upside down victory

Holding a victorious hand up in the air, hair flickering in the breeze, a draft from under the door, two spirits decided to become part of the wallpaper.
Irrelevant to you.
Without your consent or your involvement.

They went out in the patio, tiptoeing on the dirty concrete, so as to keep their socks as dry as they could. They pulled the rubber wet suits down from the washing line, and quickly started stretching them to fit over their bodies.
rubber to rubber
all firmly covered
they held each other
vowing eternal eternity
never to give up
never to see each other
with the respect of another human
but instead
to see
as one self-
fitting lock into a key
turning left
instead of right
breaking
and staying there
for their lifetimes
without regret.

Darling Spirit, your happiness is my delight.
I wish for all great things to be true. Enjoy enjoy enjoy.

Darling Spirit, I am scared.
A new face on your face. A plasticless surgery with every 'I do' and every 'I've got news'. A new beginning for you. A new ending for me. Bystand witness of my inevolution, I am perplexed by your reflexed body clock. I am upset you have become a bit of a landmark for me.

Darling Spirit, Am I forgiven for hating any shift of focus from me to a younger anything? Don't forget me. Please don't forget you are composed by two and a third part, the one I loved the most and know I understand.

(on seeing your friends get married and pregnant, when you're not married or pregnant)

hi

the picture in the end of the post below was a joke.

Autumn List

the best things of the current season:
>>leg stretching flexibly, arms extended to create a star
>>steady fall of now crispy leaves on my street. it took a week. now they are almost all down. the floor, beautiful, filled with colours, turning the page, facing an accepted stage of decay. i feel intoxicated. my skin jolts at the stretch of each little hair standing up, brushed against the cold breeze.
>>staring vaguely out a window, fully qualified and even encouraged to do so.
>>hugging missed loved ones in foreign establishments
>>2010-made dreamelectropop with guitars
>>Chia Bread
>>condensation on windows.

and a picture

bumped into a babe

dressing a cradled doll up like a real baby
with torn pieces of
yellowing gauze
the true
original
essence
of a heart
filled up to the brim
with the magic ability
to see past the present
into the world of a caring happy family hug.

i caught a wisp of the tufty fabric
walking slowly with patience
my steps at different pace
to the pram pushing magician.
my fingers sighed with relief
at a task to distract them from
not having got there yet
not having picked at
each other's varnished gloss.

she suddenly stopped her stride
and breathed in with alarm.
around she turned
her feet slowly moving consecutively
one inch at a time.
the rest of her body gently lifting
pushchair made of plastic.
i caught a glimpse of magic
the baby smiled at me.

standing too close and in front of her baby

i backed off as quick as i could say
'oh my'
bowing a little
while inverted voice asks me
'why??'

a serious question to threaten my integrity,
ever apologetically,
i fake i know and sigh.

orange

list of lists
carved on a miniature Shetland pony

she's absurd
she's gone off
curdling with any exhalation

inimitable
authentically tense
tasting the test
your intense pessimism
has cast upon her

failing to figure a feeling,
she's designed to dismiss
as irrelevant
compulsively
with her hands still shaking

her chin drawn in
and away she goes
unaware
of anything ugly
still straw stuck in her hair

handle with caution
not care
her correct proportions
popped out in a personal best
cut up upside down
rules to detest

she's so into that

What stigma?

juggling unhappiness is like a crash course to meditation without the safety net to hold you.
you drop in and face your demons. ugly motherfuckers with the power of your internal narrative and the familiarity of your external voice, as heard through your own ears when you talk and your nose is kinda blocked. you know, the pitch we all hate to identify as our own in some accidental recording. but you are not guided by an elder or safe in the space of the circle. you haven't extensively searched for truth and plateaued and remained high for weeks or chose to be part of the activities. what's more to note, you will never reach any higher level of anything.
stuck in a super-murky puddle of shit you ruined your only good shoes and made your mama disappointed a million times all over her most favourite of happy memories. thrown in by nothing. by yourself. you took the step you never do when standing close to the coming train, close to the platform edge. you move forward without any doubts and any ability to stop the movement. you accept. you look at. you understand. you embody it.
like meditation, you reach the trancelike phase of only thinking of the one concept without effort. without attention. with all your energy.
you get accustomed to shedding your skin and sitting there amongst your own shit for everyone you ever craved respect from to experience. you are a nothing made of feelings. the uncoolest mass of the wrong type of hair and always uncomfortable skin and dissatisfying bone and squidgy cartilage. you get your period every second. you start wanking for the very second time, when you know what to do, and the entire collection of your personal enemies and teachers who never believed in you and bosses who were jealous of you and shopkeepers who refuse to connect with you and doctors who only see you as a statistic walk in. you look up not knowing to take your hand out of your pants or to carry on and live out a sick fantasy but the meta- of this occurrence makes you pee yourself and there go the only dry clothes you deserve.
every day life made out of hell. you, like meditation, know this is exactly as severe as everything else in life and as important as this very second you live. you know to pull your skeleton up by the head, with a string attached to the highest point in the middle of your scull. you pull the puppet up and with your wobbly rusty hands you pull your joints in, to click in position. you stand tall and carry on despite the hurricane fighting against you. you lose your coat but you're already in shambles, who gives a fuck?
and then you try to announce to yourself that it's all ok. it's fine. you'll make it to the other side of the room, even if other people have been able to do this so much better and your inability is merely a sign of clear incompetence. it's fine, you try to say with a breaking awkward voice you can't control the volume of. "if i didn't deserve this, i wouldn't be here" you rationalise to the intense eyes looking in and out of you. as you say that you slip on a banana peel and fall over. you break you legs and have to start all over again.
yes. having experienced sadness is a bit like meditation.
but after it you're left with something more solid than the importance and insignificance of matter. you have looked at yourself. you have looked in the eyes. and it stays with you. you can look for it and see it in the eyes of your friends. those who know salute each other with a jitter of an upper lip and a little quick sniff and look away and a scratch of the head. just look around. and you will see that this place doesn't exist. like nothing does. more than you or i perceive it.

startrekstairs interview

-when will it be the time to admit my disillusionment?

