Musings and Writing of GG Alexander

Turtle Soul (poetry is always indulgence)

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Turtle soul,

Hedgehog soul,


Touch you and you become a fortress,

Reach for you and the spikes come out.

Sprays the bile all over

Stinking hot and wet.


Pound the metal, pound it hard.

Pound every weakness and impurity away.


Bad panel.

Too weak.

Chuck aside.

Pound. Pound. Pound.


Rain lashes at the window,

water wears away stone over time.

‘That’s just the way the world is.

Nothing is going to be handed to you on a platter.

Grow up.

You’re no special snowflake.

You are not special at all.’


Kick a dog enough times and it turns.

That’s the sort of thing child-abused serial killers say.

Kick a dog enough times.

Woof, woof.

No responsibility for me, thanks. I’m an animal.


You are better than that, they say.

You are better than that.

You are better than this.

If I was better than this, I wouldn’t be here.


Pound, pound, pound.

Be realistic.

Pound, pound, pound.

Cliff to arch to stack.

Be realistic.


If you really wanted it, you’d work harder.

If you were really smart, you’d have followed a plan.

If you were really better than this, you wouldn’t be here.


Just look at you.


Strips away like layers of muslin on a mummy.

Hammered away until glowing-hot core is left.

Voice is acid that burns all but the bones.

You are nothing, nothing,

nothing but bones.

Worthless bones.


If I was meant to be better, I’d have done better by now

(says the skeleton, jaw clacking).

If I was any good, I’d know it, wouldn’t I?

Can’t trust people. They’re blind and liars and fools.

But I’d know if I was worth it, wouldn’t I?


First goes trust in others.

Their opinions are so slow and weak compared to that voice.

Kindness is burned away,

first to self,

then – withering after, drip by drip over time –

to the rest of humankind.


You’re right, you agree with the vicious, why should we care?

These people brought it on themselves.

The delusions, the fear, the insecurities.

The weakness.

Ha! Ha! Look at their weaknesses!

Laugh at them. Laugh at them. They should know better.

This is just how the world works.

Be fucking realistic.


(Just look at you, screams the voice inside.

You are them. You are weak.

The weakest).


Over the throbbing pulsing exposed kitten-soft core

Come scabs, and callouses.

Hard as shoeless feet, leathered, impervious.

What was once a child’s crying heart.


A turtle soul.

Knows better than to let anything touch it.

A hedgehog soul.

Barbs ready, up in defence.

A skunk.

Knows its best to hurt first. Hurt strongest. Leave a mark.

Do something, fucking do something.

This is just the way the world works.

You keep swimming or you die, you keep swimming or you drown.

The weakest are taken down first.

The old, the sick, the young.

From animal’s first impulse: do not be weak, do not be weak,

hide your soul or you will die.

They will reject you and abandon you and you will starve alone and die.

To fibre optic and LCD and sickness vaccines, and still,

you will die if you are weak.

The group laughs at you, you’re dead.

Must do as we say, must do as we want, must follow the rules we laid out.

(We just want what’s best for you, that’s all)

But be realistic.

Be realistic.

You are not special.

This is the best you can hope for.

And if you were meant to be any better, that was a lie.

You believed you were going to be better? What are you, conceited?

The weak only live by latching on to the strong.

How fortunate that we pity you.

(Must be good for something at least,




I mean, just look at you.


Fine, comes the voice.

Echoing through the empty chambers of brown-green-black caverns.

From deep within the shell, comes the voice:



I accept it.

I’ll play by your rules.

I am nothing.

You are nothing.

This world is nothing.

We are animals scrambling to the top of a pile and destroying each other and the ground we stand on. There is only so much earth, and material, and air to use. The weak get eaten. Stop swimming and you die. So shut the fuck up and get on with things and don’t you dare complain about what some sad soft-shitted adult or two said about your potential lifetimes ago, don’t you dare remember that people believed in you – they were fools, right? All fools. Be fucking realistic. The world is not going to hand anything to you, you entitled piece of shit.

I mean, really…

Just look at me.

Just…look at me.

If I was meant for anything better, I wouldn’t be here, would I?

If the world feels cruel, it’s only because I’ve been too soft for it.

Ungrateful piece of trash.


So says the voice,

of the turtle soul,

the hedgehog soul,

the skunk.

Pound, pound, pound.

Hammered out.

Never be so weak again.

The doors are shut.

The room is sealed.

No-one can hear the scream inside this head.

Nothing is unfair.

All is as it should be.

Pound, pound, pound.

No vocal fold to vibrate, no words to filter through the brain.

Only a vague sense of sound filling up the subconscious,

animal wail.


Turtle soul,

Hedgehog soul.




Written by G.J.

02/10/2014 at 12:50 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with ,

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