binary toast

A duel in duality,
a hatred and a love.
A polar seat reserved
I was here first.

A piece of peace
at an angle, obstructed.
My slice of serenity
melting on a platter.

I - first, then - y'all.

Despite-full
of kisses and singing
and funny angle cut toast
and ham strips
and vertical cheese
on rye.

Des-pitifully
sweaty in a hair knot
with strings of skin
and flakes of face
and greasy fingers;
the action 'to cry'
a self-satisfying-sudoku.

Unable to fathom the mess of it all;
A little Presumptuous.
Most Highly Analytical.
And absolutely Convinced.

Each drop is a river. Each breath is an earthquake. Each giant is a Planet.
Separate.
Distant.
The same.

Truth is like mirrors,
you see what you see when you look
depending on your eyes,
or the head that sits on your shoulders.
Besides,
Glitter doesn't always Sparkle,
but
you can indeed
sparkle without glitter.

returned

a whispering murmur blends in with the 3D printer and the pneumatic drill across the street from me at the hospital's current renovating wing du jour.
flavour of no month as i have no months left to count down to.
the focus is pragmatically only on today.
ecstatically trying to look away from the mushy center of gaseous liquids, which acid and sharpness corrodes into further wet mess. all my power comes from and ends in my expanded and taut belly.
an ibs attack that has consistently attacked me without irritation, bouncing a pun on 'bowels'.
layer after layer of pain is applied with concern for others and held together with pain of others'.
a perverse crystal ball, spreading evenly across the space i am dreaming of growing a fetus in one day, a space of shit and piss.
grinding my teeth awake, i receive the greyscale edge of the world today with an awkward mistrust, like a bed that has that extra folded crease in its bottom sheet, or extra degree of warmth when you are nervously adjusting leg and arm temperature, as you toss and turn really really late, really really early, and right before you are due to shut the alarm up, with eyes that have again failed to stick shut.

a concrete city of 'i want a word with you' processed through electronic devices that alter the sound, i am tourist with map and a paper boat hat, clumsily bruising my fold-up jean legs as i defy the sharp edges with neglect. my dad's voice 'wanting to have had a chance to talk, but nevermind we will next time if you come see us alone', my sister's 'i want to connect with you without words', my housecat's 'i want to know if you are here for me for good or if you are continually perpetuating the ad hoc nature of our relationship, or is that my doing?', my supervisor's 'i want to fill you in on life you have not lived that has to do with a life we do not live and life we have to prepare to have' in an office of 37 degrees heat and static academia, my partner's 'don't be upset i prefer to ease out of difficulty by not picking it apart, let's hug instead of talk, until talk is born clearly and confidently'--
my need to check to check to check the panic attack passenger on the plane is not me.

with heavy magical fire belly, i sit in a hot office, unslept, unremarkable, and try to think of architecturally realistic ways of smiling genuinely so i am not intimidating or distracted or aloof. i have watched the people around me for a little while this day, and their echoes and caricature movements are appearing so vivid, i have lost faith in my own vivacity. it's a precision that takes you from actor to real boy, and boy am i more animation and lost in a screen than ever before. shapes of sounds dance between the edges of all frames in front of me. if i dance along to them, will i still make sense, and will you still want to hang out with me?

The Disconnected

As time warps into an infinity of melted blur and i catch up with my breath,

inside it i dip in and out of 

and find fighting a blink to be a doddle,

I notice the transition,

a temperate remission,

conceding

instant

disconnect.

Fingers on either side of a glass panel

one part touching glass

one part 3 thousand miles

feet

legs

meters

off.

Algo-rhythm apocalypses

while my eyes attempt to dart from side to side

stuck in the timewarp,

grainy and mystical,

and only one part is efficient this side of the glass.

If it were a sound, 

it would be a slow motion mouthing of a fight scene,

by a newly low-voiced teenager

as he playfight enacts 

an action film scene.

If it were a smell,

it would be a sharp

or crystal clear

"body scent"

you only can detect

occasionally when putting on a jacket

that may only

linger

in your own nostrils.

a cobweb of lines and graphite

violently scraped across my lenses

by the breathing flesh within behind the glass.

I try to scream

but just can't seem

to spot the seam

or find the right dream

i came in

from.

past

a past post

http://www.thelearnedpig.org/filth/2132

Conceptual Artbook TMCopyright2015

This is my list of projects, for your attention.