-i've looked for reasons to encourage my involvement but in reality, the truth of the matter is that i can no longer support or explain my presence in this surrounding.

my advanced introspection has aided me in reaching the brand new lonely level of meta-meta-meta-modern post-development. now can your cat do this? i didn't think so.

my astral aura is solid gold and can take any vibration or intrusion from any humanoid or planetary presence that may visit the space nearby. it is the tribute to any doubt anyone has ever voiced towards me. Take that you mothermiserablebiatches! you hear me? put this sheer solid proper G O L D in your crack pipes. and lose your lighter so you can't even smoke it. ha!

-i'm sorry, i occasionally allow my superior criticism to come out in the form of playful banter. it's jus' bants though. don't take it serious. nobody take it serious. i'm not to be believed or trusted, if you want to be safe. for most humans, knowing something magical or other-dimensional is not tolerated well by the body. your system could overload and break, you could get stuck in a purgatory state of non-enlightenment without guidance. so no, be very careful. accept your physical limitations. you cannot and shall not push yourself further than you understand, you promise? now that's good good. i'd hate to be responsible for your breakage.

-yes, i smoke do you? it is my one sinful human body habit i have allowed myself to have. i tell you i don't fart, or smell bad or am overweight or sleep more than 7 hours a day, but cigarettes, yes. i am allowed to have that one. the Skylar world is a vast space of new and the same. smoking is hardly an actual barrier to reaching the information projected by the magnetic fields. also it makes me look sophisticated in front of my crystal ball. a little old-school like a retro fortune-teller. like the one my great great great grandma probably paid to keep in her castle or summat.

( please don't include this: i've had enough of this interview now. can we take a break? i can only bullshit for this long before i get a headache. tracy pass me the cocodamols will you? tracy! hurry up. i am not gonna fucking suffer for this bullshit. come on, darling. ah thanks. and can you empty this ashtray, it's starting to look like your miserable face. it smells like it too. * aggressive coughing* yeah yeah probably need a bit of drink too. -shouts: why is my glass empty and dry?? who's responsible for refilling it? that's right ziggy, it's you and you've lost a point off your personal development lessons. no, it's fine you can earn it again, oh don't you fucking dare cry. man up. how will you fight alien soul demons if you're so soft? oh come on, you know i love all my kids. yeah, some bourbon would be great yep. there we go. there i go.)

-where was i? oh yeah, so you'd like a prediction huh? normally i wouldn't do this in public. and of course money is not required although a lot of my guests do feel happier with their karma balance after they have made a donation to match the help they get from me. so, let's see. you have rough hands don't you? hmmm i think you are a stubborn and hard working person that doesn't give up, but you need to make time for yourself and forget other people. your spirit guide cannot reach you while you're working and the money you're making is too much for your, sweet'art. it's literally messing with your resonance to the universe and stopping you from being truly yourself and truly happy. did you know, that we instinctively know how to bend and support our bodies just the correct amount of heigh adjustment so we can climb up or down a staircase? see this is not really magic, but haha i'm using the power of knowledge to impress, you see? (chuckles)

-thank you for this. it was very interesting for all of us. may you be lucky and pure. bye bye.

-and one more thing, daaahling. you jus you, come here for a sec. bye to the rest of you! you, i know you hate me, you b1tch. you can not leave. never leave this room again. go sit in that chair. girls, i have someone i'd like you to meet.

busted

there's a ghost in the room.

i heard it. i caught the change in the air. perception judged with another sense i haven't got words for.

she saw me. we crossed on the landing. i bowed my head in respect. i would have taken my hat off had i been a gentleman. but this is a detail neither of us cared for. we circled each other. trying to keep our distances and histories and prominent emotional auras to ourselves.

she looked down and acted disinterested. she couldn't fool me, i knew she was curious. i chose to walk on my tiptoes. not because of fear, just trying to be elegant and limit my clumsiness. being sure of yourself is a sure-fire hit with the ladies.

she started to talk. mouth full of energy and intent. a voice so quiet i was deafened. i understood immediately her light and tactful tone. playful words darting out of her causing a wave of particles heading towards my direction. i absorbed them through my core, becoming them at her instruction. but every time i tried to reply she would stop and stare blankly. oh i could never impress her like that. i looked down in embarrassment.

she passed me and nodded goodbye. i wished for a long black coat and a walking stick to accompany my sorrow at her loss of life and then i wished for better timing. had all those years not been between us, i would have met my one.

serotonin dreaming: abstraction

under the table.

unidentifiable form.

unidentifiable heart rate. sweaty palms feeling like two squidgy blocks of cold fat wrapped in hairless animal skin. limbs. short core body. vibrating heat.

smelling of dust and winter memories wrapped up inside a clean sock. packed in a uni suitcase. next to a crumpled up receipt listing item 1 and a price I don't care to dispute.

as the reel rolls, images take form through their movement. a washing machine spin. tilting head right. is it the reflection I'm into or am I trying to read the meaning in the turn of wet foam fabric?

expulsion of purity. anything absolute leave me immediately. I only deal in question marks and qualms. I only accept immediate hesitation. I can only and will only can. bitten the tail and eaten into the centre. lips meeting lips. dematerialise and engulf everything. i strive for dissolution to become part of any life.

