I've been away for a while, working on plays. I'm exhausted and happy. Whilst I was in Edinburgh, I reckon I experienced just about every emotion under the sun, and I wrote this one day when I was angry. It's OK, I'm not angry any more.
I stand here on the edge of oblivion
And it kills me that I know I cannot fall
For I am chained here to the spot
Which is ever transient and moving
Moving and even the Northern Star is moving
The weighing scales are broken, there was too much to measure, we were too heavy or maybe we broke them on purpose deliberately deliberating the liberating of the libellous libraries that lies to our eyes to our minds to our hearts to our lips
And our lips. Are. Traitors.
What good has your mouth ever done for you?
I'd say cut it off but it is a gaping black and vacuous hole, and you cannot amputate that which is within you
And I am so angry
I am disgusted at the touch of every living creature but most of all horrified terrified sterilised by my own gentle and heinous touch.
A hundred people walk by me, a hundred hundred, maybe five thousand and I want to feed them, I want to force poison down their fat little throats, poison and pain and terror and everything they would be feeling i only they understood what was happening to them to me to you to us to tomorrow to your plans and your hands and the deeds you planned to be good.
If you can see Jesus Christ in toast, then I see me in coffee. I could put my hand through this stone wall, through this stone body I could punch and punch and punch it until the air shatters and I can't breathe and I am beginning to believe my own lies and what is truth?