Sook Samsara

by Arthur Graham on December 5, 2017

I write (currently) under the name Sook Samsara. I’m a cloud of atoms blowing wildly around the voice. Recently I have decided to direct my energy away from self destruction and towards writing. Terrestrially, I’m 25, studying psychology, Australian. That’s all the bio I wanna give, nosey bastards.

Website is 


I Bet My Mother Is Proud

I fell asleep
Giving cunnilingus to the womb of death
The same womb I was cut from
I spend my time thinking about ways to build a prison so thorough I can’t imagine what it would be like
To escape from it
And so have no choice but to be content
No more longing for fulfilment and to be whole
No more looking for a mother that won’t age or sag
Or a drug you can’t build a tolerance to
I return to death like it’s some book I once liked
And immediately get swaddled in its legs
Filling my mouth with the taste of its ass
Hair and all
The circle complete
The virgin death consummated
The pain never ending
Never began
I fuck myself in timeless ouroboros
And I bet my mother is proud 


Mouth Cancer

Gotta stop smoking
Before it kills you
My doctor says over liquorice stethoscope and lowered glasses
What do you know? I think
Out there running every morning until it looks like your face is one giant pimple
And your heart might burst
Putting your organs under so much stress
‘But it strengthens them,’ he claims
So why doesn’t smoking strengthen my lungs?
Alcohol strengthen my liver?
Fat strengthen my bowels?
Because life is a trick perpetrated on us
And that’s how I know God exists
Because there must be someone out there to enjoy the show
…It’s all a losing hand
Nothing that tastes good is good for you
But why would this be the law of life?
Fuck it
I wouldn’t mind losing some of my parts
And dying in pieces rather than all together 
I’d rather kick the bucket now
Than live with a pledge of silence to not talk back to my superiors
Lest they see I have a mind and not just a set of hands and a bank account number
Why bother with health or success?
They only depreciate like a new sports car
Just spend a relaxed minute
Enjoying a cigarette until you get
Mouth cancer
Oh well,
Life’s complicated and
Every man’s a koan he himself alone must answer


4 Years of Me

My girlfriend messaged me today
Saying she’s going to the emergency room
With a bad pain in her stomach
I sent back ‘Okay
Text me later dude’
And went back to masturbating to someone else.
Then I worried about her insides
I wondered if I’d care if she died
I worried about my reddened ears
Deaf to love, ringing with tinnitus from
Listening apathetically to her hypochondria for years.
I worried about her going home alright
In a wristband decorated fashionably with her life
And messaging me annoying emojis to no response all night,
Saying how I’d better miss her and soon we’ll be reunited,
Playing games I don’t have the energy for
—I can’t even pretend I’m excited.
Then she called me and said I’d better know
They removed all this waste from her insides—about 80 kilos
Hair, and skin flakes, and clothes and pain and dreams
And lust for other people and all the things for years my psyche’s silently screamed.
It was all shaped into a dense ball by her stomach’s muscles
And she gave it back to me, saying this is how close to you I feel
And she meant it to be sweet but she caught my chewed up wings
And found their lonely feathers ruffled.
It hurts so bad when someone’s love becomes your bully and victim all in one
Giving so much with one hand and taking more with the other
’til you realise you’re growing weaker every day and praying for death just to come.
4 years of me she had consumed and still that wasn’t enough
She felt empty now, missed my taste and was hungry to fill up all those gaps
So I bared my wrists and hung my head and said
‘Go on, get what you still can’
As I scratched the head off another gash.
—I was never one to hurt a woman
I’d just find a soft spot on myself and get mad and scratch
Until the callouses grew like ivy and buried who I am

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