steven harris
Colonised

When I was human I was a small, reasonably well formed being. It all changed. Colonisation. Othering. Demonisation. All that’s left is the faint, impossible hope of beatification. I hang with Job. I bleed from a cross with beggars, thieves and alleged messiah men. I circle the ionosphere in an alien craft, calling occupants, bawling eyes.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a…

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New Moanier

The hours are out of kilter. The hinges connecting the days to each other are bloody with rust, weakened by corrosion or stuck fast like a fat dog in a rabbit hole. Said Alice. What would she know? Mythical invention of a potentially pedophiliac fantasist. Her hours, her unhinged days were never real, we’re filled with phantasmagorical beasts and burdens. Mine are hallucinations and reality all…

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Non Sense (As If I Am French)

There’s this thing called sleeping. I am often fond of it. Currently I appear to be addicted to it. Makes sense. Pneumonia is a swine and the body naturally responds by wanting extra asleep time in order to concentrate its energies on working with medication to fight the bloody thing. Also, more than one of the meds I’m taking has one of those ‘may cause drowsiness’ warnings. As a result I have…

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Reasons To Be Ouchy, Part Whatever

Reasons To Be Ouchy, Part Whatever

A touch of the pneumonias you say, Doctor? Well no wonder I’ve felt so fucking awful for days. And there was me thinking that pain in my back was muscular. Inflammation and infection? Well that’d hurt. Fucking does hurt. And makes me sleepy. Which makes me somewhat scared.
Still, ‘a touch of’ is better than ‘utterly raging’ and pneumonia is preferable to Black Death. Cos that one has the word…

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Winter Calls

Fear and Reason are battling for possession of my soul. The deep, dark hole I’ve staggered into, aches and pains as though it’s winter, splinters of my mind are all you’ll find scattered in shattered pieces on the floor. I am lost and uncertain if I wish to be located, fed up of being sated, feted, placated, far more comfortable with hatred which is what I blindly get from dead-eyed love. Above…

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Backs Are Buggers

Backs are sods. I had a back once. I proper functional one that did not keep breaking down and going all spasmodic on me. Sad to say this is no longer the case and spasmodic back is a reality not just a good name for a fictional punk band.

I was meant to be meeting up with my son and my mum in her home town today but I’m finding drawing breath difficult with the pain, not something that sits well…

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Tales From The Washing Line

Tales From The Washing Line

I ought to like Daleks, really. They're effectively a communist species . And genocidal maniacs.

I ought to like Daleks, really. They’re effectively a communist species . And genocidal maniacs.

My washing line tells tales on me. It reveals secrets about my consumer choices, about my cultural habits. It sheds light on elements of my personality as expressed through the medium of attire: it’s a sartorial tattle-tale and there’s nothing I can do about it.

From the variety of coloured but not…

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Buy Lingual

We call Tuesday things. You might not call it things. Except for ‘Tuesday’. I’ll rephrase that.mi call Tuesday things. Sleepy Day. Who Put The Fucking Heating On Day. Bumping Into People Day. This last is literal, by the way, not figurative. I literally bumped into two people. Once because I’d forgotten how hectic town is with the students back, despite my rant yesterday, and was ambling along in…

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I Know Nothing Beyond The Fact Of My Own Ignorance

I Know Nothing Beyond The Fact Of My Own Ignorance

Students. How I enjoyed the luxury of being from my mid-thirties to my early forties. How annoying they all seem en masse these days. Perhaps I’m jealous? They’re still studenting while I had to interrupt my PhD a while back and have never been well enough to return. Or affluent enough. Or clever enough any more.
To be fair, I found many of them annoying while I was studying. Their ignorant…

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Muad’Dib

Muad’Dib http://wp.me/slZtQ-muaddib

Static. Of the mind. White noise. In the brain. Not necessarily unpleasant, merely an observation of how I’ve been over the weekend. A comedown from a week of anticipating opening up to therapy, probably.

It’s fortunate that I quite like my own company of late. If I did not I’d be stir crazy with myself. I’d be tearing about (figuratively) with socialising and keeping myself occupied. Which can…

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