Read about a girl (on some website
Forwarded by a guy I met online),
Who’d been cut into pieces. Body
Turned into a bloody, fleshy,
Pulped jigsaw puzzle that had to
Be put back together by someone
With gloves on.
Read some other stuff too. Smoked
So that I could look at ghostly
Patterns gathering round lampshades.
Talked to a couple of friends
Via instant messenger. Forgot anything
That I was supposed to do.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Something just jogged my memory
I realised that you were
Probably there
And it made me feel so
Bad that I froze.
Kept conjuring images
Based on what you’d
Told me, of what I’d
Half remembered
Pretending you might
Have looked like there.
There’s this whole
Past without me,
This whole monumental
Thing that’s so dense
That I’m having trouble
Trying to chip
My way into.
It’s like a virgin asshole.
But one that’s stayed that
Way through choice,
And you’ve kept tabs on
How that thing smells.
Too scared to ask
The sorts of things
That I’d like to,
Because I know that
You’d answer me
So truthfully, that
I wouldn’t be able
To stand.
You’d have to help
Me up and I doubt
That I’d feel any
Better for it.
Probably there
And it made me feel so
Bad that I froze.
Kept conjuring images
Based on what you’d
Told me, of what I’d
Half remembered
Pretending you might
Have looked like there.
There’s this whole
Past without me,
This whole monumental
Thing that’s so dense
That I’m having trouble
Trying to chip
My way into.
It’s like a virgin asshole.
But one that’s stayed that
Way through choice,
And you’ve kept tabs on
How that thing smells.
Too scared to ask
The sorts of things
That I’d like to,
Because I know that
You’d answer me
So truthfully, that
I wouldn’t be able
To stand.
You’d have to help
Me up and I doubt
That I’d feel any
Better for it.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Fragment 4
“Hey!” Jason is standing at the bottom of the stairs, grinding his teeth and looking generally manic. “Are you guys coming or what?” His current warped perception of everything means that he hears the words come out of his mouth very clearly. It’s like when someone hears their own voice on a cassette. He repeats himself not for anyone, just for his own amusement, so that he can listen to his voice again: “Are you guys coming or not?” He looks at his hands, they’ve got a faint gleam to them. “HEY!!!” still no answer from upstairs. “Fuck it – be boring! I’ll go on my own!”
Jason leaves the house, slamming the front door behind him. He mutters to himself about his friends, annoyed that they’ve obviously changed their minds about going exploring with him, even though they seemed to think it was a good idea before they took the acid.
Wow, who’d have thought this street could look so good? The street feels like a movie set or
something. Not a real street, but a street in a film.
Jason notices the trees. The green looks so green, with the moonlight reflecting off them in a way that makes them look glossy, like the front cover of a magazine. Jason imagines what the street would look like from a high diagonal camera angle. Cameras are his thing. He has his point-and-shoot round his neck as usual. It’s part fashion, part functional, he likes people knowing that he’s “a photographer” and the sort of casual social kudos that seems to attach itself to that, but also he just loves taking pictures of things. He imagines what he might look like from above with everything looking like it has been prepared for an expensive photo-shoot.
Man, the whole world has been Photoshopped. How can stuff look so perfect in the dark?
Jason walks out of the street. A warm, overwhelming rush of pills and acid races through his body, as he’s suddenly illuminated by the gorgeous orange light bursting out from an otherwise everyday lamppost. The beauty of everything makes the faint hairs on his arms jump up into goose bumps. This … fucking … rules.
Jason turns a corner. His senses suddenly feel acute. His ears zoom in on the sound of his trainers grinding on the gritty tarmac street, making a satisfying crunching noise.
Before long he finds himself walking past the fence that separates the house’s back garden from the street behind it. He cranes his neck and looks at the house standing there in the dark. It looks really still. No one would know that his friends are in there tripping their brains off. Weird, Jason thinks.
He pauses as he reaches the opening to the woodland that the whole town backs onto. He looks at the huge trees that form the entrance, he looks at the floor, at the point where the street ends and the dry brown soil takes over. The shadows cast by the thick growth of trees and bushes looks immense. Fuck, Jason thinks. Maybe I should go back for the others … don’t want them to … Jason starts doubting himself and his whole idea of walking round the neighbourhood and woods while tripping … don’t want them to miss out. He manages to get his brain back into fun-mode. Whatever, fuck it … their loss. He grips his camera and starts edging closer to the woods.
Jason leaves the house, slamming the front door behind him. He mutters to himself about his friends, annoyed that they’ve obviously changed their minds about going exploring with him, even though they seemed to think it was a good idea before they took the acid.
Wow, who’d have thought this street could look so good? The street feels like a movie set or
something. Not a real street, but a street in a film.
Jason notices the trees. The green looks so green, with the moonlight reflecting off them in a way that makes them look glossy, like the front cover of a magazine. Jason imagines what the street would look like from a high diagonal camera angle. Cameras are his thing. He has his point-and-shoot round his neck as usual. It’s part fashion, part functional, he likes people knowing that he’s “a photographer” and the sort of casual social kudos that seems to attach itself to that, but also he just loves taking pictures of things. He imagines what he might look like from above with everything looking like it has been prepared for an expensive photo-shoot.
Man, the whole world has been Photoshopped. How can stuff look so perfect in the dark?
Jason walks out of the street. A warm, overwhelming rush of pills and acid races through his body, as he’s suddenly illuminated by the gorgeous orange light bursting out from an otherwise everyday lamppost. The beauty of everything makes the faint hairs on his arms jump up into goose bumps. This … fucking … rules.
Jason turns a corner. His senses suddenly feel acute. His ears zoom in on the sound of his trainers grinding on the gritty tarmac street, making a satisfying crunching noise.
Before long he finds himself walking past the fence that separates the house’s back garden from the street behind it. He cranes his neck and looks at the house standing there in the dark. It looks really still. No one would know that his friends are in there tripping their brains off. Weird, Jason thinks.
He pauses as he reaches the opening to the woodland that the whole town backs onto. He looks at the huge trees that form the entrance, he looks at the floor, at the point where the street ends and the dry brown soil takes over. The shadows cast by the thick growth of trees and bushes looks immense. Fuck, Jason thinks. Maybe I should go back for the others … don’t want them to … Jason starts doubting himself and his whole idea of walking round the neighbourhood and woods while tripping … don’t want them to miss out. He manages to get his brain back into fun-mode. Whatever, fuck it … their loss. He grips his camera and starts edging closer to the woods.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Fragment 3
Robert is standing up. He had to psyche himself up to do it. It feels like invisible weights have been hung on his body. He has to concentrate on balancing, on not falling down. When he walks forward a couple of steps it feels like the carpet and his shoes are made of pieces of opposing Velcro. When he walks he lifts his leg higher than usual. It looks like he’s trying to step over things, like there are invisible shapes blobbed in the air, lots of obstacles made of nothing.
As he gets closer to the door, Robert steadies himself. Shit … the door. It feels a lot more important than it usually does. Robert sizes it up, tries to work out what to do. All I have to do is pull the handle and leave the room. The door looks bigger, like it might be really thick, like it has this authority – it throbs like it’s losing patience. It’s not a big deal. It’s a fucking door. I open it and I walk through. All I need to do is leave the room and find the others. Leave … the … room … Robert jumps out of over-thinking-mode and just pulls the door open. He doesn’t think about the force, it’s like he’s superhuman. The door slams against the wall and Robert jumps in fright.
He stares down the dark hallway corridor that connects all of the upstairs rooms in the house.
It feels so fucking cold. Robert looks down the corridor that looks dark and deserted and seems to stretch on forever. He can hear faint sounds. Smudge … laughing? Cool. I’ll go find them … after I’ve … Robert wants to be out of the corridor so he slips in the nearest door possible which is … where’s the fucking light? Can’t see a fucking thing … where’s … click … ok, the bathroom.
Robert closes the door behind him. He leans against the wall and stares at the impact that his hand makes on the linoleum tiles. Ripples bobble off it, like he’s put his hand in water. He removes his hand and the wall goes back to normal. He puts his hand back and watches the watery effect again. He feels less cold. He walks towards the mirror.
The reflection looks almost too real. Robert recognizes himself but it’s more like he’s looking at an expertly CGI rendered version of himself. He looks almost too perfect. As he gets closer, the image changes: it seems to flicker, like a hologram. He looks at the scared expression of the person he’s looking at. The person looks lost, their skin looks clammy. Robert moves so that his face is virtually against the mirror. He stares into his own eyes which are staring back at him intensely.
*
As he gets closer to the door, Robert steadies himself. Shit … the door. It feels a lot more important than it usually does. Robert sizes it up, tries to work out what to do. All I have to do is pull the handle and leave the room. The door looks bigger, like it might be really thick, like it has this authority – it throbs like it’s losing patience. It’s not a big deal. It’s a fucking door. I open it and I walk through. All I need to do is leave the room and find the others. Leave … the … room … Robert jumps out of over-thinking-mode and just pulls the door open. He doesn’t think about the force, it’s like he’s superhuman. The door slams against the wall and Robert jumps in fright.
He stares down the dark hallway corridor that connects all of the upstairs rooms in the house.
It feels so fucking cold. Robert looks down the corridor that looks dark and deserted and seems to stretch on forever. He can hear faint sounds. Smudge … laughing? Cool. I’ll go find them … after I’ve … Robert wants to be out of the corridor so he slips in the nearest door possible which is … where’s the fucking light? Can’t see a fucking thing … where’s … click … ok, the bathroom.
Robert closes the door behind him. He leans against the wall and stares at the impact that his hand makes on the linoleum tiles. Ripples bobble off it, like he’s put his hand in water. He removes his hand and the wall goes back to normal. He puts his hand back and watches the watery effect again. He feels less cold. He walks towards the mirror.
The reflection looks almost too real. Robert recognizes himself but it’s more like he’s looking at an expertly CGI rendered version of himself. He looks almost too perfect. As he gets closer, the image changes: it seems to flicker, like a hologram. He looks at the scared expression of the person he’s looking at. The person looks lost, their skin looks clammy. Robert moves so that his face is virtually against the mirror. He stares into his own eyes which are staring back at him intensely.
*
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Fragment 2
“Shit – everything looks like it’s got glitter on it.”
