best of (another list another level)

-indoor protesting
-sunset
-families and ease of being around them
-morning coffee jokes
-walking past ruins on way to shops
-stray dogs, fat and chilled out
-cat cul-de-sac, cat land heaven
-event plannings when event is away and possibilities are still interesting
-ppl getting rid of dissertations and acing vivas
-realising i understand politics, being able to simplify &explain to younger ppl
-telemarketing brochures
-toasties with mortadella &gruyere
-Law & Order on TV & CSI with the lady
-YouTube
-holding hands with mum and dad and the knowing look with sister
-routine that becomes unnoticed and unstressful
-kisses on cheeks and waving hands up in the air

The End. happy The End everyone

poptart (the offender's perspective)

Amazing
four feet under the ground
and still as vibrant as yesterday

Little socks
rolled down on her ankles
and still so weathered
like a leather pipe

She slides off me
and falls in the chair
and smiles slightly
and plays with her hair

Still, like a shepherd
I guide her to me
she nods and she flops
and she spills all her tea

The drunker, the better
I've always believed
I feed them some poison
and then I retrieve

The sighs are all flowers
I'm putting in a box
Their weakness, my power.
I question my touch.

Amazing
her lashes are jewelled with drops
and still as happy as yesterday

Little twinkles
on her shaking wrists
and I find I'm no longer exposing my wit.

a christmas list

A cross between a thanksgiving list and an end of year review.
Bastardised to represent modern life.
Yeah.
This last year's non-ordered bestest things:
1- inside jokes that have been repeated so many times that have become funny again
2- hugs and how they are appropriate again (i had an internal struggle of the suitability of hugs for years and finally the resolution was that i could totally indulge)
3- character caricatures
4- crying with laughter
5- secret boxes, hidden in secret places, holding secrets
6- lactofree milk
7- striking the balance. any balance.
8- circles
9- makeup & tights & socks
10- bed

my dream last night:

lady on my right informs me i must have ‘plastically-enhanced’ breasts because they are so firm and compact.

i learn something new and look straight into the distance, where the grey sea and sky touch.

Clarity: Therapist to therapist.

Lately I've been thinking how feelings for someone tend to include key elements of that person's essence in them. For me it's an assortment of sound clips, the face in a particular expression and a feeling of rushing energy that takes me from baseline to the particular level of whichever emotion i'm trying to recall/ whichever emotion that recollection elicits.

Same for any different person, for any different emotion. I label my feelings clearly and neatly. I tidy around them to make little piles of debris. I decorate with leftovers, in assymetrical threes or spread out dots and with great finesse, lifting my right hand pinky up in the air as far as it goes.

I am not always blessed with the choice of recall however. I assume this is the same for other human beings around- but I do tend to feel very special in equal measures of 'cursed' and 'gifted'. When this intrusion of memories happens, I am often caught offguard, and forced to travel to the empty room inside my head. I am attacked by all the attached information all at once and at the same time consecutively- in complete random order. Faces, falling down as more memories jump up. It's like a virtual reality room, only it's inside my size 34 head. And I took that EEG and we now know for sure that:

a) i'm an excellent reaction task taker, cuz of my inability to let anything go unnoticed (regardless of my choice to act on it or not)
b) i have a perfectly functioning brain that likes computer graphics and represents itself as it should
c) i am completely lost in a battle of interest between my life and internal narrative and complete dislike for anything ever experienced in me, or others' experience of me, fearing 'cliche' as the worst possible label anyone could ever be described as.

So this intrusion of recall is often followed by a burning salad of emotions. The main one is that of irritation for the lack of warning and the disorder of this visit. Then you could say that complete dissolution in the dancing changes in me takes place. I become lost. Completely. More than I did when I blacked out as a child and stared into space for an hour not moving. More than I couldn't remember what I'd had for lunch 3 hours later. My sense of being and feeling all gets caught up in the parade and soon i'm staring at my face, like a player parade on the Wii. Grotesque cliche characteristics. How can this be anything I recognise?