storybook 3 pieces on sleep

- "I was asked to perform a reading from a book. to this wide-eyed beautiful creature nestling under covers in front of me. I put a lot of effort in appearing maternal or calm or soothing, but am such a nervous and excitable person, I am not convinced I was the least sleepifying for this child. But I remember awkward people were my favourite when i was younger so this might just work. I put her to bed while everyone else was in the living room, smoking cigarettes and discussing politics and acting out their fantasies of being academic adults in brown cord trousers and v-neck patterned jumpers and not being ironic.
She held my hand. The fragile comfort-seeking action made something in my stomach twinge. Role reversal like in all those great shit Disney films. My hand reaching out seeking the comfort and grounding magic of an adult woman, even if not my mother. The intense connection felt with aunts and best friends of my mum's. The assumption of acceptance and love. Often this was what caused the love and acceptance that followed. I requested it in reverse. They offered it first before they knew they were doing it or I knew i was requesting it. And then the game of breathing. I could trick them into thinking I was asleep by imitating deep, slow breathing. I would relax my eyes just so they wouldn't flicker at all. I would assume the position I woke up in the morning in. Sometimes so convincing I would wake up the next day having failed to stay up.
I looked down at this girl. She was so beautiful. I felt rude staring at her. Intruding someone else's space for my pleasure. But yet I felt totally righteous standing there holding her hand with one arm and whispering my grandma's lullaby to her. I quietly removed my hand and blew her a kiss whilst i tiptoed out the room without turning my back on her. I would never be able to turn my back on a child, I realised. Particularly a sleeping one. I bet the burglars we had when I was little didn't either when I was asleep that time. They blew kisses at me whilst collecting our possessions and before emptying everything on the big kitchen table."


------
-always the one to have the last word:

will you read me from my book?
will you tell me a story?
will you make something up?
will you bring me some water?
will you tuck me in?
will you throw me a blanket?
will you put down my socks?
will you tickle my back?
will you kiss me goodnight?
will you turn the light off?
will you leave the little light on?
goodnight
goodnight
sleep tight

can you get the lights please?

yes

thank you

uh huh

mmmm

g'night

yeah you too

have fun in your dreams

meet me by the meeting point sign

i will

i'll be holding an umbrella

i'll be wearing dungarees

i'll be holding an ice cream and looking for you

i will too

see you then then

then then then then

can you stop it?

stop what?

speaking

i'm not. you're speaking.

ok

stop

i have.


good.

great. it's all good then

yeah everything's fine

is it? then why are you still going on about it?

i was only saying

you keep saying.

so do you.

shhhhh

i'm quiet.

good

good



am awake now.

no you're not

no i'm not.

shut up.

---------
so comfortable I could only assume I was alseep. or flying. I tried to roll over or move but I seemed to not have a body. I nodded my head as I got in the cloud of the first wave. Shivers and magic. I moved what could be my neck, a little. Despite the lack of body, I could logically piece together information to understand how to move. VK passes me the wine. I take a sip as I look at the cobbled street and my cobbled feet and the cobbled world around all cobbling on like nothing matters. Organic. And so very pixelated. I took a bigger sip and eased into the liquid feeling of flowing. I got all excited again, thinking of the movement of my skin against the fabric dressing it against the air against the breeze against the thousands of invisible touches to come. I passed the bottle on to the next person, noticing their dubious balance as they extended their grabbing arm with unsure fingers. I noticed how I was now raised to the top of my cartesian theatre, if a little off it- actually above it. I was sat cross-legged on the top left of my head. watching the show  from the floor. arranging the blocks with playfulness or by luck.

Horror story #6

"Couldn't find my shoes. all of them had been stolen one by one by some prankster. there is no other way they would have disappeared.

i looked in the wardrobe. and under my bed. and in the many carrier bags left by the table legs, which look messy and make me stressed and they still haven't got my shoes in them so why do i keep them?

Shirley McFly called me from the opposite bungalow- or bin-galow har har - to label this a 'Mystery' and play Poirot. i explained it's a little too late for silly games and my shoesies had totally walked out on me so she stopped being abrasive to my sensitive state and showed more consideration. She carried on with her investigation, but in secret while i despaired over the loss of my six beautiful silver shoes.

i looked at my bare feet and was hit by a genuine shock. i didn't have toes to paint the nails of. i had nothing but my six legs. now hanging dryly. undecorated. i had to accept myself as a boredom again.

i looked at the mirror and called Shirley on her mobile.she said she had narrowed it down to 2 suspects. the bin men who vigorously shake our homes every thursday at 5 am and thus damage our belongings all the time, or the "Burglar" (with two quotation marks, he specifies), who is a Chief Leader of Fleas living on Floxy (the local hussy fox- likes to hang out by the bridge late at night). i told her we're better off without shoes and better off without makeup on and genuinely better the rawer we come across.

she argued i'm being defeatist, but it was impossible not to be in my case. my shoes. all very gone. and shirley living out a childhood fantasy of solving mysteries with a magnifying glass. i resented her purity sometimes. i resented anyone's innocence when i was miserable. but i didn't ever let my pessimism and hurt shadow my thinking.

i went out shoeless and with a proud smile on. asking for answers. shacking my fist at the evil.

i was met by nothing. emptiness. no colours. no smells. only my shoes. under a big bright light. in the middle of the road. next to them a letter:

i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

written in my handwriting.

i realised my eyes were closed.

i couldn't open them to wake up.

they were already open."

fair

if you ever make a sound again i will stop.
right. get out of the car.
fine. bye
but we're only little. you'll leave us on the side of the road? mum, tell him. he's being ridiculous.
you are being ridiculous for christ's sake. if they get off, i get off.
right, well then you'll all get off. i won't discuss this further.
dad this is not FAIR!
life is not fair.
but what did we do? what did i do?
get out i said.
but mum-dad-why- it's so hot. but why? why don't we go to the beach? let's be together. it's all ok. come on. COME ON. why? will we ever get to the beach? mum? MUM.
come one girls. let's get off here. your father. has made a.. decision.