“What about this?” Michael holds up a scratched CD that’s lying amidst a heap of clothes and other mess on the floor.
“No. Weird.” Says Smudge, squinting up her heavy-on-the-eyeliner eyes in this way that kinda makes Michael feel crazy. “You’d think that it would … because … you know … it’s shiny already.” Michael gets a little high listening to Smudge talk. He zones out on her voice. It sounds like there’s some kind of heavenly satellite delay. He zones in when she says:
“But look at the fucking scratches on it.” It sounds violent, Michael jerks back into the conversation from whatever blissful, tingling place his mind has been speeding at for the last … three seconds?
Smudge is still talking about the CD, she’s holding it and examining it like a little kid would a shell that they found on the beach. She holds it out and shows Michael. She’s right, the scratches on the CD look deep like any lustre that the disc might have had has been sucked into the surface damage. Michael doesn’t like looking at it – it feels like a … warning? Smudge tosses the CD back towards a pile of scrunched up bedroom debris where it gets lost, ceases to exist, resets the atmosphere of the room back to playful confusion.
“When did we take that stuff?” Michael stares at Smudges face. It looks like there are two versions of her, both vaguely transparent hovering just out of sync until they get a little more aligned and … click … yeah, just one Smudge. Cool.
“I don’t know. Not that long ago.”
“It feels like we’ve been this way forever.” Michael gets a kick out of how the drugs seem to make everything Smudge is saying sound profound; so that when she says “I can’t remember not feeling like this,” it just sounds so meaningful and deep that he feels like he could serious just fucking die happy right there on the weird, glittering carpet. Michael rolls back and lies down on the floor smiling.
*
“What about this?” Michael holds up a scratched CD that’s lying amidst a heap of clothes and other mess on the floor.
“No. Weird.” Says Smudge, squinting up her heavy-on-the-eyeliner eyes in this way that kinda makes Michael feel crazy. “You’d think that it would … because … you know … it’s shiny already.” Michael gets a little high listening to Smudge talk. He zones out on her voice. It sounds like there’s some kind of heavenly satellite delay. He zones in when she says:
“But look at the fucking scratches on it.” It sounds violent, Michael jerks back into the conversation from whatever blissful, tingling place his mind has been speeding at for the last … three seconds?
Smudge is still talking about the CD, she’s holding it and examining it like a little kid would a shell that they found on the beach. She holds it out and shows Michael. She’s right, the scratches on the CD look deep like any lustre that the disc might have had has been sucked into the surface damage. Michael doesn’t like looking at it – it feels like a … warning? Smudge tosses the CD back towards a pile of scrunched up bedroom debris where it gets lost, ceases to exist, resets the atmosphere of the room back to playful confusion.
“When did we take that stuff?” Michael stares at Smudges face. It looks like there are two versions of her, both vaguely transparent hovering just out of sync until they get a little more aligned and … click … yeah, just one Smudge. Cool.
“I don’t know. Not that long ago.”
“It feels like we’ve been this way forever.” Michael gets a kick out of how the drugs seem to make everything Smudge is saying sound profound; so that when she says “I can’t remember not feeling like this,” it just sounds so meaningful and deep that he feels like he could serious just fucking die happy right there on the weird, glittering carpet. Michael rolls back and lies down on the floor smiling.
*
Friday, 26 March 2010
Fragment 1
Robert sits with his head in his hands next to the stereo and tries to wish away the tide of what feels like it might be a particularly bad acid trip. The first hint is when the wall with the Sonic Youth poster on it begins to look a lot further away than it usually does. Everything in front of him looks stretched out.
The next sense to start betraying usual perception is his hearing. The song that’s playing – some lofi punk thing, some hipster thing that he couldn’t convincingly sell to himself let alone the people he’d been trying to impress – sounds like it has been shrouded with a huge blanket made of water, like a wave but softer, it sounds muffled but a lot louder too.
Occasionally there’s respite. Robert turns his head and the music seems to make sense again. Then it switches back, sounds more like a modem warming up, slowed down, the lyrics, guitar, whatever, reduced to its components cut up into all the tiny discrete parts that are usually left for the ear to decode before the listener actually hears it. Robert thinks something along the lines of shit, I’m hearing this stuff before my ears do … he laughs, or grins wide eyed, amused at how like a stupid hippy he was starting to sound. He’s almost relieved to laugh.
Things feel so surreal and disarming that this stuff might be funny. Scary. But funny. Could go either way, he thinks.
Robert turns around. He realises how empty everything looks, how still, forgets that there’s a loud punk song playing, and feels peaceful for a second. He can’t tell if he feels calm or just alone. His friends have gone to other parts of the house.
Maybe I should try seeing what outside of the room looks like.
*
Thursday, 25 March 2010
A couple of summers back I was surrounded by Canada geese.
A couple of summers back I was surrounded by Canada geese. It was after a party. One of the old parties that we used to have. The ones that seem so far away now; mainly because once you jump out of that phase where you want to get emotionally headfucked every other week, the distance you can travel from that space in a short space of time is pretty staggering.
I’d not slept. I shared the last remaining pills with a friend. We snorted them, figured it would be funny. Our noses stung. We licked the last of the coke off the table, the last of the MDMA from the plastic wrap that it came in. Washed it all down with the last quarter of the final bottle of vodka. I left the party at 2pm to meet a friend.