I try to move and then I start suspecting I won't be able to feel it. I am always right in this. Gigantic body below from what I can see. I must be bending my head forward and looking down then. My recall is disrupted by a thousand anxious me's whispering simultaneously: can i feel, can i feel, can i feel? am i alive? am i me? have i died? will i live? can i feel? can you see me? where am i? i'm so calm! i am calm! this is cold. this is weird. can i feel? fuck. fuck can i feel? i can. it's fine. it's fine. i promise. i don't believe you. you should. who are you anyway? i'm you. it's all fine. calm. calm. they can see you. you can't but they can. there's nothing to worry about. u might have died but that's done now so calm down. OK.

Panic attacks and Depersonalisation and Stupidity and Self-Absorption and would i ever have 'suffered' if i had grown up on a farm? physical exhaustion and de-reality and sleep and good grub.
would i have learnt I am so complicated, if i didn't have the language to think it in? would i have understood space and nothingness if I hadn't been taught about it, and what difference does it make.

'we come here to live. we float and we leave. we come hear to leeave. we flote and we live. we come here to eat. we fuck and we shit. we come here out of necessity and tradition and magic and nothing and- what is it exactly you can't understand again? be specific. be specific. please explain in every detail. i need to understand to be able to tidy this up. clutter only leads to more unpredictable visits and i really don't want to faint on this bus'

deserter

several well-thought out, premeditated steps away.
one hitting the ground sturdily
one following hastily, unsteady
one to take the body further away
one to help the body balance
one to shatter all negative thoughts
one to prove my independence
one to point the intended direction
one to cleanse the soul off fear
one to enjoy the freedom of movement
one to admit we're no longer near
one to establish a balance in rhythm
one to forget the chosen pace
one to dance to the replayed record
one to go with the sour face
one to the enemy
one to the company
one to the prostitute
fucking my destiny
one to the smell of home
one to the sense of hope
one to the bastard
who's forced me
to walk all the way
home

smoke

dissolving
i feel the tension ease
the pores of the skin expanding

muscles letting go
flesh falling off the bone
there's no sadness involved

being eaten
by licking flame
in vague circle patterns

wilting
crumbling
melting
decomposition of the bigger parts

the remaining pieces
now translucent
and vague

can no longer make out
what it used to be

memory has dissolved
with the spores of mould
that got cleaned up
by antibacterial on the j cloth

projection

and for a moment there I completely forgot where I was. When i came to I recognised I was hanging upside down, no doubt about it. the brightness made it harder to understand the mirrored surrounding. slowly, I accept and confirm this is familiar enough not to warrant upset. I recognise the state I'm in. proprioception kicks in. my legs have earned back some control and are beginning to complain of their numb state. I can clearly define my outline and my aim.

well-outlined case for the reality being a projection of my perception of what's objective. it is too obvious, bullet-pointed and pointed at by all fingers. so what's the dispute? i guess it's a closed case of the fact that i cannot touch the ground with my arms, no matter how much i would like to stretch out.

you. you are standing there laughing. you are sitting down on a chair, rolling a cigarette so slowly it hurts the particles of dust floating around you with impatience. eventually they are burnt by your mechanical lighter which needs three-four takes to work. clip clip. you are running around in a circle, tidying up the objects out of place and stopping to check the plugs are switched off at the mains. you rehearse your speeches silently. mouthing the consonants and breathing out the vowels with your smoke. you stomp your feet with stubbornness and indecision. plagued by your virtues, you stop at the mirror. you stare at it, but have forgotten how to look into it. you hear me and seem startled for a second. you get more active and start rummaging around for the keys. and the receipts. and the shopping. and the other things you need. you pick up your stuff from the floor and you drop it back down with disappointment.

optimised connection between everything and the flow is particularly comforting. the case is the case and this knowledge is not gold or anything at all. what's tangible is infallible but what you're made of and what you touch is only in the matrix.

we live in the matrix. from the film. a fucking computer machine of prophecy and stamina and algorithmic calculations of predictability. and all emotions and feelings and words are only valuable when looked at retrospectively.

I fall or fail.

