February 2012
8 posts
I cannot get this song out of my head. Curse me...
Swim with the fishes that’s what they said when the wet realities of a naked world came creeping into your sub conscience the river bends and curves terrifying and soothing all at once like a snake tightening around your neck and what would they know, anyway? with their teeth and moisturizer cream and cucumber face packs and designer sweat shirts and comfortable good looks like it ever...
you are seated in placid domains where apertures twist and focus images contorting, spatial awareness shot show me where your shadows cast on the walls show me the silhouettes of the soldiers that tread a path in cracked jungles landscapes of fear where the plants grow regardless of human life where do we go from here? when our bodies stop casting shadows when our reflections don’t show up...
January 2012
17 posts
a cold stream creeping through stiff dead trees dampening layers of earth where the roots of all the plants lay still breeze, caresses your bones your dry skin a part of the atmosphere the mood of death, waiting, silently sitting on a noisy wooden chair in the corner of a colourless room arms folded, eyes fixed waiting for you to put one foot in the grave so it can suit you up in a choker a neck...
roots of trees, digging deep I follow the stumps the sap dribbling from weeping holes I think of you and your prefab smile your roots don’t stretch too far depth is lost on you like a grain of sand in a timer, ticking away the final moments of life our deaths are imminent please be more interesting
The girls you know live on a knife edge a hand grasped tight around a thin blade it bites, creating new lines new borders, new roads the blood is the colour of maps where do you sing? is your voice shrill like bitter morning crows? you have beauty I have modesty there’s no mans land between, I wonder who’ll step first first to put a fresh boot print into the sand to etch size...
I’m happiest when I have no money. I’m running out of cash and with no job, I really don’t know what I’m gonna do. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how to live your life. Success is just masturbation, and anyway, it brings it’s own problem. I hope I’m this happy forever.
Levels above me you speak languages unknown, mother tongues buried by sand tombs of words touched by the delicate taste of ale I warm to you slowly but you are still far from reach I am invisible so remember me as your spades hit the sand your hands will shake with cold excitement remember me as you let go of the balloons as you swear in the new year your heart will pump water Nothing to do now...
The past is gone, The future is coming, There is only this moment.
Climbed the stairs in your house the walls were white except for my silhouette street lights reflect me as your voice ascends and becomes birdsong my feet hardly touch the ground my stomach wrenches and curls it pines for swift movements like the way the birds swoop it’s orchestral like your voice that causes me to fake a somersault I’ll fake sadness for you just to see your hand...
December 2011
26 posts
Can you pick up or pull apart the lines on my hand the telephone wires that dart to the horizon the track lines can’t pull me down can you bring me down? can you be open enough? play the slow dead march a line of ants to the ant hill the commuters to the tube stations the ties drag them to destinations a point unseen dots on the horizon makeshift tombstones wood and nails your final call a...
you had invisible innocence immortality touched you brushed alongside you as your ankles kicked dandilions on the side of the lakes that snake through the english upper class the country side retreats for CEO’s and bankers all those things I grew up hating it’s still there you grew beautifully blossomed almost with the air and oxygen and photosynthesis touching the tips of your leaves...
The next 11 days will be spent mostly being sober and without drink, but more importantly, without the time or personal space to write. It’ll take a miracle to stop me going insane without these things.
seriously failing at being single. bored of hook ups. sick of pretending. tired of trying to impress. sometimes I just wanna fucking hold someone’s hand.
Swapping looks, rearranging thoughts structure them delicately the ashes of pages torn from books scatter among the mahogany desks I will walk electric fences tracing it slowly looking for gaps in the humming glow dance softly now glide like airless materials on a newly polished floor do it with me now look out the window together at the moonlight or is it the street lights? i can never tell ...
Writing drunk is something I should pursue. It yields some surprising results. I have no evidence to post of it, but I will endeavour to have this altered in the near future. For now though, I write hungover and tired, with the curtains drawn and a warm mug in my lap. Today, the outside world does not exist. It’s all about the bed for now.
anxiety and nerves are intense at first but now dying down i traced hips, i traced lips yet I still believe the moon doesn’t set it just passes by slowly like shop fronts and road signs we’re just full up, welling ready to burst give me tracing paper give me your hand grab at the moon together take what’s ours.
Dug my hole lie inside death by dirt pour it on don’t stop until uneven earth is spread over ground plant flowers where I lie so you know where to find me so you know I’m under there trying to breath, trying to speak but glad anyway I was glad it was you
Sick of the sound of myself now. Perhaps I’ll just now accompany all of my posts with foreveralone.jpg and be done with it. A-hurrrr.
I could say that concrete welcomes me, open armed lips failing, eyes damp or that street lamps offer me more than soul resistance but even I know there’s more to life than your legs and body and mouth and eyes more to life than good looks I want you to be a good book to read your pages no matter how torn they are no matter how stained or tattered or dog-eared I want a passage to the soul...
erased from histories from the myths of library books we scrub out our pasts like a radiation spill like a truck crashing on a motorway I can sweep away the broken metal the twisted car parts and broken bodies I can clean up as good as anyone else become another anonymous thinker in a crowd of blank faces seas of apathy you wouldn’t back your own mother you back yourself your flag your...
In your black magic hour you were bold and emphatic your boots kicked together with mine the delicate silhouette of your face supported the structure of your cheeks your chin, your eyes darkened by the lack of light that’s what you were going for I woke up with that black outline tattooed to my skin I don’t know how you got there you don’t wash off water and soap doesn’t...
Jesus, I’m so damn happy all the time now. I think my writing is severely at risk because of this. Happy poetry sucks.
I added you to the attic now you can collect dust, too with my father’s records old furniture, discarded my posters of movie stars of jim morrison and jefferson airplane you’re there now something old in the background discarded but fondly remembered your hair especially and our trips to the woods i can still hear your dog playing in the lake smile furtively I dealt with you now sit in...
We kicked our legs up the street street lights glisten on rain soaked cobblestones my stupid jokes make you laugh legs tangled up around a bottle of wine like a flutter of light across the pavement we were fleeting short lived flashes as beautiful as it could be
don’t fear the sun the sun knows no prejudice see’s no colours no shapes, hears no sounds understands no words doesn’t think it hangs brightly in the air slowly turning your skin to brown, crisp paper to be blown apart in the breeze in a brown parade your skin’s a confetti raining on the pavements coating the concrete with your dried skins shedding always recreating façades...
you can’t stare at the sun the sun stares back a glare that will linger sets a fire at the back of your eyes just like your flammable spirit i tried to steer away from but ended up crashing like a fly, like a moth attracted to damp abandoned railway stations a single light to attract a path I got away but my wings were clipped my legs were broke but there is no regret no wrenching feeling...
“And twenty-four keeps breathing in my face...
