Dark Delectable Delicious Destructive - Poems For Goths, Gangsters and Other Mysterious Souls 20 Years of Nick Armbrister's Dark Poems

Dark Delectable Delicious Destructive -

Poems For Goths, Gangsters and Other Mysterious Souls

20 Years of Nick Armbrister's Dark Poems

Betrayal.                                                                                                                                                         

Lies.                                                                                                                                           

Deception.                                                                                                                                                      

Anger.                                                                                                                                               

Desperation.                                                                                                                                              

Me shutting the door on you,                                                                                                          

forever.

A break from him as he gets under my finger nails,                                                                                  

when I scratch his fucking eyes out.                                                                                                                                          

Now you can’t look at me with your piglet type eyes.                                                                                   

Let me laugh at you,                                                                                                                            

turning the table upon you.                                                                                                                

What will you take from our encounter?                                                                                                            

I know I want to send you to Afghanistan so you can be blown to bits,                                                              

bring your sense of fatalism back to reality.                                                                                                         

Do me one favour,                                                                                                                               

forget you ever knew me.                                                                                                                                 

I become a ghost to you...

Navy

All he ever wanted to do was to improve his life, make a better life for himself and not be a lazy freeloader. Certain people thought he’d never make it; this view rubbed off on him through time and really depressed him. He was determined to show them they were wrong, that he wasn’t lazy and could prove something to first himself, then them and finally the world.

He was a writer, he never used the term “author” because he wasn’t from the university, never had a degree in English Lit, never dated a posh gal who had connections. No, he was a writer, a writer through and through, self taught from a teenage diet of Sven Hassel and Leo Kessler war books and later Liz Hand.

Little did he know that he would become a writer too, create something from nothing to bring happiness to a whole world of people, including him. He loved to create; it overcame his dark depressive northern mood and environment of a deprived crime ridden hard drinking town.

His background was varied including a love of 80s pop music, Goth and metal music, live gigs and going to pubs and clubs. He read avidly aviation and knew all of the fighter aeroplanes, old and new. At school he was average and never got full marks in his grades, getting through his years being bullied and learning how to handle himself.

A year at college where he enjoyed writing but hated electrical engineering brought him further on the writing road. Work got in the way, two hard years working on cars with a bunch of wankers almost sent him off the rails. A spite of rows and car wrecks made people think he was mad. Maybe he was.

Time passed and he worked in a bakery for a decade, it was his army time making him a man. Working with take no crap characters and a few gals who’d open their legs for a drink. It was the work magazine where he was published, two early poems on the sky; further down the years more followed in the “small press,” series of ‘zines, magazines and poetry anthologies.

He knew he was right, something drove him on and he didn’t stop. They published his work and gave good feedback; if they said no, he’d have quitted right away. But he continued and had a new passion, that to write and create. Each Wednesday night he went to a mate’s and drank beer, listened to music and wrote his early poetry, in 1996. His writing career had started.

On a path through life, often misleading with dead ends, at times joyous and happy, more often confusing and deeply depressing. One thing kept him going, his varied poems wrote in cheap pads and so full of emotions he never dared show even those closest. Topics ranged from cuddly animals to the darkness of war and all in between. This was his small legacy to a screwed up, yet beautiful world.

Down the years he even did fiction work and ended up with a publisher, a real world one who liked his work and encouraged him to write. This he did, never stopping. He was indebted to the lady who ran it, counting her a friend and confidante. The publisher moved rapidly from strength to strength and brought him much joy; the rest of his life was a failure, no girlfriend or day job, no car to drive to poetry readings. He is determined to change all that. For now, one area of happiness was enough; creating poetry and stories from out of his mind.

Writing poetry led to his first album, a Goth band who is his mates. They did some backing music to a poem he wrote, after seeing something awful, the death of a man. His mere words made a powerful antigun poem, very real. Happier aeroplane poems, from his heart on his first spoken world record, some with sound effects and others with haunting beautiful music. Often with tragic topic matter but themselves are uplifting works.

His work never stopped, not even when the job centre or joke shop made him look for none existence jobs in his deprived northern town. He knew in his heart and soul he would make a difference with his writing, as a writer.

Ditch Bitch

I’ve been ditched over the phone by a girl called Del. Has this happened to you? We met when I worked in the bakery, she actually asked me out. I’m able to count on one hand, the times this has happened to me. She liked me and was a Goth, just like me. We went out on a few dates and I felt really happy. Del was a wonderful kisser and a real alternative chick. She turned out to be a bitch when she ditched me by phone. During her time in Germany she was with the guy and in love. The fucking bastard came over here and they got it together, she ditched me by phone. I never even fucked her. When she was gone I had wanking material for a month, dreaming of my cock up her pussy.

I’ve been ditched by text message by a girl called Kelly. I’d just bought her two nice tops when I got her message. I was really gutted, what a loser’s way to end our four month relationship. We got on but she had too many problems and admitted being a bitch. Our times in the pub seeing bands and intimate lovemaking obviously meant nothing. Imagine my reaction when she asked me out again two more times, after leaving me and saying it’ll never work. I had to say no to protect my sanity. I did like her a lot and we met on a bus, which was a unique event. Imagine if she ditched me on a bus? We often made love three times in an evening, that I miss but this is life and it’s time to move on.

I’ve not been ditched by a bitch by email thought, not yet!

Frag

In a war, conflict breeds loyalty not selfishness in your partner, not like chavy England. Basking in the illusional glow of my make believe achievements. More bad nights adding to my bank account of insomnia. She has fortitude in strength of character. I hate my own reality. What would it of been like to go and to His Latest Flame with Bernie? My most amazing gig with a real women of 21, me just a kid of 17. It was not to be, either of them. she polished my helmet with her tongue. If my life was an open book, on what page would you be? You hold onto every gal like she’s ‘The One’. Don’t ever take something sacred from a pagan site; you could bring ‘something’ back with you. There’s nowt like anger lifting my mood of depression. I hate my own reality.

Grave

I went looking for your grave today in the cemetery. My friend and me trying to find it; we didn’t. It’s a bank holiday today and no one is in the office to ask where your plot is. I’ll call them up and ask where your grave is, then I’ll go and pay my respect to you. When we were friends before I still remember what you said all those years ago, like it was yesterday. When I do find your grave, how will I be? Will I weep or smile when I remember you from years ago? If you were alive here now, how would you be? We could go for a beer and talk about life. But we can’t, your forever gone from this earth. There’s so much more to tell, not all of it good, after I heard of your death back then. I won’t say that. What I must say, is that I miss you my friend who's gone from this world but not our memories.