my feet burning on the tarmac. little stones nestling in the crack between my big toe and the second one. everything feels vague and dusty and brown. the sound of zooming traffic is perfectly spaced out, keeping time. reassuringly, my hand braids through my hair. scalp still hurting from the last bout of lice. i look at my sister's feet. the bottoms of her soles so dark and her little skinny legs are dancing around each other. blinding sun and no uncovered human in sight. only machines with men in them. i feel so female. i feel so small. our mum, never good with heat, is huffing and wiping her heavily perspiring forehead with a scarf, whilst looking through her bag for her credit cards squirrelled away in pockets of other pockets. bags in bags and tissues and wet wipes and sun cream and mum smells. she finds her sunglasses and put them on. another huff and she's realised she has a tenner. she folds it in half. she unfolds it with her thinking look. she folds it lengthways. puts it in one of many pockets. i am hungry. i miss dad. i'm sad he must be feeling so sad about this situation. he must be feeling guilt and he must be trying to think of a way of returning and making this all ok again. i'm really hungry. i want all four of us to be together. the way it's always been. all happy and safe.

mummy i need a wee.

oh for god's sake. let him calm down and he'll come back for us. i promise. come on, let's find a toilet. and some water. or maybe we can get a taxi. let me see, i think i have some money in my bag. (i don't tell her i saw her put it in that pocket. there's no point engaging further with decisive crisis-solving mum. just follow her instructions holding her hand and smelling her wonderful perfume. mums are so beautiful. will i be so beautiful when i'm a mum too?)

mummy i'm hungry. mum it's so sunny.
i'm so angry with him.
where did he go? is he coming back?
i don't know, darling. i don't know.
mum i need a wee. oh i'm so thirsty.
here, put your hats on. i can't find my card to get cash out. we have to wait for him. ok let's just start walking, show him we're fine without him.

(...)

mum dad is here. he's stopped the car. shall we get in mummy?
i want to get in mummy.
mum.
ok. get in girls.

(...)

who wants an ice cream?
who wants some water?
shall we go to the beach?
dad, we want to inform you mum is angry and not talking to you because you left us on the side of the road for a long time in the sun in the middle of nowhere.
dad, can you turn the radio on?
dad can we sing again or will you get angry?
only if you don't shout while i'm trying to find my way on this stupid island. i can't get lost again. we have no petrol!
dad, where did you go when you left us?
i drove around and felt really really bad and stopped and did a turn.
but it felt like HOURS.
it was only 5 minutes. are you crazy? i would never have properly left you without your mum. you just infuriated me with your screaming and i was trying to concentrate on the road so we don't crash!
You should learn how to drive more confidently or let someone else drive then! your little birds, you threaten to leave on the road for no good reason! i am SO angry with you.

well well. ok.

(...)

who wants to go to splashworld?

ME ME ME ME!!
and you?
no i'm ok thanks. i want to go home.
oh come on. i'll buy you an ice cream my gorgeous. i love you you know.
just leave me alone ok?
ok ok.

mum, it's fine, dad is not annoying now, come on let's go to splashworld!

don't you dare do that again.
cooomee oooon it wasn't thaat bad.
you don't know what you're saying you silly silly man.
come on honey.

dad, will you get on the water slides with us?
oh no, here we go again. bleuuugh do i have to? fine, if you insist... sorry, duty calls.
-make sure they're safe!
i will and you put on some more of your tanning oil.
pfff (she smiles at him).


(if you have ever felt insecure, i challenge you to imagine what life might be like when you're going through it without holding anyone's hand or resting your face on their belly when you hug them or laughing at Peter Sellers on tv on a hot sunday night with them. it's a bit like looking down a cliff. it's a bit like looking in the mirror. apparently i am immature. but i'm not, i'm just inexperienced.)

symptomatology

exactly by coincidence we sneezed at the same time.
it started off as a side project i had every intention of ignoring.
exactly like several others before it. exactly like what you would label as 'normal' and noddingly try to move me away from describing. you get it. of course and why did i ever doubt this?

exactly by circumstance and luck and regret, i lifted my skirt up past my knees and felt my freedom in my bruised bones.
i smiled with my eyes, of course, and let my charm echo in the room. i wanted something to make the same sense i had felt. the glittery magic of feeling precious.
that sensation that vaporises once anyone else is in the room in your house.you can catch it in an enormous glass jar, if you wish, but without a name it is not going to be of any use.

as per usual. an autumnal excitement as for the parties and snuggles and cups of hot and the sensual pulling on of knitwear and friend-made-gloves. as per usual. a bottomless ditch accumulating forgotten districts of thought, doubts and self-preservation pep-talk, almost done reforming.

sometimes i feel my connection to the elements is elemental.

sometimes i understand what i mean before i feel it.

most of the times nothing is clean and nothing is available completely to me as i assume i cannot be available to anyone else or to my heart.

roar the rockstar death age

my claws are pathetically weak.
i've resigned to the fact
i will never be able
to use in public
with confidence
and success.
i therefore
for sure
am not to be useful.

not trying to reach
or clasp
or grip
or grasp
or feel
or wave
or poke
or give
a middle finger up
to funny friends
or annoying people i don't know.

my claw got RSI and i was told he had to die.
they chopped him off
from the tip of the bone
and exposing the nerves to the air
i have now a stump
for a hand
a stump
for a heart
sharp pain in my
fang

no i'm not crying
there's some rubbish in my eye
without a hand or claw or pokey
i cannot pry it out and wipe it dry.

i curl up in a ball and swim in my eye water
and pretend i'm somewhere hotter
where the loss of moisture leads to death.

but alas i want to be here.
even if clawless
even if empty handed
or not-handed-at-all.

pass me a peach.
straight in my mouth.
papaya is the ancient fruit
but i am modern now
no claw. no claw. no claw.