We walked round the park. I gave up trying to make sense of how I felt. I settled for a vagueness that seemed to fit whatever mood was trying to work itself to the surface of my emotions.
The gaggle of geese wobbled around me, hoping for bread. I had no bread. I was intimidated by the number of birds, the flapping of the wings, and craning of necks. My friend guided me to safety; I tiptoed around small splats of duck shit. I left the park and tried to make my way home without further upset. I looked at the sky.
I’d not slept. I shared the last remaining pills with a friend. We snorted them, figured it would be funny. Our noses stung. We licked the last of the coke off the table, the last of the MDMA from the plastic wrap that it came in. Washed it all down with the last quarter of the final bottle of vodka. I left the party at 2pm to meet a friend.
We walked round the park. I gave up trying to make sense of how I felt. I settled for a vagueness that seemed to fit whatever mood was trying to work itself to the surface of my emotions.
The gaggle of geese wobbled around me, hoping for bread. I had no bread. I was intimidated by the number of birds, the flapping of the wings, and craning of necks. My friend guided me to safety; I tiptoed around small splats of duck shit. I left the park and tried to make my way home without further upset. I looked at the sky.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Too sincere
- Are you filming this?
- Can you see a camera?
- No … but …
- Ask a stupid question get a stupid answer.
- Woah, sorry. I just thought that’s why you would … I thought that you would want people to be able to watch this when it’s done.
- Why would I want anyone to see this? What business has it got to do with them?
- I thought that’s why you were doing this. Well, not the only reason, but I thought that was … a big part of it.
- Is that why you’re doing it?
- I like the idea of it.
- We’re very different. I HATE the idea of this. I only like the fact that I’m actually doing it.
- Can you see a camera?
- No … but …
- Ask a stupid question get a stupid answer.
- Woah, sorry. I just thought that’s why you would … I thought that you would want people to be able to watch this when it’s done.
- Why would I want anyone to see this? What business has it got to do with them?
- I thought that’s why you were doing this. Well, not the only reason, but I thought that was … a big part of it.
- Is that why you’re doing it?
- I like the idea of it.
- We’re very different. I HATE the idea of this. I only like the fact that I’m actually doing it.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Traces of things
It got really quiet and stayed that way.
People’s ears adapted I suppose.
So the silence ended up getting loud.
They got lost somewhere between it, and themselves.
They got caught up in traces of things that
Became overpowering somehow, bigger than anything that they actually were, bigger than anything like them should actually appear; I suppose they were still small but the silence had started warping what people made of them, what people were used to hearing.
We’re getting to that point now.
What used to be shadows now feel like bright lights.
What used to be darkness looks like a fire.
I listened to your voice fade of, ramble, lose touch with what you were talking about.
I let my eyes get used to what you were starting to look like.
You adapt. It’s easy.
People’s ears adapted I suppose.
So the silence ended up getting loud.
They got lost somewhere between it, and themselves.
They got caught up in traces of things that
Became overpowering somehow, bigger than anything that they actually were, bigger than anything like them should actually appear; I suppose they were still small but the silence had started warping what people made of them, what people were used to hearing.
We’re getting to that point now.
What used to be shadows now feel like bright lights.
What used to be darkness looks like a fire.
I listened to your voice fade of, ramble, lose touch with what you were talking about.
I let my eyes get used to what you were starting to look like.
You adapt. It’s easy.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Scribble
He’d hooked up with a guy off a Master/Slave website and let the guy tattoo him. It was part of his “do anything you want” spiel that he always got a boner from writing. The guy had gone wild – scrawled some Cy Twombly scribbling deep into and across Mark’s back. When he twisted his head he only got half the picture, he top of his shoulders that looked more heavily inked than the rest of his skin; but that was just proximity. Mark got his friend to take a picture. He uploaded it onto the website, but this time he didn’t get a boner.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
dummy
Saw you fucking walking away with him, cunt.
Bet you got what you fucking asked for.
Bet you got everything that you had no idea that was coming/cumming.
Fucking insane.
Nasty, nasty, shit.
Fuck those advertisements that you walked past, didn’t even fucking read.
You’ll be in one of your own soon.
Won’t be around to see the fucking thing, though. Dumb shit.
Bet you got what you fucking asked for.
Bet you got everything that you had no idea that was coming/cumming.
Fucking insane.
Nasty, nasty, shit.
Fuck those advertisements that you walked past, didn’t even fucking read.
You’ll be in one of your own soon.
Won’t be around to see the fucking thing, though. Dumb shit.
