A better heart, a greater intellect, a frivolous pass time…

I genuinely thought I was good getting better, soon to be beyond superlative.

No one could touch me or call into question the inventiveness of my shots or the genius of my deception.

Barely played a year, already thrashing those that defined themselves by this most frivolous of pass-time.

I could give myself up to an excess of excuses,

all of them thin ashy lies…

It’s shit and shattering when somebody is instantly better than you

It calls into question everything that you are

That they compete, that they destroy, that you are pure wank-trash in all areas of life

that it is

performed so easily and I can only writhe in self-deception

and

torture.

It does not take too long to realise,

a swift meander through any town

or a

darting glance in any maccy d’s; inside of every tavern there’s somebody infinitely better than yourself.

A detailed sketch artist, an avant grade painter, a magician of melody, an insane strip tease act, a voice that rocks caves, a consciousness that balloons upon every thought, a wit that can only be admired, a face-a body the beauty that decimates knees, the creators of desires, the perpetrators of liars, the…