so retro

i wanted a faraway dream of tacky shit and tidy cheese and cutesy ditzy polka dot cups hanging from hooks made of recently-saved-from-environmental-disaster antelopes' gratefulness tears. i craved to be part of this wave of what seemed like happy people, all neatly packed in their adorable rounded-corner boxes, commenting freely with spot-on jokes on items on the list of shared interests. they felt elegant, styled and easy.

i thought this would nurse my apparent lack of know-how in being and thinking. i thought it would ensure i am loved. pretty good as self-preservation goes, despite actions required of me going against the grain of want to be expressive freely and being un-contained in posture and mind frame.

well, obviously this hadn't worked or i hadn't performed correctly. i guess it was the snorting when laughing or once farting when fallen asleep on the sofa in the shared living room. i was replaced. removed. swept to the side while a new bride took my place. a squeaky girl, all ready with sparkles and smiles, whilst my greasy clothed body still in extended arms hug position, begins to feel the pain of emptiness.

now, i am not a victim out of choice, but i am a victim out of need. how else would i dare to see eye to eye with myself in the mirror again otherwise? i did what i had to. i tied the loose ends. i cleaned up my act. i wore black eyeliner. i got allopecia treatment. i fed myself with my hands, took my bones to the therapist, dragged my flesh to the city, plonked the weight on the garden chair, smiled and smelled and followed the scents to the one fine point i saw still amongst the swirls of fuzzy background and drunken traffic. a fine point so elegant and well-defined i stopped breathing and my heart promised to never beat again if i lost.

but this time it's been different. the willing pride has flinched and now doesn't care much for pleasantries. it's true you can't. it's true i may not be right. it's true. it's all true. but how else can i stand up when all i can clearly see is your point? and how else to convince the self that being what it is was not a disaster? that holding your hand was not out of need but out of desire?

and what more can i say to show i'm not wasting time, i'm not useless, i'm not stupid, i'm not selfish, i'm not careless, i'm not trying to irritate and i really do want everyone to be happy? meanings of words and waves of bland imagery projections on stained sheets skew perception occasionally. but unless we see how balance is happiness, we will have died without living. you will have died and i will dissolve into nothing.

not a normal

A rebalancing act or decidedly taking part in participatory group activities, like a healthy little child, like a good sport, like one of the crew, good girl pat pat pat on the head et cetera.

I bit my own hand first, then compared till i had no more comparisons to draw. i morphed into the opposite of what i had hid under. i morphed into my anti-protector. a sophisticated enemy masterful of all guns and trades. capable of tearing you apart completely just with one swift vibration of the tongue. one strong muscle that looks and feels like a slug. sheltering from anything dry and poignant. slipping around in the aimless wet concrete mess, risking imprinting your sole onto its face to show it's oh so tough and macho. macho my ass.

So anyway furthermore moreover, is this an instruction for any marauder around, to loot savagely any trace of stability or seriousness or fatness in my bones? because it does feel that way goddammit and afterwards i'll be left with no nothing or no key or wings or antennae or anything whatsoever. so what's this deal then? win win what? loose self and heart? is he worth it? is he worth it? is he worth it?

A flexible multifaceted approach in admitting defeat and throwing the towel in that was required, inevitably could not be offered. not because of resistance but because of inability to be one-dimensional.

love and hate. both the same.

After the initial (or more appropriately the previous stable state) was revisited she clasped a tiny edge of Hope at the end of the visit and dutifully believed there was a way to prop the doors open to go freely between states as she wishes. She applied for it. Signed both the copies. Initials of the initial. reciprocal oscillation. Such an acrid flavour on the back of the tongue. Gagging again. tears without eyes. hands flopping empty and useless and without purpose left and right of the hips, not holding on to anything as nothing is there for them to hold on to and they hate each other and they would never agree on whose thumb is to be on top anyway. childish and facetious and totally non-serious. this meant that Hope had failed to ignite any passions or other in her. Her defeated existence reminding of a concrete structure- it allows the movements of winds but their effect is only for others to see or feel. her concrete heart hasn't even got a clue anything is different. shrivelling up every second. looking after itself with nurture and care and pity.

resigning was not the next logical step. it was the first never taken. the one undoing the mistake. she undid the error and signed off and repetitively checked it was all in the right order. but the something in her head had spoken. and she knew nothing could ever be saved. she was meant to question. she was meant to question. she was meant to question. and the answer to find impossible to bear.

nobody is. nobody for her. only her own is comparable.
she finally processed the calculations. with very little joy, announcing this to a few other heads she spots around her in the infinity of a surrounding. 'nothing is the same. everything is the same. nothing and everything are different empty cases of the same hologram.' she mumbles noticing her feet could do with a wash.

exhale

i have.

eternally.

pulsated and done.

She would.

willingly.

pulsated and done.

I shooed.

hand waving.

whimsy and dry.

She showed.

heuristics wavering.

whimsy and dry. 

Bitter and Silent.

Aggressively Mellow.

Possessively Distant.

Upsettingly Clean.

She wiped all the pictures

and all they could mean.

my hair was pulled out

to reveal my bald head.

my kindred spirit ruled out

as the worst guidance ever.

the finger tips all burnt off

demanding a waver.

left in the dark

she examines the get out.

given bitterness to hope

she understands there's no option

to climb is to fall

and to walk is to panic

in a line we're all standing 

like a queue, all thematic.

instantly we are and aren't

instantly she is and cannot be

instantly she outshines and outscreetches and outshakes and outreaches and outbreaksup her face and outdamages tendons and outdreams of the end and outdoes you. she's better.

all moi (In Summary Part 2)

it wasn't you. it was all me.
i substituted everything problematic with my positivity for you.
it's never been you.
it's always been me.
plagued with unshiftable weight hats forever.
i tried to take them off but to be honest i don't quite know how big they are.
i asked you to tell me.
you got under them and looked at me with playfulness.
i asked you to tell me how big they are.
you kissed my forehead with certainty
i asked you to describe them to me.
you shook hands with me and locked your fingers around mine.
but i asked you how they are.
not to share them.
they are all mine.
not yours to carry.
really not yours to carry.
i'm not yours to carry.
i'm only yours to look at.
yours to believe in.
yours to remain.
my disorders.
all poured into a mould
that went on to mould my energy for you.
i used you.
carelessly and greedily.
but you kissed me on the cheek.
sturdily and with disappointment.
and then i caught your shadow with the corner of my eye.
and didn't understand.
you didn't understand.