Friday, 19 March 2010
Things just stayed stable
she pulled her hood up so that only a scraggle of hair
was peeking out, and her eyes and featured
were cast in a shadow
that she hoped
would make her look like she was higher on drugs than she was
or more intensely lost in what she was doing
who she was talking to
she felt like it did the trick
she felt like she was the centre of the room
where all the boys flocked
aimed future masturbation fantasies towards
“saved for later” said some dick
with shoulders too big for his head
things never got as fucked as she would like
or liked to imagine they would get
things just stayed stable
things just stayed ok
was peeking out, and her eyes and featured
were cast in a shadow
that she hoped
would make her look like she was higher on drugs than she was
or more intensely lost in what she was doing
who she was talking to
she felt like it did the trick
she felt like she was the centre of the room
where all the boys flocked
aimed future masturbation fantasies towards
“saved for later” said some dick
with shoulders too big for his head
things never got as fucked as she would like
or liked to imagine they would get
things just stayed stable
things just stayed ok
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Celebratory
Wheels skidding scrape
On the steps
Drunk kids shout
Under the fly over
Reclaimed architecture
Privy to bliss
Flushed faces
Affected pose
Good intentions
Spread evenly
Daylight held
High esteem
On the steps
Drunk kids shout
Under the fly over
Reclaimed architecture
Privy to bliss
Flushed faces
Affected pose
Good intentions
Spread evenly
Daylight held
High esteem
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
We slowly pass
I ask my friend to slow down,
Cars start to overtake us
As our vehicle begins to dawdle.
We slowly pass
The rushed memorial,
Stripped of whatever it is
That it’s supposed to have,
For anyone that doesn’t know
The specifics that they
All come with.
The last few leaves
Have started to discolour,
Looking crisp;
They’d snap if rearranged:
Their own impressions
Of the ashes.
Someones’s job is to sweep
Them away, the sort of weirdness
That no one thinks about, or
If so rarely. I don’t want
To be there
When they do.
But I don’t want anything
To last forever.
Cars start to overtake us
As our vehicle begins to dawdle.
We slowly pass
The rushed memorial,
Stripped of whatever it is
That it’s supposed to have,
For anyone that doesn’t know
The specifics that they
All come with.
The last few leaves
Have started to discolour,
Looking crisp;
They’d snap if rearranged:
Their own impressions
Of the ashes.
Someones’s job is to sweep
Them away, the sort of weirdness
That no one thinks about, or
If so rarely. I don’t want
To be there
When they do.
But I don’t want anything
To last forever.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Home movie
I shot a video
Of myself
Cutting off
My own hand.
I thought about
Showing it to friends,
But chose not to.
They'd just have
To be polite
And pretend
That the hand
Was still there,
If they noticed
Its absense.
I watched
The film back,
Slowed down
The part
When the hand
Finally dropped.
It was a long
Fucking film.
Took so much
Longer than
Movies had
Made me think.
I'm getting by
Okay; no one
Has said anything
Yet anyway.
Of myself
Cutting off
My own hand.
I thought about
Showing it to friends,
But chose not to.
They'd just have
To be polite
And pretend
That the hand
Was still there,
If they noticed
Its absense.
I watched
The film back,
Slowed down
The part
When the hand
Finally dropped.
It was a long
Fucking film.
Took so much
Longer than
Movies had
Made me think.
I'm getting by
Okay; no one
Has said anything
Yet anyway.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Odd dialogue that I heard in porn films recently
"Donny can't write poetry so the only way he can touch your heart is with his dick."
"Just remember, you're doing this so you will have money for the abortion."
"Oh god, I'm sorry" (that last line was kinda gasped by accident/instinct just as the speaker was ejaculating on someone's face and got it in their eye.
"Shall we just get on with the porn?"
"No - finish telling me a little about the house music from Rotterdam ..."
"Just remember, you're doing this so you will have money for the abortion."
"Oh god, I'm sorry" (that last line was kinda gasped by accident/instinct just as the speaker was ejaculating on someone's face and got it in their eye.
"Shall we just get on with the porn?"
"No - finish telling me a little about the house music from Rotterdam ..."
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Day
I asked him a question
about the train crash
that had been on the news,
so that he felt like
he had a purpose.
His confused face looked up,
gazed at me
through a drunken mist.
I could see his brain trying
to work through sheet upon
sheet of glazed
over emotional barriers
trying to find its footing.
He slurred,
telling me that
there were
fourteen people
dead so far,
his eyes lit up
– engaged finally –
he said that the death count
was expected to rise.
I asked something else,
anything really, nothing
I can recall
and he answered that too.
I stood in the doorway,
trying to work
out another move.
about the train crash
that had been on the news,
so that he felt like
he had a purpose.
His confused face looked up,
gazed at me
through a drunken mist.
I could see his brain trying
to work through sheet upon
sheet of glazed
over emotional barriers
trying to find its footing.
He slurred,
telling me that
there were
fourteen people
dead so far,
his eyes lit up
– engaged finally –
he said that the death count
was expected to rise.
I asked something else,
anything really, nothing
I can recall
and he answered that too.
I stood in the doorway,
trying to work
out another move.
Friday, 12 March 2010
While we slept
While we slept
I thought I heard you
Get up move around,
We swapped places
And I stared at the
Darkness’s intricate
Lack of colour
Until I fell asleep
Properly, until I was
Really gone, really
Dreaming.
I thought I heard you
Get up move around,
We swapped places
And I stared at the
Darkness’s intricate
Lack of colour
Until I fell asleep
Properly, until I was
Really gone, really
Dreaming.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
A cover version of night time
There’s no home
In a place that seems
To burn to the ground
After a certain time
Every night.
