’ll fall in love with a ghost and regret everything but the kissing.”

Full Moon Tantrum follows, When the skies go hormonal And witches cry glitter. She dances. Oh gods, she dances. The kind of dance that ends marriages and starts cults.

You ask,

“Albertine, are you a goddess?” And she just laughs, Blows smoke in your face, And says, “No love. I’m worse. I’m aware.”

Post-Script from Death (dictated, not written): “If you see her again, run. She’ll read your birth chart, your palm, your doom, and your libido. She’ll burn through your soul like it’s a sage bundle on discount. But gods... what a sexy ass.”

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

         “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                  By storm and silence, I survive.”