{this is the fly's poem to the light, written in blue ink a year later.continued from 'In Summary'}
it goes with this song:

where

are you?

where?

did the rounds a million times just checking everywhere.

where

are you?

where?

looked in every crevice-cryptic-cleverclogs joke we've shared.

and didn't find you.

ah well. guess one of us has to stay put while the other is looking. you've obviously had that grand idea again and are stood in the farthest new place not looking at people, waiting for me to retrieve you.

ah well. you'll be waiting for a while. guess it was my turn someone found me for once. found me and said it. 'i found you'. and their toes really curled with comfort and their smile widened with the seriousness of what makes you guffaw and tears your heart out simultaneously and whilst undoing your popping button top they laugh at what's beneath it and profess salvation of their soul and inability to live outside your aura.

it's my turn now. but i think there is no queue and i'm feeling a little too 'on sale' parading around with my eggs all in this humongous basket made out of doilies, hearts and yellowing pages of romance novels scary ladies read on the beach whilst smoking long cigarettes. i should have listened to the academics amongst us warning me of expressing more than you can receive. but i honestly thought i could take it. honest to god. cross my heart.

the academics warned me against smoking too. and did i listen? boy did i listen. i listened alright. but was hoping i was cheesier than them with more flair for attracting finders with more flair for becoming a keeper.
with more pizazz to convince people to see me like i see them. to burn the rose-tinted 70s hippy bullshit and permanently install disney eyes that widely love wherever they cast their glow at. whispering with cartoon birdlike-properties 'and you and you and you' as they go along. kissing as frequently as they blink.

the academics warned me life wasn't fair and that enjoying your work is crucial to existence. they insisted you have to make your work fun for you. i insisted you have to find a work that is fun for you. that's where we differ, i thought. that and their resistance to seeing how painted tips can genuinely act as an anti-convulsive anti-depressant anti-politicalhell anti-classistbullying anti-beingthelastonetobeacceptedasfiteveranywhere. funny old thoughts they had. you paint your nail, you are immediately anti-intellectual, anti-legal, you might as well be smoking. drugs. and practising. witch. oh whatever. nobody goes down that route if they have support, surely. nobody is curious enough to do something as stupid as smoke or drink or swear, right?

i paint my nails weekly. it is my rescue. you can tell i need it to survive because when you see me with plain, neat & tidy nails i am distracted, too neat and avoidant, my emotional temperature incommunicable, it is like a brick has sat next to the sofa with you and is nodding for you to pour the tea and give it lactofree milk. (you are delusional though if you see an actual brick nod at you. or are possibly tripping on some off ryvitas, mate) Anyway, now you know i've painted my nails, so when you find me you can be sure it is really me.

the academics don't know jack, i suspected. it turns out they did. and are more advanced than i credited them as initially. oh what i'd give to go back and apologise for the errors and embarrassment. oh what i'd give to find words suitable and strong enough to convey to them my love and respect the way they will perceive as 'ok' and won't guilt them into feeling anything other than happiness. basically they were more advanced than me, and now i've reached and possibly exceeded them, with going to university, and being alive and all.

i digress. i am here with my nails and love for academia. i am here with love you can understand. fucking find me already, i'm always here, and i'm always ready. i'm practically your ideal everything and i feed on being smiled at. promise. i don't even need food. ok maybe i do, but you get it. i mean other food. food for thought. food for your soul. good food. food that's good for you. i can feed on you. i do this thing where i suck out all your bad energy and you are left light-headed and happy and you don't even know why. at first i approach the topic with intense hardcore heavy sadness and within seconds you're crying from laughter and you have none left in you at all. it's my trick. for as long as you're near me i make it all go away. and i don't need food. i need you.
whoever you are.
wherever you went.

where?

are you?

where?

or how?

what a shock

peeling top layer off the bottom

with a sharp and instant dedication

unusual for this time in the morning

unusual sleepy extrication.

liturgy interrupted with regret

by self-preserving disrespect

most conspicuous form of treason

most pathetic. without reason.

sucking this thumb harder than an infant. 

concentrating on breaking my teeth

concentrated heat healing my hatred

curing the cramps, crumbling the crust, crying at last

(a)maZochist

if you're ungrateful i hate you 
if you're a traitor i made you 
you seem astonished, i'm on it
i'll shine and i'll polish your astounding addiction to pain 
so it grates on my 
leftover, bagged up heart 
once again. 

same temperature

sitting on the nearly dried street of a london suburb. sitting down on the ground and stretching one leg, bending the other to show off the thinness of thigh and with it the evident need to be thought of as delicate. elegant. to encourage desire to touch her.  her back not touching the wall behind due to miscalculation of distance when first sat down. she is too knotted up to move. she doesn't want to admit error or come across as all over the place. her hands are already doing more than enough talking, rubbing under the eyes the nonexistent itch, wiping the nonexistent excess oil. her skin is perfect. she is mimicking other people's uncomfortable perfectings of their hair and face so she appears animated, so she doesn't intimidate with her physical comfort in discomfort. she realises it is the same summer smell. the same summer temperature. the same shadowy londony experience of musty tree-grass-tarmac heat and gentle breeze. jagermeister and diet coke. it's a tradition. she is so hardcore. she is so rebellious. she is so emotional. she doesn't care but she really does. just right. perfectly perfect. she laughs and looks in the eye. and then away. she is playing with you. she is calling you. she is screaming. jagermeister stupefaction. all a front to explain why she's resting her knee on yours. why she's showing off her skinny arms and careless attitude. she attacks you with semi-insulting semi-inviting laser stare. you close your eyes and squint in the sun. you flick your curl in your finger and then spill a little drink on your jeans. you look adorable. you look exactly as panicked as her. you are so scared and so excited. you are so indifferent. could just pat her head goodbye and not feel a single thread of regret. casual. so bloody casual.

