Junkie Clusterfuck Jesus
By Nathan J.D.L. Rowark

or:
Over thirsty drug addict hallucinates over water whilst tripping, as society writes him a useful epitaph with a future.


Needle field, seeping flames from yesterday's hit.
Rubbing arm, arteries sore – future past and nevermore.
Do you wanna dream about giant fucking octopuses in screaming pink elevators?
Neither do I, why should I care. I gave me a chance – I swear.
No bother, no good. I'm out in the wild fields again, amongst the dead poppies and the swaying soldiers.
It's a war, that's what it is. It's my uncle fucking Sullivan all over again, but I'm not sure.
Not sure if I want what you have. Not sure that it hasn't depreciated as you've gotten fat.
Another fat hit's what I need – so take your shot, reaper, and let me crawl back in your ocean to swim with your skeletal fishes and your overblown vile walrus full of vials of the stuff I like.
I probably don't make sense to you, or I, those people, I'm neither; or that guy.
I'm the living proof that dying in your mind is an acceptable profession for your mind to live and your body... to die.
No, I got it wrong. That's not right. I don't want that. That's fishy, a convoluted, over-bloated ink- penned conspiracy.
Who's writing this thing, it's supposed to be my say. Do I know you and why are you perving over my misery? It's mine, go away.
I need some piece and quiet, some Me time, while I figure out how to fix the tourniquet. STOP LOOKING, or I'll feed you to the fishes!
God, I'm thirsty – salivating with expectation, watching my tongue tears bounce on the floor, rolling like me when I first started, shedding like my fears to splash against the door.
Too warm this summer for too many layers, I'M NOT AN ONION! Time to shed my skin, to join my brothers.
Time to meet my maker beneath the (sings) b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l b-r-i-n-y s-e-a. I don't care at all. And as for you s-o-c-i-e-t-y; put your pen DOWN!
We'll see who's still here at the end, when the bombs have fallen... and suburbia’s fallen.
I'll still be sleeping with the fishes, to crawl out of the water once you're all asleep and start you all up again... PEN!


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36 year old editor and poet from London.