Daytimes can be
Distractions, letting you
Feel approximations
Of how you used
To want to feel all
The time, but once
The sun is old enough
To hit your squinting eyes
Then it’s almost time
To close your eyes
And pretend that the
Night is just a trick
Of the light, and that
The flames may have
Been dull, but they
Were never put out,
And it’s too late to
Start dousing them now.
The fear cancels out
Nothing, and the boredom
Equals the sadness;
And you’re ready to
Stare at the amber loss
Until your eyes feel sore.
In a place that seems
To burn to the ground
After a certain time
Every night.
Daytimes can be
Distractions, letting you
Feel approximations
Of how you used
To want to feel all
The time, but once
The sun is old enough
To hit your squinting eyes
Then it’s almost time
To close your eyes
And pretend that the
Night is just a trick
Of the light, and that
The flames may have
Been dull, but they
Were never put out,
And it’s too late to
Start dousing them now.
The fear cancels out
Nothing, and the boredom
Equals the sadness;
And you’re ready to
Stare at the amber loss
Until your eyes feel sore.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
3 voices (from a work in progress)
Be quiet-----------i’m trying to channel something-----what?--------I’m trying to channel something-=-------yeah, what?---i’m trying to channel something so that i can be afraid of the same things that you are------------that’s dumb----no it isn’t----it’s all about one particular place in the house-----where?-----you should know-------how do you know what i’m scared of?-----i’ve watched your eyes.it only happens when you’re getting tired///there are certain parts of the house where i know you get scared//only at night time//that’s when you’re the most scared----how long have you known?---long enough//only recently really-----it’s been going on for a lot longer than that//since i can remember//since i was a kid---you still are a kid---yeah, but younger, when i was a little kid//---yeah i thought it might have-----i can’t even remember the first time properly//i mean, i know it happened and remember little bits of it but all of the first times blur together now//it’s happened too many times-----does it ever get less scary?-----no//never---sometimes i even think that it’s getting worse--------------
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Monday, 8 March 2010
SHRINE
“I hate you looking at me like that, because I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“Oh yeah? Good. Not long left, right?”
“Nah. I wish you’d just do it.”
“Get it over with?”
“Yeah.”
“Getting bored?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That’s all part of it. No good doing it if you’re scared and nothing else.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate me too. Doesn’t change a thing though. Total waste. Of time and of everything else that it entails.”
“Just fucking do it.”
“You’re making things a lot worse than they have to be. You should be trying to think about the silence at the moment. Think about nothing else except that.”
“Why?”
“Things might make more sense.”
“Might?”
“I could be lying.”
“Oh yeah? Good. Not long left, right?”
“Nah. I wish you’d just do it.”
“Get it over with?”
“Yeah.”
“Getting bored?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That’s all part of it. No good doing it if you’re scared and nothing else.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate me too. Doesn’t change a thing though. Total waste. Of time and of everything else that it entails.”
“Just fucking do it.”
“You’re making things a lot worse than they have to be. You should be trying to think about the silence at the moment. Think about nothing else except that.”
“Why?”
“Things might make more sense.”
“Might?”
“I could be lying.”
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Backwards
- I want to feel the way I did when I was first getting into this stuff.
- New experiences are wasted on you.
- They’re not. It’s like the distance … frames them better.
- You don’t think about things while they’re happening to you. When moments have gone and left you then you decide you want them back.
- That’s more normal than you think, even if that isn’t what happens to me. It’s not what I’m talking about though.
- You don’t know what you’re talking about.
- No one does. I almost do. I never feel myself until I’m looking back.
- New experiences are wasted on you.
- They’re not. It’s like the distance … frames them better.
- You don’t think about things while they’re happening to you. When moments have gone and left you then you decide you want them back.
- That’s more normal than you think, even if that isn’t what happens to me. It’s not what I’m talking about though.
- You don’t know what you’re talking about.
- No one does. I almost do. I never feel myself until I’m looking back.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Exercise caution
Didn’t you hear? Someone got killed there.
Youngish guy, about 20, tons of police
“combing” the ground for clues.
They’ll find used condoms,
Maybe some lube, I know a couple of men
That liked to leave panties there too
After they’d been fucked wearing them,
Always wonder if their wives
Ever notice that their underwear goes
Missing, or
Whether they’ve just got too much stuff
To notice when they do.
Police have told people who use the
Fields to cruise on to exercise great caution,
Not to go, to just stay away until things
Have been “ironed” out.
Don’t know if it was gang related
Or mistaken identity, or someone
Just felt like they had something that
They had to do.
I’m lonely and I want you here.
Youngish guy, about 20, tons of police
“combing” the ground for clues.
They’ll find used condoms,
Maybe some lube, I know a couple of men
That liked to leave panties there too
After they’d been fucked wearing them,
Always wonder if their wives
Ever notice that their underwear goes
Missing, or
Whether they’ve just got too much stuff
To notice when they do.
Police have told people who use the
Fields to cruise on to exercise great caution,
Not to go, to just stay away until things
Have been “ironed” out.
Don’t know if it was gang related
Or mistaken identity, or someone
Just felt like they had something that
They had to do.
I’m lonely and I want you here.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
If the light has to go, let it cut
I watched him.
He undressed and smiled.