ran out excuses and filler filled with scripted awkwardness. you are not drunk from the jagermeister. you are drunk from the kiss. you are drunk from the realisation you have what you needed in your arms. you have it right there. you might lose it if you are not careful. but for the moment it's right there. no matter how many deep breaths and post party shakes you have, it is not going to disappear. you can just lift your hand and touch it. please lift your hand and touch it.

practising

my elbows fill up with cold liquid. it enters quickly from my middle fingers and runs up sharply to the elbow bone. i channel.
i suppose everyone gets this and it's not just another of my idiosyncrasies uniformally attributed to my foreignness or my whimsical stature. but just occasionally i get sidetracked into thinking i know it is only me. when i walk past a place and i know there is something there 'we' cannot see. when two ladies, looking the part, pity my pathetic wallowing stare of bus-travelling and unnecessary pain and nod to me. it is like hearing something or seeing it. a sense that i really can't define or manipulate. and the other people i detect. i know they know. they know i know. we're basically all sat there not thinking this but pretty much communicating in invisible nods and handshakes.
i am aware of the seriousness of phrasing something so delicate and easily considered as madness or overzealous hope for magical properties. i am not clear of my intentions.
but i am not lying.
seriously. i channel. i pick up. i respect the order of the flow. i can see the actual flow of everything.
and i have no power within it. i am only there to observe and let it rush through me.
i don't want any involvement. i am not meant to change anything. i do not require participation further to this. would you request the clouds move towards one direction over an other just because you could see them? no. proof is irrelevant. but nothing magical is.
rituals are of personal importance anyway. you really don't need to do them if you can concentrate your brain on the one specific request or claim or message. and i rarely do. and it always fucks me up. it's not a fear of repercussions, but rather an unwilling trade-off for nothing. no pain no fucking gain. but i don't need any gain, as you don't. whatever. this is so general i doubt it is meaningful or relevant.
i remember the greet to a soldier. i remember upsetting someone with my heavily distraught emotions in their front living room. i remember the welcome to decisiveness.and angst. the rituals that followed pain. the pain that followed rituals. and now, as tried and tested i can fully disclose and rip open my little sachet of wisdom powder and sprinkle it over your eye. hilariously, the one you don't know you have.
and anyway, if you need something, you may get it. it's a matter of approaching it right. it has to be a requirement and not a luxury. it has to be fair. it has to flow to you the way you flow to it. it is purely a coordinated coincidence.
be aware of the balance.
respect as you wish to be respected.
anyway, whatever, this advice might be irrelevant. but nothing magical is.

no/YES

She disagrees. He watches the dissonance develop behind her eyes. She really does not. He really does. She really cannot. He really must. She doesn't know why. He has never been more certain. She cannot focus on anything. He has it all planned out in a 5-tier diagram. She's forgotten her diaphragm. He is totally in for free fun loving diving. She's a dry creature of the air. He cannot argue. She cannot agree. He is so annoying. She thinks he is all too sweet. He cannot betray her. She cannot believe. He has never met her. She's been with him all along. He cannot think complex. She cannot live straight. He cannot be honest. She cannot be dead.

to my secret

i am persistent and i will hold your hand beyond the acceptable after death.
i am persistent because you showed me i am by guiding my hand into yours and asking me not to let go.
i am persistent because it is the only way i know how to be and the only way i think is right to be.
goodbye

group singing

drop.
drop it.
drop your habit/ drop the jokes, the accusations/
false crap/false expectations/cracking up with shock and embarrassment/ falsified by you not being honest.
i said drop this straight into the cracked bin filled with rubbish and ridiculous explanations nobody asked for.
drop it like it's yesteday's dinner's carcass eaten by the foxes/wipe your arse and swipe your lip and wash your hands in between.
crack- an egg into the pan of ideology. your baby, safely kept in these earthquake hands, riddled with parkinsons and i won't-
drop it. i promise i'm working my hardest but forgetfulness goes with the age and forgetting your apology or  lack of thereof is something i am prone to, in between my cracking sessions of being hilarious for and audience to/ my own sole royal jester. I will hit the wall of repetition quickly and drop the pace to a minimum, whilst the freshly lacquered expectations surface seems to be cracking from the antilogy between my personalities.
I drop my mug of tea and apologise, quickly. To whom?
Something I learnt about us and never revealed to talk about, once noticed how the cracks in our relations were growing deeper and worried it would be our catalyst if i dropped the self-accusatory bomb.
I denied to myself any involvement with risks and testing out hypotheses and the like.
I denied you the joy of clapping your hands to the jovial music, or cracking a whip up an alpine bucolic landscape.
Dropped it with my fair hands. the shakey ones that didn't drop your baby a few lines ago. I dug a little puddle into the damp soil and carefully placed my secret stash of crack and tat and covered with a few hasty kicked-in bits of more mud.
The rain revealed my appalling craftsmanship. Perhaps intentionally, to reveal i am a two-faced hypocrite.
I cracked up. As if that was a secret from you in the first place. We both knew what we signed up for. We cliched our arses off in those first few overnight chats, mildly being electrocuted by bad computer wiring and with sore eyes and cracked yellowing lips from the badly rolled fags, whilst right hand was still insisting on spelling 'the' as 'teh'.
Gleeful and courteous and courting with the subtlety of ten thousand bagpipe students attempting to twinkle your star, for the very first time. With that came the exchange of the facts. In the box. The one with the embarrassing trivia and finger pointing and shut-the-fuck-ups and rosy cheeks and crossed eyes.
So what's the scoop. Tell me what's the truth.
Drop. Drop it.
Double Drop it to ascertain immediate effect.
Drop the stilleto so it acts like a knife. and finish this.

multitude

in too many different ways it is happening.
they all surround me tightly with certain, long-limbed steps and within a few moments my aura is touching every one of them. tightly packed in the middle of their volition, being passively pushed towards the centre of me. being passively pushed towards the centre of you.
i miss.
i miss like i'm innocent. i miss like i'm a victim. i miss like your face is visually more important to me than the light.
i miss helpless and pathetic. restless and dramatic. in chronic pain.
i don't know. i just don't know what to do to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know what to do to want to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know why i have to be so strict and self-loathing, to remove you. i don't understand why you'd choose this for me. and i still believe what i felt. i can't dispute this for convenience. i can't blindfoldedly deny the existence of a wall i'm repeatedly walking into on the claim of having no visual skills. i can't allow you to fuck up. nobody fucks up. not when they are remembered. not when they are ghosts.

and when i have sort of succeeded in pretending you have never existed, i naughtily prompt recall by paying attention to the black cardboard cut out in the centre of my eyes. i ride the wave of euphoria your existence provides. i ride it down to the industrial landfill landscape it expresses on. i drink from it what looks like an oil leak with bubbles of foam firmly stuck to its surface. it makes the tube in my neck close up. it makes me cough without coughing.

it's all closing in on me. and of course i'm in the middle. a multitude of arrows pointing towards me and a multitude of directions i wish i could move towards. a multitude of reasons not to do it. a multitude of ways i cannot do it.

on the forehead

(she thinks from under the bed)

for fuck's sake please stroke my head. please. my knees have dissolved into powder after a long time of bone rubbing against bone, from the many times i thought it was going to happen and prepared myself and propelled myself a little closer to your hand. like a rusted bio-degraded knee-spring, they have disengaged with me.

for fuck's sake, you've been taunting me for so long. i really can feel my hairline itch. you hand would be annoying but so necessary. you've been talking with your hands for ages and i've falsely expected them to touch me for all this time. can't you see how patient i've been for you?

for fuck's sake, you make contact with me for a split second and before i have proof it happened, before i can have one visual image of it having taken place, you withdraw deep into your hiding place, and pretend never to have left at all, so the others can point at me and say 'liar' and tell me off for not giving up on you.

for fuck's sake, either completely dissolve, like my bones and my self-respect, or make it official, to help me stay ok and not lose it. i am not sure i will make it either way, but this, at least, you owe me.

this plasticity

i'm raw. soft and red. the thin film of the top layer of skin has been carefully peeled off. i glisten. i am now one step closer to being nearer you. one less layer to separate the blood from the air. moist, hot pulsating flesh. all one surface. it's being cooled down by the breeze and my frantic picking of the scabs. i can't seem to know where it's been done and when i need to be more careful. i feel my eyes. their left-right movements, jerkily stabbing my eyelids with pain. or  energy. it is unclear to me what i can feel and it is of no importance at all, so i promise to myself i will ignore this. my lashes flicker, a separate material growing from within my eyelid skin. i feel the slither of liquid make its way across my cheek. it is running so slowly i have to bite my tongue not to move. it touches the top of my lip. i taste my blood and i remember. when did we agree this is not ok? when did we agree i cannot reveal my veins? i read in a magazine once that there are more than two types of people. i forget them all, but i remember one was the person who deals with life quietly. you don't want to state the obvious, you don't need to share your experience, you just need to get on with it and lock your lips with a key you destroy. i remember there is the person who puts on the show, expressing the suppressed, declaring the declared, repeating what we've all heard before and now don't even notice it's repeated once more. and then there is the person that collapses and withdraws and fights and kicks and hides and blames everything on everyone, knowing full well that it is only their fault and without their irregularity, their lives would be perfect and meaningless. i guess i fit in the third category. sorry. i know i can be embarrassing. i know i can take myself so seriously that it shocks and makes internal voices gasp and english manners look away, on the floor with politeness. but i also know i can be exhilarating and blindly optimistic, my hopefulness never haltered or contained in any situation. i am not simple. but i am predictable. consistent within the complexity. responsible within my wild accusatory rage. willing to see and begging to understand. locked inside this face, i'm ripping it off, to get out and touch you. air. (i want to feel you.)

the work

one of those work dreams.
i am last in the office. the lights go off. i don't go home. instead, i sleep on my desk. i wake up at 5 am and the cleaner decides not to come in, so the panic about having to hide/the Anna Frank girl that hides, working upstairs gets forgotten.
my boss & colleagues will be in soon. it's already 6 and 7 am. i am aware i will have to pretend i have been home and come back. i escape through opening and closing the door quickly to confuse anyone standing outside it. i walk down to a lab. i try to get coffee out of the clinical injectiony/chemical/scary vending machine. i get a fix. i jump across the road to an entire new country and it's 50% green grass and 50% concrete staircases.

the cat in the box

gentle caress, inside the silk-lined box. i am miniature and loved so much i accept this as it is.
soft movements so i don't wake up. they touch my fur and i can feel the waves of motion in my heart.
the concept of mortality and the distinction of physical boundaries have stopped being relevant to me since the incident. i am a new thing, new skin, new energy, crumpled up paper with drawn arrows on. i am pointing everywhere, beaming, having remembered i can be complete without effort, as i wish.

living for this second.
i wish for this to continue until i have forgotten how to speak and that is no longer needed anyway.