⚓ Captain. ⚓

061911

I love this man so much.

Anonymous asked: I had America in my head when I was reading the poem you wrote yesterday. Up until now I knew there was something about you that was substantial although I couldn’t pinpoint it. You are not like other people, even people who you can just know are going to be infamous are different to you. I see you out sometimes and everyone notices you but you are shy and only talk to the girls who you are with. I know a lot of boys who are in bands and they are jealous of you and I didn’t know how until I read your poem yesterday. Its like you are destined to change the world. Its like you are more influential than anyone else. At first I followed you because I laughed at you however im slowly falling very hard for youre magnet. I think people fear you and mock you because you have the thing they wish they had.

I think people are just scared of themselves. I write because I need to write. Sometimes, I can sit there in the dark and be awoken by these words floating around the room and I cant sleep until I catch every word and put them in place. Its not a talent, It’s a curse.

061711

061611

Hesitant.
A poem by Jason Micheal Henson.

Dear structure, I detest you. Dear insomnia, I loathe you. I watched a homeless man find water in the cracks and I watched a homeless man seek comfort from the blanket of filth you provided him. I gave cigarettes and chocolate bars to the infinite frenzy of dolls and crooks and was in my own, spiteful about the unjustified rapture of suits, sporting umbrellas in the rain as I myself sat soaked. I wept for the future which is currently the present and folded on my deck of cards to betray the traitor who tarnished my glistening name. Dear gulls of the sea, I love you, free and scavenging for the last quarter this obese nation discarded, I danced as I found Frankfurt’s and Kentucky pieces rolled in a barrel of wasted slush. I sat at the top of the highest buildings and remembered the life at the edge of a creek. I wept as I walked carelessly to the remnants of emotional care and leapt in the dark over unknown objects. I sparkled with glistening eyes as my fathers-father laid to rest and waged to save the world a day later. I walked and ran from the torture of a whore who I loved to no avail, only to loose a war and a sentiment of small proportions. Dear all of the Jews who died unjust in a chamber of gas, staring lost and blank in each-others eyes, who found worms for friends, worms who lied. I sat in winters peak in a busy Sydney street with the shelter of buildings and the homeless hands, wrinkled and dirty and free. I’ve seen ten million lies through the teeth of men who crave their power in penned ties and woolly mittens, claiming to know my street. I danced with death all night, fuelled by rage, holding the stiff cocks of vermin, hungry for the tease of cocottes and trollops. Dear ideology, Im ashamed of your sorority which prides media and communist theories against the splatters of men who fell from the tallest buildings, who’s estrangement led to capitalist feud’s between moral structure and immoral acts, who looked to the dark whilst I wept from the window of a derelict house. I saw world war three in a loveless marriage, I found world war four in my own. I hoped for love and lust and lies and returned cold and bitter and sore. I admired shoes of fashionable creeps who walked on faeces and remained aesthetic. Dear Rolling Stone Magazine, I read your bilge from front to back and questioned reality, for every word was factious of modern cultures and teen whores with parents dreaming of child pornography. Oh, dear sleepless night’s, might we last forever in royal haunts of submissive drugs. Dear Seroquel, you are my favourite of all fucks, late night passage of blood and vomit in porcelain bowls with bowels loose just for a chance to escape, overdosed on courage to forget the scars of a cultured fraternity, safe inside the padded walls of political-correctness and breathing heavily into a paper bag.

061411

I’ve realized my own faults for why they are. Sadly I’m not the most emotionally secure person, I’m always scared that I’m unattractive, I’m always scared that I mean nothing to the person who means the most to me. I hate that I’m this insecure, but I’m yet to have anyone tell me something I believe. You know my biggest fear is that I’m actually retarded, that I have down syndrome or something, and everyone has spent forever just trying to make me feel normal, like there is this huge secret about me which people are too fucking nice to tell me about. The worst part is that its not the first time ive written about this. Medically I’m diagnosed as a borderline schizophrenic with bipolar and sociopathic tendencies, however to me, I want so much for it all to stop, I want to know my fiancé isn’t sitting next to an empty body, I want to be happy with myself and my life, and not be afraid to dance and be free. I want to laugh with people and not think they are laughing at me. I realized last night, that I was once passionate about photography, up until the moment I became passionate about The girl who ruined my life. It’s like all the energy I could have put into things that were positive was wasted on something so negative and draining. My first moments were once spent thinking about the brilliance of arts and imagery and suddenly I woke up and realized that the last five years of my life were not going anywhere positive. Today I woke up and focused my attention to positive relationships and made plans to see some exhibitions this Sunday, and I write to you tonight sober, inspired and positive about the next day. Now I can’t wait to sleep, I can’t wait to see another day, a positive and beautiful day, wearing my insecurities on my sleeve.

061311

I feel bad for a girl at work. She actually thinks she’s earned the ability to learn new sections. The boss just likes staring at her tits and wants to fuck them. I’d like to see how she goes with a female boss, or someone who can see straight through her.

