Change is an unnatural state, we’re fickle slabs of metal, purpose built cars refusing to be taken consciously by the crusher at the scrapyard. Yet as the metal contorts and writhes you’ve got to wonder is the damage eternally irreversible? The past collides with the present, I’m watching the future float out of eyesight, like … Continue reading Scrapyard
In Hell, an Irish bar
This hangover has got me reminiscing about the days we spent together, inseparable and enamoured.Our last fuck was to Doja Cat’s Streets. We didn’t even say a proper goodbye that night. I admit that it still cuts deep. Fuck, I’ll say it, I hope you’re happy. Knocking back drinks with the girls, acting like we … Continue reading In Hell, an Irish bar
Well Mr. Brizell it seems that the world’s changing
This life is filthy. I should be dead and buried but I’m still here somehow. My liver and lungs are rotting. I’m fatigued from the hangover. What day is it darling? I often forget. The world’s changing and I’m changing with it. Slowly my existence is corroded I’m drinking Whisky most nights, reflecting on the … Continue reading Well Mr. Brizell it seems that the world’s changing
The exit on your left leads to your mother’s uterus
I’m sat down and then with a screech it all comes out; Ben, we’re bored of all that tits and ass business. This is 2020! We want adventure, a space opera, with fluffy bears. Oh, we want great medieval dramas at war for the very freedom you have. Well fuck you. Maybe tits and asses … Continue reading The exit on your left leads to your mother’s uterus
Britain’s going to fall, so let’s make it sexy
They're going to raid Downing Street, lop off some heads, then paint a Westminster primary school with Johnson's blood and use Corbyn's entrails as decoration for a new communal area. I've got no problems with this brutal outcome. Hang Rothko's art on the new walls of a fallen England. The world's going down in flames. … Continue reading Britain’s going to fall, so let’s make it sexy
My reputation precedes me
My life is a swirling, disorienting mess. I hate myself. I'm wounded from the past like the rest of you. Coming to terms with the moment isn't getting any easier. I'm yearning for death. The morality of continued existence poses itself as a defeatist conundrum. Sure you could have it all, but sooner or later … Continue reading My reputation precedes me
My bad
All good things come to an end. There's a time limit on it all. I've broken hearts and I've had my heart broken. There's been no right or wrong either time. There's some good, some bad. I just wonder where the worth we once had for one another sits by the end of it all. … Continue reading My bad
Today’s dance floor
Honey, pull me down to the floor. Lick my face with your lust and tell me all your secrets. Fuck me senseless. Ride me like it's the morning after the apocalypse and we're the only survivors. Sure I've been around the bend and back again in just my underwear and loafers, but at the end … Continue reading Today’s dance floor
Abused bodies and dead bloody poets
Reality stagnates and fractures, the guts of humanity pour onto the cobbles we sway down. Now here I am staggering down some decrepit streets. Bleeding profusely and trying to make sense of what it means to be loathed in the moment. You can exchange as many words as you want, but it seems no matter … Continue reading Abused bodies and dead bloody poets
Mr. Brizell, we’re glad to see you again
I have a recurring dream which plagues me. At this point in its existence you could consider it a waking dream. Whenever shit goes bad, I find myself in a hotel lobby, bedraggled and hopeless, on what I presume is an unholy cocktail of substances, that keeps me barely lucid and leaves me periodically blacking … Continue reading Mr. Brizell, we’re glad to see you again
Ben Brizell 