(in summary)

flapping round the south london trees, my wing got caught on something. it really bit me hard and i tried my hardest to win, but my poor wing was now shredded in two pieces. i looked at the evil captivator with my intimidating face on, to find the most beautifulest light stare back. i couldn't move. i couldn't speak. what de f* are you? , i try to say, but my voice is obviously breaking and i'm so desperate to make a cool impression. no response. the light caresses my tear, and then oozes out this confusing mist. it's maybe a vapour, wet and powdery. i feel.. like myself. how bizarre. the light is attacking me and i am not even irritated one bit. i am feeling confident i am clever and tell the buzzest jokes in town (man), but still am 'choosing' not to move or say a word, other than a little humming i can't help but do, as i'm flicking my lashes at said light-thing. is that verging on wrong? falling for some light? no idea what my mates will say. but i don't even want to live to tell them. the mist is smelling of deliciousness. i am taking it all in.
i can feel my insides rotting slowly. turning green, bitter, ashy. i am taking it in with the most innocent love.
i look back at the light, offering my heart and this little droplet of honeywater i'd saved for a special occasion. 'it's all i've got, love, but i'd like you to have it'. the light does not reply. does not acknowledge this incredible sacrifice or the fact i don't see it as one not one bit.
all my eyes are now burning from the stupid lovelight. i am delirious and singing songs and swinging my leggies in the air. my wing is about to fall off. who cares though? seriously, doesn't matter.

this was the longest night of my life. it was my only night. it was just so incredible i genuinely thought the morning would never come- and i hate that it did. there's no point explaining LOVE to you, you wouldn't understand, but - but we kissed and it was maaaagical.
(i was scared. i was fucking terrified, of all the power i had in my hands. the power i couldn't manipulate. the protection i just had to give to the light, and the sharp pains in my decomposting body. i built an entire city for us. i cooked all the dinners i could cook. i licked every little worry away and i gave and gave and loved - running on my interpretation of this feeling. pretending it's coming in for me as well. the light was clearly so much in love with me - i could feel it. the morning came and the light was still there. i looked at it. it seemed different. it wasn't smiling. it wasn't telling me stories of it's travels and encounters. it wasn't even stroking my hair. it bit the bit of my broken wing off and i fell on the ground. i fell. it was my fault. i'm so sorry my lovely light.)

to paint

with concentration, I paint the outline. clear. symmetrical. perfectly positioned, lines well spaced, objects located just so.
with all the energy flowing from heart to mind to hand, i spill ink in little droplets, unconditionally, unstopped.

the liquid oozes out of the bottle. vibrant flecks of helpless loner spots scattered further away, wondering whether their neighbourhood will be populated soon, or whether they must stand proud of their independence.

i smear backhand for my skin to be part of the feast. i try to get in it.

flowing down right and up again, i resemble a brush, skillfully precise but ultimately unintentional. precalculated chance and i'm willing to risk it.

the paper is soaked and so are my feet. i'm extending my area as far as i can reach. i want more of it to be mine. i want more of it to belong to me. i want more of it to make sense. i want more of it i want more of it.

turning the other way now, my choice for dark ink is not a mistake. two opposing parts in everything. the yin side will have to compete with the yang, a non-confrontational but very pragmatic battle of balance.

frantic aggressive lines. parallel to each other, parallel to my heart. everything broken and fucked and distorted. everything alien and not part of me at all.

armed robberies of happiness and tranquility, storming the field and earning my trust. quickly, i become them. quickly i abandon it all.

tear the page, stand on it. my feet are covered in colour and sadness.

this is why i don't paint. and this is why i shouldn't love.

tophat

with maturity and appreciation for leather and smokier flavours comes the burden of rejecting most things as trivial and belonging to some earlier development stage.

with maturity and wisdom comes the great realisation of identical preferences to those i swore i would not become.

prepare the cigar. i'm almost 80 with a walking stick, sir.

being serious

seriously,

no sugar for me. nothing to change the mood. i have elaborately devised the code for my present and stuck the nails ready for all the snapshots i'll collect next.

i have plugged myself in every wave of information passing by and sustained interest for as much as possible.

seriously,

no sugar for me. i have moved my labels from 'desperate' to 'baseline'. cool and calm as a cucumber. with the frustration and agony of having no soul, face or limbs.

i have rejected myself from the mainframe and told me i can no longer float. i have tortured my brain as much as possible.

seriously,

no sugar for me. my teeth are rotten and i can't afford to expend any energy in the process of buying toothpaste. transforming the current state to the one of preference, inspires more courage than admiring my pathetic state.

i have adored and idealised my behaviour. and told me i am the bestest. i have wrapped me up in as many warm things as possible.

