“Ahhh here, leave it bleedin ouuu… I’m feelin like an nunion.” Wrapped up like an onion, in a black fur coat from penny’s. Something that most likely a poor Indonesian sowed together with their little young bare hands. Synthetic fabrics running through there breakfast, creating inflammation and sickness, in the mind and soul. While I stand here wearing it like a small black bear, sucking on my plastic manufactured vape pipe; which brings me no more ease to my anxiety than the fake plume of smoke that exits my lungs. I point towards my dying flowers up on my flat balcony, which I refuse to water; I can’t get any satisfaction, so why should my flowers. I’ll treat them like my perception on life. I’ll own flowers, but God be dammed if they have a better life than me. Jokes flow, nonsense and small talk. This has been the life for many years; I deserve this, without work, without having to suffer. People owe me, I’ve had it hard. I’ve had it harder than all the souls in the world. Come back to me, leave me, “How about you fuck off back to where ya came from.” I’m having a Guinness, watching my dying flowers on my balcony. I own them. I’ll drink all I want to, as this life owes me. And my flowers will suffer the same fate as me. Neglect and abuse. It happened, so it should repeat. And the mirror in my soul will broadcast all suffering I have become too. And shine it back onto everything in my life.
“But it’s a bit of craic.”