I asked him something
But I either said it too
Quietly, swallowed my words
Or else he thought it was dumb
And that it would be kinder
Not to answer me,
Kinder to
Just let things
Carry on flying off
Like trails of fireworks
Or a bundle of fibre optic
Threads being wobbled
In a dark room.
I kept a t-shirt on while
I fucked him
Felt like protection
And in the dark I
Could at least pretend
That it wasn't such an
Obvious gesture as it was.
For a while he kept
On his vest -
But that was just for warmth
Not through any shyness
Or lack of confidence;
When I pulled at it,
It soon got tossed onto
The cluttered carpet,
The same carpet
Where some of his cum
Fell and soaked in,
Mixing with mine, when I
Tried to aim for his face,
But couldn't control
The burst I was so happy.
The funny moments
When everyone realises
That everything has to end;
If the light has to go,
Let it cut.
He undressed and smiled.
I asked him something
But I either said it too
Quietly, swallowed my words
Or else he thought it was dumb
And that it would be kinder
Not to answer me,
Kinder to
Just let things
Carry on flying off
Like trails of fireworks
Or a bundle of fibre optic
Threads being wobbled
In a dark room.
I kept a t-shirt on while
I fucked him
Felt like protection
And in the dark I
Could at least pretend
That it wasn't such an
Obvious gesture as it was.
For a while he kept
On his vest -
But that was just for warmth
Not through any shyness
Or lack of confidence;
When I pulled at it,
It soon got tossed onto
The cluttered carpet,
The same carpet
Where some of his cum
Fell and soaked in,
Mixing with mine, when I
Tried to aim for his face,
But couldn't control
The burst I was so happy.
The funny moments
When everyone realises
That everything has to end;
If the light has to go,
Let it cut.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Deflected
1. Best intentions deflected.
2. I know some of the same people you used to.
3. He had a dream where he started kissing you when he was pretending to show you to your door, got a hand up your top, pinched your tit a little too hard.
***
4.
5.
6. FINISH
2. I know some of the same people you used to.
3. He had a dream where he started kissing you when he was pretending to show you to your door, got a hand up your top, pinched your tit a little too hard.
***
4.
5.
6. FINISH
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Dear Ryan
Dear Ryan
I hope you don’t mind me writing, only you’ve been on my mind for the past few days and it feels like I’ve been focussing a lot of thoughts in your direction, so it felt like it would make more sense to write them down and actually try to send them to you; I still don’t know if I will.
The opening paragraph of this letter probably made you think that I had specific, organized thoughts that I wanted to talk to you about, or that you figured in or something. If you did then I’m sorry to disappoint you but some things just never change I guess; I’m still as muddled and as confused/ing as I’ve always been.
It started because you were in a dream that I had. Not for long, I mean, the dream wasn’t about you or anything, but you were there and it freaked me out. It’s strange that I’ve never had dreams about you before. It feels rude of me to say that – you know : I’ve never dreamt about you, but it’s true and I don’t mean to sound cruel when I say that I was surprised to see you in there. I’m not being passive aggressive or anything like that. I actually think that it’s because me and you were always – and I don’t mean this is a crude way – just so physical with each other all of the time, that it was impossible for that physicality to actually slip through into dreams – something impossible to touch. I know that when/if you read that then you’ll roll your eyes at me for trying to work through something in my usual ham-fisted in articulate way.
About the dream itself? I can barely remember a thing. I just know that I was dreaming about something and then all of a sudden you were there. I think you came in through a window or something, maybe you were hiding underneath something, I have this idea of you appearing through a hole maybe. You were wearing a black t-shirt with some logo on that I took as being a logo of a band that you liked that I hadn’t heard of yet. And that’s it. You only played a bit part in the dream, but you’re the only thing that I can remember about it. Consider yourself Edward Furlong in Terminator 2, in that case. Actually no, I can also remember the part where the evil terminator sticks a spike through somebody’s head while they’re talking on the phone. You know what I mean. Fuck, Edward Furlong had a huge part in Terminator 2! He was a main character. There I am getting all confused again, right? We both know that one of my biggest problems is that I never think things through.
You know what dream hangovers are like. Since I saw you creeping out of whatever it was you were getting in through, everything has felt like it relates to you or everything has reminded me of you. It’s messed me up because I know that, again without wanting to sound mean, I’d be better off if I tried to forget you for now.
I still get that horrible jealous/nausea feeling when I think about what you might be doing these days. Sometimes I really want to ask you but I’m always afraid that if I do you might tell me. I guess just do it. Tell me how things are going with you at the moment. Tell me if you’re doing good of if you’re in love or having great sex with someone that looks just like that new actor that I like – shit – you wouldn’t have known I even liked him – I got into him way after you left, only recently actually. Funny to think of things like that. Even the obvious things fall away when you’re on your own. When I say you I mean me. You were the one that chose to leave.
For a while I used to like to think that you were out there somewhere feeling just as miserable as I way about the whole thing. Then I’d have flashes where I would imagine what your new life might actually be like, and how great your new home looked in the pictures and well, I know it was somewhere you always fantasized about living, so yeah, it hit me – you were probably just fine.
I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty even though I think that there are a couple of things in here that might make you feel that way. Maybe not. Maybe you’re way past all that stuff.
I want to tell you how much I miss you and stuff but I get the feeling that it wouldn’t mean anything to you anymore. I miss you.
