Neil Robertson

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 31, 2012

Neil is a writer working in Salford, in the dank, damp Northwest, he works in a tiny little studio surrounded by books and plastic mutilated dolls which have been painted black for some reason, his work attempts to describe the mudanity of life, the minutiae of the egg cup or the garage door, his fervent imagination propels him forward into the future and the past and firmly in the inert NOW.

He writes daily. He drinks daily.


Ill Reality

I’d like to rip myself apart to prove to you how I work. To show you where I stand, lie or crumble in pieces, I stood on a mental precipice, knives inside, the choices laid before me seemed to overwhelm me, each colour gouged a hole into my sallow skin, lowly feathered  syringe, these lies and forms invaded my sequence. I externalized every thought, each word and noise left my lips like enunciations of death and vinegar and the actions of others no longer had any meaning, no longer made any sense at all, every slight turn, all forms and shapes around me started to lose all definition, and by will alone I was able to disconnect from reality, to enter some specific dark internal wilderness.

I became aware of time as a shape, as the interaction between the annihilation of the senses and with the modulus of life seemed irrelevant, but I was still aware of the mass of people and objects and when interrogated about this later, I claimed a strange calm idiocy and walked away. I just crumbled into the honest brutalism of the walls of buildings, and chewed on small stones as a way to distract myself. A madness was setting in, a delicious imbalance, I felt haunted by time, a feeling which intrigued me, I needed to feel precise if I intended to carry on unscathed as I exited reality. I could halt this process if I wanted to, I still had a modicum of control, until I unfocussed my eyes and reality floated away, with it all my guilt and excess.

Pushing away momentary panic and imaginary soundscapes, as ice shattered a thousand times but still lay there intact, my useless hands smashing down upon the reflective surface, and with this final widening of frontiers and the narrowing of my reality the images which surrounded within seemed recoiled at my shape, the light stretched into lines, oblique feelings of failure invaded these silent surrounding walls, I felt confronted beyond my experience and I was still left with the horrible largesse of my physical shape, this formless shell. I pulled at the concrete from within this now flat and arid mindscape, there was a lack of clarity or containment, the bones of a thousand mistakes laying themselves down over the coals of this solitary confusion, the memory foundations of acid baths that  bled analytical formations into my sleepless world, I lay digging into the soil-like material, I at once felt fault lines of memory, a corruption in youth, a realisation that the drag of reality was pulling me back, I stood halfway through a doorway, to submerge into the wallowed world of obfuscation or into one of physicality once more.

I closed my eyes and denied myself the choice.

My arms and my legs, my torso, in reality, suddenly there, mocking me, mocking me length-wise.

Previous post:

Next post: