ode to effexor

venlafaxine, venlafaxine

helps you when you need relaxin’

when the palps begin to bite

pop it quick you’ll be alright


no more weeping on the floor

no despair through every door

declare with utmost predication

the wonders of mood medication


the relationship though symbiotic

stops you going all psychotic

i loved you then, i love you now

you love yourself now take a bow


this ode is in reverence to dotty headbanger’s words on the wonders of prozac


i’d like a breakdown

of the quarterly returns and the projected apple turnover from march through to wednesday, including all point to point verification nodules associated with the bi-monthly management meetings held in the old offices, not the old old offices, for those i need a letter writing, under an assumed name, about a little boy who works in a hotel and a lostlost woman, don’t give too much away of course, you’ll find your feet’ll hurt and the ticks’ll find a new noise so you’ll not hear them coming, and the tocks’ll just wander aimlessly in the dirt; no-one wants them if they’ve lost their only definition, and they’ve not the gumption to hone themselves another; they were attached to what they were, like a parasite feeding on a host already coughing up blood they forgot they weren’t healers; perhaps they could become healers, or at least perceived as such; if the coughing stopped, if the blood ceased to spurt, and the result of both were life, maybe they’d be mistaken for the cure, maybe the ticks’d put in a good word – they’d partnered well over the years – but the result of both was death; the tocks were blamed and the ticks’d fucked off to the bolivian republic of venezuela, discovering a particular love for nearby curaçao, its inherent healing properties, and the welcome shown by, as of the first of january 2009, its 141,766 strong population; the tocks need a breakdown not of quarterly returns; nor of the kind where the need to call one’s spouse at work arises, the i couldn’t stay in bed any longer though now i cannot raise me from the floor please listen to me cry about things i don’t understand so cannot explain and indelibly print an image on your psyche that will make you feel sick whenever its remembrance assails you, i feel sick, i must write this letter to the lostlost woman, i must avoid a breakdown, i shall not ask, nor say please, no-one should have these images

i fear

i may not get through the night; i have ‘one moment in time’ soiling itself round my head and it won’t go away; i don’t know where it’s come from, i’ve not heard it in time and i don’t know why it’s here; i duck and roll from thought to act but still it takes pot shots at me atop a tall tower from which i’ve yet to find the appropriate place to hide…..there’s a radio close by that i could switch on but fuck only knows the crap that’ll ooze out of that – someplace, somewhere at any given moment in time……………………..i fade………………………..there’s a celine dion song being played and i’m buggered if i’m risking that kind of exposure; i have a family – i also have six hours to rattle round this place on my own, and i aim to do so without recourse to a cd – i’ve yet to ascertain the purpose of this self-set challenge but i suspect it has something to do with my cds being in the car, and it’s dark and cold out them there doors; but i must to work, and to prostrate myself before the tower, and be thankful that these are but flesh wounds, and the ligatures may well shut down the brain that deals in the memory of song – i just don’t know what it’ll trade for next

turn the dark on

the boss is coming and i need this out before his flabby jowls assault me; he’s tall, he’s overweight, his excess coagulates at random points about his person; he treads boards, amateur ones, musical ones, they sing with pleasure as one does when the whip spurs; when you think all your breath has gone there’s always a little extra for a song of praise or the safety word, and then there’s next time; i can see the future and it’s too bright, it hurts my eyes and i don’t like it, no not one little bit, but i can’t really leave on my own and those i’m with i couldn’t take with me; i ache with weariness in the parts of my body i no longer use, i’d like to exercise them, exorcise them, the power of joy compels you, leave me alone, why do you think that your stupid answers would be preferable to a state of not knowing yet; i’d rather not know at all than be left with your insipid dregs on which to feed; to only know that you’re wrong would suffice; you are ontologically unsound, you have neither essence nor existence and the order with regards to you is moot, sivuseikka, i tire of even thinking about you and i hate myself as thought is the only way by which you can exist yet i continue to do it; i could stop writing for starters, but then all i’m left with is thought; i have no safe place, only safe state; i’ve nowhere to go and everywhere to be, diluted, lost with no singularity, nothing to which a sense can be fixed; to begin with no light…….please