 

Foamy (neck)

Discipline Act.

Fighting to wake before mid morning snack, before breakfast.

To impress the aging audience. They clap very slowly, having no life left in them to gasp.

Kicks, punches seem aimed right, but unluckily no actual movement is taking place. It's all a vision, while I'm sat in my chair.

Trails of hand movement, confused with excitement and magic.

I came home to find i had nothing.

The memory of imagined possessions often greater than the truth.

'Hush' they told me.

Communal audience somewhere outside here. I'm sure they are judging and trying to help. Whispers inhaled.

My hair, my parting, the hairclip all glimmer from this perspective.

But the effort to maintain belief of my reality is getting the best of me. Maybe it's time to forget how to do it.

if's

If we were to live together we would have a ridiculous collection of clashing colours in everything.
it would violate the eye and make the place intense and comfortably messy.

if we were to live together, we could override the normal mode with intense sleeping and intense awakeness, sandwiching periods of childlike conversation.

if we were to live together, we would be the coolest and calmest company. people would visit and sit and feel at home, whilst perfectly entertained.

if we were to live together, we would magically maintain everything working, without severe peaks and troughs in activity; our sink would work; our plants would be watered; our receipts kept in the envelope in the kitchen drawer; our sellotape would be tabbed for next use; DVDs forever in their own cases and if borrowed, returned on time before the fine.

if we were to live together, our toothbrushes would never touch heads, but always share the base; our cutlery and crockery would always be clean, and never be messy or god-forbid-misplaced; our socks would be paired, right from the start till the end of their lives.

if we were to live together, our collective cooking book library would be so big we'd have to build an extra room for it; our trinkets and presents would adorn every shelf and bare surface, signalling condensed memories and fading inside jokes, from both our pools of life.

if we were to live together i would be jealous of everything you touch and look at that is not me. but i would learn to hide it and be carefree and tie my hair up with pencils or paintbrushes. i would enforce rules that you could not stand, like informing me of your exact itinerary for your lazy Sunday, or ensuring each meal you consume features protein and carbohydrates.

if we were to live together i would not be able to sleep unless i knew you were safe. i would check on you every night to make sure you are still breathing.

if i were to live with you, i would be exactly the same as I am now, but without the pretence of autonomy and other interests. i would focus all my energy onto you, confusing and scaring and freaking you out for sure.

if i was to live with any one person, i would have to teach myself to take things slowly. learn to enjoy the in between stages of everything.

but how cool would that be

summer

so now i can fly and fly in my ocd circles without an excuse. it's summertime. it's either wet & misty or dry & baking hot. i'm there to remind you of all life's annoyances. flap and try to shoo me away. i'm too cool and small for your massive, hairy, dotty hand.

i was thinking i am creative but so restrictively i had to analyse and understand, before i spent my afternoon buzzing near gigantic ears and making miniature paper origami to decorate my flat with:

'Once pushed into conformity to the laws of the chosen category, she has to trial and error her way to the correct format. Gaging by rightness of feel, she feels most comfortable when scientific, standardised structure is applied to sentimental, intangible disciplines. A bit like linguistics.

Sometimes, however, identifying your craft is impossible. Do you go for what comes naturally; what is easiest to face; or something new each time?Writing in this writing about writing, with an orbiting focus on my language and structure.'

Good Luck

Five

depth implied
imagined
filled in
interpreted according to individual need

like- how so?
-a crutch for the unsure

depth perceived
visualised
for the weak
interpreted according to sentimental speed

spiked- how come?
-a crutch for the demure

feed my insufficiency
feed my insecurities
tease my lack of confidence
play with my impurities
i challenge you.

Black Ice

A reflection within a reflection.
Turning round and around trying to keep up. Little tiny differences spark up to startle for minuscule instants. Negligible. A palindrome ecstasy, reflecting on skin and inside the oesophagus. Locating itself elegantly like a long fingered villain. Establishing itself with the loud presence and stubbornness of a stroppy only child five-year-old.


Not to say that's a bad or a good. My judgement double-blind and out of reach to me- on top of the fridge with the forbiddens.

The wave of delayed and deserving reward tantalises. The eagerness merges with self-denial and Discipline. Order, control, a familiar magnet to this sack of weights.