It just occurred to me that this won’t even reach you. You might have moved around a little bit. I have no idea what your life is like now. I dunno. I think I might just set fire to this and left the words scatter in the same wind that I poured your ashes into.
I love you.
Tom
I hope you don’t mind me writing, only you’ve been on my mind for the past few days and it feels like I’ve been focussing a lot of thoughts in your direction, so it felt like it would make more sense to write them down and actually try to send them to you; I still don’t know if I will.
The opening paragraph of this letter probably made you think that I had specific, organized thoughts that I wanted to talk to you about, or that you figured in or something. If you did then I’m sorry to disappoint you but some things just never change I guess; I’m still as muddled and as confused/ing as I’ve always been.
It started because you were in a dream that I had. Not for long, I mean, the dream wasn’t about you or anything, but you were there and it freaked me out. It’s strange that I’ve never had dreams about you before. It feels rude of me to say that – you know : I’ve never dreamt about you, but it’s true and I don’t mean to sound cruel when I say that I was surprised to see you in there. I’m not being passive aggressive or anything like that. I actually think that it’s because me and you were always – and I don’t mean this is a crude way – just so physical with each other all of the time, that it was impossible for that physicality to actually slip through into dreams – something impossible to touch. I know that when/if you read that then you’ll roll your eyes at me for trying to work through something in my usual ham-fisted in articulate way.
About the dream itself? I can barely remember a thing. I just know that I was dreaming about something and then all of a sudden you were there. I think you came in through a window or something, maybe you were hiding underneath something, I have this idea of you appearing through a hole maybe. You were wearing a black t-shirt with some logo on that I took as being a logo of a band that you liked that I hadn’t heard of yet. And that’s it. You only played a bit part in the dream, but you’re the only thing that I can remember about it. Consider yourself Edward Furlong in Terminator 2, in that case. Actually no, I can also remember the part where the evil terminator sticks a spike through somebody’s head while they’re talking on the phone. You know what I mean. Fuck, Edward Furlong had a huge part in Terminator 2! He was a main character. There I am getting all confused again, right? We both know that one of my biggest problems is that I never think things through.
You know what dream hangovers are like. Since I saw you creeping out of whatever it was you were getting in through, everything has felt like it relates to you or everything has reminded me of you. It’s messed me up because I know that, again without wanting to sound mean, I’d be better off if I tried to forget you for now.
I still get that horrible jealous/nausea feeling when I think about what you might be doing these days. Sometimes I really want to ask you but I’m always afraid that if I do you might tell me. I guess just do it. Tell me how things are going with you at the moment. Tell me if you’re doing good of if you’re in love or having great sex with someone that looks just like that new actor that I like – shit – you wouldn’t have known I even liked him – I got into him way after you left, only recently actually. Funny to think of things like that. Even the obvious things fall away when you’re on your own. When I say you I mean me. You were the one that chose to leave.
For a while I used to like to think that you were out there somewhere feeling just as miserable as I way about the whole thing. Then I’d have flashes where I would imagine what your new life might actually be like, and how great your new home looked in the pictures and well, I know it was somewhere you always fantasized about living, so yeah, it hit me – you were probably just fine.
I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty even though I think that there are a couple of things in here that might make you feel that way. Maybe not. Maybe you’re way past all that stuff.
I want to tell you how much I miss you and stuff but I get the feeling that it wouldn’t mean anything to you anymore. I miss you.
It just occurred to me that this won’t even reach you. You might have moved around a little bit. I have no idea what your life is like now. I dunno. I think I might just set fire to this and left the words scatter in the same wind that I poured your ashes into.
I love you.
Tom
Monday, 1 March 2010
Under # 1
“I’d say ‘fuck you’ if I thought it would do any good.”
“I can never tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m serious. And I’m seriously tired.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I didn’t want you to be here in the first place.”
“Fuck you.”
“OK I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Do you mean maybe you just didn’t think things through when you were inviting me over?”
“I’ve not thought anything through for at least four years.”
“You like playing on the fact that you think people think you’re fucked up.”
“I think that everyone is fucked up, so it doesn’t matter to me at all.”
“You are fucked up. Just not in the way that you would like people to think you are. You’re fucked up in a genuinely undesirable way – fucked up in a way that is nowhere near how you would like to be. And the thing is – despite wanting to be fucked up, you’ll never be able to admit to yourself that you are fucked up, because you wanna be … fuck it. Pass me that.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m only here because you asked me to come.”
“I can never tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m serious. And I’m seriously tired.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I didn’t want you to be here in the first place.”
“Fuck you.”
“OK I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Do you mean maybe you just didn’t think things through when you were inviting me over?”
“I’ve not thought anything through for at least four years.”
“You like playing on the fact that you think people think you’re fucked up.”
“I think that everyone is fucked up, so it doesn’t matter to me at all.”
“You are fucked up. Just not in the way that you would like people to think you are. You’re fucked up in a genuinely undesirable way – fucked up in a way that is nowhere near how you would like to be. And the thing is – despite wanting to be fucked up, you’ll never be able to admit to yourself that you are fucked up, because you wanna be … fuck it. Pass me that.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m only here because you asked me to come.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
