i keep thinking

I keep thinking, when I stumble through the dark at night, walking into the pitch-black of the bathroom, foggy from sleeping pills, that, in the mirror, as I pull the cord and the light bursts on, I might see my face deteriorating and distorted, or, between us, a twisted contortion of a young girl with a dirty weave of black, clumped hair, and cracked, pale face bleeding black blood and a human smile a human smile a genuine teethy smile in its skeletal frame with lips rotted away and eyes that I see looking at me over the sunken wound of an amputated nose leaking pustulated globs looking at me why stop stop looking at me oh god and a low inhuman groan and a thumping on and on with the rotting walls peeling away into a swampy overgrown green tangle

stumbling out, turning the light off again, heading back to bed, floorboards creaking underfoot, and feeling the prescription in my bottom jaw, and in the back of my mouth: an anaesthetising, metallic streak seeming to slide halfway down my throat.

I keep thinking.

M.V. (music writing)

There’s a monolithic tick of bass, anarchically simple; throbbing. There’s a sudden contorted, crackling death rattle permeating the room, hanging in the air like smell. It’s the sound of choking, murderous fumes blown through a nose. It’s the picture of a smoking bull squaring up to the matador with a dead-eye.

Without warning, in an instant, that plodding bass tap is transmogrified. Atop the naked ear: a new beast astride. By the alchemy of overdrive, from a cocoon of spitting, spluttering, immutable distortion emerges a primal, guttural lashing of power-chord violence. In the indecipherable hiss, from the depths: from the smoky din of the mundane… There rises a scratchy-throated warrior, one who rasps indignant to whomever will listen.

And listen they will.