Palindrome and oscillation.

I am blatantly in love with this neverending perfect match for my funny cyclical puns. Meta-linguistics and containing myself within myself.

Stereo-typical.

To Do (or not)

To flicker
To waver
To spiral out of tune
To wither
And flutter
to give up on getting there soon

Best to leave
these things to destiny
Better run
before there's too much to say

Circulating my breathing air
this room has exceeded all staleness
My face has melted into glue
my skin resembles my bones in paleness

Disgusted, I try to
lift the layers of filth
to get to the acceptable
but it's something unpredictable
We live, We learn, We fail

oasis

Nostalgic since the day she was born.
All the effort faultlessly performed. Effectively insignificant against the broad spread of other symptomatic outcomes.

Guilt inherited from generations of error and regrets before her.
Ancestral load or absolute misfortune.

'Tedious' she tried to speak to herself pointlessly, fully submissive to the ways of her fate.
Shoulders shrugged, all the breaths sighed and the punishments for all those undone things accepted.

Resolution is a mirage. She knows.

Life Against Me? (no- i'm adorable no matter what)

Watching life go by
and wishing it away.
As she counted the lilac lampshades and white walls through every single one of the house windows.
Laura Ashley set on fire. My eyes unfortunately did not have any powers so fantasies never came true.
So incredibly jealous of Matilda, even though her life was otherwise shit. If only I could cause some object movement I'd know I'm real. Physical outer exterior not connected with my inside.
Uniform or die.

Many schoolday evenings spent staring with such great ease and without any boredom at all.
And the 'out of the frame' look of emotions suited me all too well to resist.
Classic romantic teenager styling.

-and now my cognitive abilities have declined, I'm left staring again.
There is no pressure not to. There is no rush or things do not need to change speed status. I just am not feeling the urgency to be responsive to anything, indulging myself to the ultimate treat. Staring. My finger looks battered but I really don't want to react. This is far superior than anything else I've had to deal with lately. A whole new identity given to me by chance. One I once had flirted with and one I cannot fully reveal to anyone, unless we are alone and you think I'm sleeping.

And i do want to rely on the kindness of strangers. I have nothing major to deal with and yet I cannot deal with and I would very much appreciate your kind helping hand, kindest of strangers. You do not have my face and I do not see a similarity between our eyes, so as long as you're not me please go ahead and do everything for me. Don't mind if I watch.

It's not what I want to say, it's what people want to hear.
Get it in your head.
Apply setting-save.

A title can change everything

The cycle of sound has progressed past the predictable, reflecting my steady shift in moods and frequent visits to the mirror. There, I'd look for flaws, exploit all bad lighting to prove my undeniable unsuitability; scrutinise to the point of bleeding; and happily smirk at my tragic loss of any form of self-respect.
I don't anymore.
Now it's a hollow constant need to re-affirm my body is a  real as I feel it.
Again and again, as I don't allow myself to trust my memory.
 (So typically OCD and detached and depersonalised)
So typically absolutely fucking normal like every timid, suffering little flower on this long wall of frustrated existence.

"What makes you more salient than your environment?" and other torturing job-interview style questions ringing distorted with the usual left-ear tinnitus.

"This could be approached in tooo many ways", I reply, not satisfying my interrogation one bit.

REWIND

No. No no no. A lucky or clever or vague escape is massively lowbrow.
Not. fucking. allowed.

"Err... I just do not care! Honestly. Do not give a shit."

Eternally smirkful, with screwed up eyes- forgetting it's not sunny, I'm wearing glasses and don't need to see- I'm still only staring at the same lifeless detail in my visual field as before.

No no no.
It's only going to stop when a suitable answer has been implied (never offered-as I think in roundabout ways & tend to answer by painting the negative space, for the fun of never being sure I or anyone else I empathise with fully can be certain of anything).
And sometimes I have to get up or off before that happens, leaving a dazed expression on my confused, imperfect face for the rest of the day.

I look left and right and falter-pretending I remembered something, to distract my third-person-omniscient camera looking down on me. I repack my bag, take tissue out of right pocket, faux-sniffing it & replacing.

I am not one to worry about the flatness of my hair, so I'll only scratch it before I get up and act all adult and unisex and importantly sure of my steps. I'm so not.