061011

This is part three in a series of gifts wrapped in vintage comics. This one is an empty box wrapped in the centre spread of September 1989 X-Men. Inside the box there are letters to those in my life, dated, explaining everything in the event of my death, with why I loved them to why I decided to say goodbye. The only people that know the inside contents are you and myself. The bottom has been made from a taped letter where I have listed every single “L” word I could think of, only using the word “love” twice, which represents my hearts true owners. The folds have all been wax pressed and taped to ensure that no tampering will be made before the day I die, and the box will live as an ornamental piece, which I’ll place somewhere for aesthetics. This is possibly the most intricately coded of my previous comic wrapped pieces, as this one is designed to never be opened, and the inside of the box is airtight so that age can not destroy its contents. Sadly it’s not the most beautiful gift, again reflecting it’s purpose.

060811

The walls fall, depleted, one single stream starts upon his cheek to follow through in sequence like old movies in a motel room; bottles of wine and a bucket of the sweetest grapes. Alone in a freezing corridor, waiting for a key lost in suspense as moments this morning went awry from sunrise. He sits and waits as cold regret fills his mind and the shuddering wind flutters in torment with squeaky sills on defective doors. “This is the last time”, he whispers to his chest like all those times before; she stole his soul and hocked it for a cheap night with legs spread in a warm bed. His fists fight the cheek bones covered in such tears from a pathetic mess, each time he never learns, torture for the lost brings pleasure to the found. God, help me, come down from your fucking throne and help me. He sits in the dazing scurry of a late night, desperate for the love he gives to return, dazzled by reflections of car lights in trash cans, spelt out in contrast like black and white. Nearing the wreck of a dialect throne, majesty calms the fighting teeth. Stop. Clocks patter in a distant roar of beating and beating, selfish honor inside of silence, forcing the truth through medicated eyes, glamor in the prefix of rotting corpses laid upon by the taking of philosophical structures, social equalities of fear and loathing, found. Death fearing for the safety of a bitter soulmate, with fat and blood and bones, she is human, this quality finds acquainted lips. Her stomach jiggles, stretch marks lay on her breasts, her morning breath may not be delightful, but god damn this moment of truth is defining, because she’s sill everything, still a rock to anchor onto, still a soul to love for ever, his first thought in morning wallows and his last as conscience ends.

060711

Oh, you’re posing again darling. Stop it. Look me in these eyes, not these teeth. Swear approachable paragraphs through letters stamped in an anchored seal. Protective muster, I cant walk past without a single hands graze against you, the touch of a landless captain to his coquettish sailor. Oh, my love, how I shouldn’t poke parables in these definable codes for your eyes to decode as always they have. We shouldn’t discuss how it will happen, only let the moment come and pass and think only of it as a delightful hour on a drug which was long craved between us. Speechless tales of the sea when once was enough, the biggest fish, the greatest breasts nestled in the lips of the tallest ships. No details spared from a silent eye peeping through the cracks of the dressing room door.

060611

This winter brings treason, traced by law to the bullet casings instilled inside of insomnia. Breaking the barrels with the sharpest teeth, fighting fury to the tentative reasoning behind this pressed section of limp toes. Defeated in the world of ritual, forced statements which beat non-fiction to the surrendered soul. Harvest integrity from the dollar coins rattling in pocketed coats whilst retracting any statement made about poverty. How wicked are the tides. Deranged in quality fittings as midnight-walks become the private eye in sanctimonious uproar from a general public with no actual understanding of love or art, for they get what they want, and want more. Bright eyes faced to the longest month when a fortnight means forever, as distance shields eyes closed like autumn leaves traced in the pages of a journal. I regret those words, you are my soul, for love is an atrocity without your reply. Pulling sweaters to necks with the parade of demise, pressed firmly to the wall, honouring each word only to find lies replaced in exact quarters for your teeth cant handle the truth. Only another thirteen days and watch, such beauty corresponds with the reflection of our love in the photo-booth I’ve always begged you for. The perfect date, ill show you what I have lost and you can reveal what you have gained, another secret for these teeth like that night on October the Third. Let this be more beautiful, intact for a promise ill never write about.

060511

I didn’t get the chance to do everything I wanted, the trains stop eventually and at some point you need to realize there is a purpose for everything. My afternoon was spent with Kat, making gnocchi with her family from scratch and eating it minutes later, hot, delightful and so traditionally fresh, it was the best family feeling I’d ever experienced, however it was not my family. Tomorrow I’m dreading, I just hope that at one o’clock, someone comes in and makes everything else seem nonexistent or even comparable to that minute.

052311

“I read your book twice over. Firstly it isn’t a book, yet I assume you know this already. All the more it is a masterpiece, a love story if you wish. The problem with your love story is that he rapes her because she raped his conscience and the love is one sided. You seem to write from account like every word is honest which leads me to the second part. The opening first paragraph’s are raw accounts of seduction that I must admit made my stomach feel rather fuzzy, any girl would want to be this girl, however I believe no girl would have the insensitivities to commit to such a heartless portrayal of a human being. She is a glorified slut who seems to enjoy the hell that she created for you. I just want to tell you that I can’t describe how it was to read. So many lines made me want to kiss you, to kick you and others made me close your book completely only to return addicted two hours later. How dare you be so beautiful. “

Identity Witheld

You made me cry… Like. Loud, long and wet cry… Where your heart races. Where you can’t breathe.

052211

I grew tired of waiting for publishers. I didn't write this for fame or money. I wrote this because I love to write, because I needed to put my mind in words. Thank you all for your patience, this is the first half of my book.