Pneumatic Hoarding Ramble


Doffussy Selective Conversation Ramble

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Rocking Beat

That’s not dust on the needle, this record is broken,
A repetitive loop of words already spoken.

St- st- stuck on the same old tune,
Echoing off the walls of this weathered tomb.

Carved in the rock are old lessons from friends,
Advice from the wiser in the hopes that I’ll mend.

Whitewashed with stubbornness, faded with age,
Clouded by the haze of my own silent rage.

Their logic seems sound when scrawled on the stone,
Yet the vinyl still clicks with that same whining tone.

The cave feels crowded with this incessant sound,
My mind gasping for air, begging not to be drowned.

I see a speck of sunlight guiding away from the echo,
Suffocating spaces pushing me to escape and just let go.

But my concrete feet fight frayed habits to stay,
Stuck in this cycle of my own groundhog day.

I can hear the birds chirping, counteracting my song,
A beat that’s been listed at number 1 for far too long.

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Invisible Ink.

I wrote this a while ago, never posted it here, it’s just remained lurking in the middle of one of my computer files, affectionately known as ‘The Bubble’. But I found this video this morning, which I thought was beautiful, calming and urged me to hunt this out for posting…

I possess a whole medley of scars, not just one. Some through accident, some through blatant tomfoolery and others through choice and curiosity. I don’t look upon scars as ghastly disfigurations of the skin but as memories, lessons and moments of escape.

One of my first, and probably scar with the earliest memory, is the star shaped bruise on my foot  that I obtained when I was just a pup. At the tender age of never-thinking-things-through-and-three-quarters, I  decided it was a good idea to try climbing the derelict motorcycle that we had propped up in the back garden, only to have the motorcycle decided it would be much more fun to mount me instead, and leaving me a five-pointed off-colour reminder.

Scar two – above my eye – Again, I was a child and as a child it was not one of my brightest move to try and tightrope the park bench because it resulted in a completely graceless headfirst dive into the razor-edged gravel. I should probably view this scar as an act (one of many) of my own foolishness, but I only look upon this scar with fondness. At the time it happened I was with my Dad and one of my longest friends to date, and remember the look of pride on my Dad’s face when I didn’t cry as they laid me down on that hospital bed to stitch me up, while the adjacent boy, who was much older than me, thrashed around in screaming fit as they attempted to stitch a similar injury.

My knees are adorned with a variety of playground war wounds and, I hate to admit it, some intoxicated-while-wearing-too-high-heel wounds as well.

On the back of my left hand peeks a scar that was the result of me not removing my hand quick enough from a closing drawer. Darwin would be proud.

Then there are those I have inflicted upon myself. Despite there being more than I can count, I only ever remember one being done in sadness. That one hides across my stomach and is slowly but surely starting to fade.

Knife nicks, cigarette and lighter burns, scissor snips, lava lamp and kettle burns, even the occasional nail scratch were all done in calm. I have a curiosity in the healing process, I love how the body mends itself while holding onto a memory. Many, not all, but many of these act as landmarks in my life. This was the year I did this…or this was the moment that happened. I know people look at them with worry and concern but it doesn’t bother me as I know their true stories.

To me they are just inkless tattoos Stories written in invisible ink. I’ll admit, they’re not the greatest pieces of art but I appreciate their value none the less.

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A Conversation with LBF…

WittyDi:“So… Laptop, Brain and Fingers, you’ve had the past 3 hours to create a magnificent essay, what do you have to show for yourself?”
LBF:“…Uhh… I umm… It umm…we umm… didn’t finish the essay…”
WittyDi:“No you didn’t… What did you actually accomplish?”
LBF:“……………………………….we used powerpoint to construct a 50 page, multiple choice, multiple scenario, quiz game show based on gender stereotypes based on a random infographic we found, for no purpose other than I found it amusing…….”
WittyDi: “Bravo, you imbeciles.”

The Inspirational Procrastination:

Any knowing my luck, no one is actually going to play the game now… Well, no one except me!

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Putting a face to a name (or a feeling…)

I stumbled across this video this morning and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Over the past few…….forevers…. I’ve been serial self-depricator and over the past few months it’s been increasing the daily appointments it has in my life. I’ve been trying to work out why I do it and what started it but I always come up short. Despite the constant affirmations of people around me, those little insulting voices still like to host afternoon lunch parties, social breakfasts and midnight feasts in my brain.

So I’m trying to task myself with a new challenge as my previous attempts at shoving a sock in it have come up short. Instead of focusing on the whys because so far there has been nothing glowingly obvious in my past for me to punch in the face, I am going to work on how to tackle the problem at hand, put faces to my own demons and then staple their mouths shut, duct tape, superglue, whatever strong adhesive is to hand at the time and do it that way. I think, hope, that a new habit will eventually form and that mental “quit hitting yourself!” quiets down, I’ll develop a new way of approaching things.

I started last night by trying to write a list of what I thought my positive qualities were, and I have to say it was bloody difficult. I don’t want it to be difficult, so I’m going to keep doing it until I do like doing it! Not dissimilar to my approach of eating fish. I used to hate but slowly but surely, bite by bite, I became a lover of all that is finny and scaled.

And on that note, I also found this delightful but ridiculously cheesy challenge to sink my fork into…


How can I relax when my own mind lies to me?

Concocting a fiction that fuels this anxiety.

I know I shouldn’t panic, I should just stay calm,

But my brain still dances in the realms of self-harm.

A hummingbird heartbeat partnered with stilted breath,

Led by clustered emotions performing their own quick step.

My logic perches on a pedestal, just out of reach,

Staring down at me as I bumble through stuttered speech.

Trying to call out for some peace, call out for some help,

Wishing my lips could form the words my thoughts felt.

For now I’ll just sit, learning the rhythm, adding some rhyme,

Until this beat slows down and I can call my mind mine.



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