1. Really cute love lyrics to death metal music

2. A white t-shirt with a smudged drawing of a white t-shirt on the front

3. A photograph of a young brown-haired girl with age lines drawn on her face, in blue biro, next to an old-school silver stopwatch

4. A wall of collected advent calendar jokes, stuck on with black and white striped washi tape

5. Ed Sheeran's song about finding love until old age, played backwards at an old people's home exercise class

6. A three minute video of a London street of houses at 6.45am, showing people's waking up movements (lights coming on, curtains opening)

7. A collage made of real sushi on a table, forming a man with shoulder-length dark straight hair and a moustache, eating spaghetti bollognaise with a spoon and a fork

8. A framed photo of Beyonce and Jayz in front of the Mona Lisa (internet meme 2014), on a student dorm room, next to 'The Kiss' poster, with a pile of dirty bowls stacked on the floor next to the door

9. A still of a Henry hoover 'threesome', in a green field of English countryside, on an overcast day. Red, Blue and Green Henry appear entangled, mysterious and content

designer

I intended to have it all completely and totally ready and perfect and ready and complete and ready.

i am not ready

I meant to have it all ironed out and hung and fresh and clean and spotless and ready and happy and comfortable and ready.

but you guessed it right, i am not.

cannot begin unraveling this tangle, without a second hand to hold the string while i pick. My second hand is patting and petting and wiping and sweeping and drying and polishing, to make things readier. Your second hand is on a your first hand, as you rub them together nervously, trying to solve the riddle of what to do with me.

I intended to design a zimmer frame for your ideas to flower. a simple ample structure with space and air and everything. I wanted it ready for when you were. ready for life. ready for rust - as you pleased. but somewhere down the line i've polished too hard or put it up wrong or expected something instead of everything or anything. or i guess maybe it smells of me now and so it is not yours, but i don't even want it.

I intended to give the world to you with as much my -notoriously- long arms could build in such a small space and such little time and so few resources and am afraid i've just taken a step back and realised it looks pretty shit.

Shoddy tears, and shouty crumbs in bed, and sweaty face cloth, and panic toast, and abstract symbolism of self-loathing, or any type of loathing, or cereal whispers of horror, and highly strung filter stick picking up off the floor by the second.

The floating lingerie-wearing sunshine punk that would support your entire universe while sipping on a milkshake through a twisty sparkly straw winking in a hilarious and adorable fashion, has just taken a step back and seen she is a conventional office worker with a (suspected) lactose intolerance.

My master plans of course are not ready and they never will be. I cannot be ready, as I am not going to achieve any of this, for I am not able to deliver something outside this excessive wiping of good and smearing of bad. I AM a wiper and smearer and sweeper and stainer and cleaner and spiller. I am my loop. It's conveniently all I am (today). I inhale with the duster and exhale with a sponge.

And if you were to take these away, new and different cycle-makers would grow where my long arms are. And it you were to stop those too, I would learn how to walk on the ceiling and not/worry about that.

Perhaps this has always only been my own expectation, for me to provide. But how do you tell someone who feels guilty for taking that their giving is no good?

And how do you prove that you won't whack them on the head and be gone, when mortified they realise mid-scream that an offensive bogey has fled across their face, and their panic-making hell-raising hands are too busy squeezing a teatowel and a bottle to come to the rescue, leaving dignity completely unaided? I mean, surely everyone would want to whack a bogey face and flee? No? Is it just me?

Me. Well, regardless of what you are and how you feel and if and what you need, I will obsess about my giving. My giving is my love. My giving is my life. My astounding attention to detail is love. My meticulous structures and finishing touches. They are love too. I am unable to give you everything, but I can give you everything I am. And I am all these great useful things that you definitely require. And i wish i wasn't guilt. And I hope I am not pain, but if I am, it's not what I intended. I am ready.

iteration

On repeat.

Sit up
look under the covers
make a fort, placing a pillow on either side of you, while you hide the morning face.
Sit up
look under the covers
make a portal, for a dimension where rain is sought after, and is not a disgrace.
Sit up
look under the bed
make yourself stand up on a floor made of quicksand and with toes that curl up.
Sit up
look at your deformed body
make your wails sound more like a whisper than a song.
Sit up
look at the door
make your way to it, through a forest of abstraction and fluff-picking and moving back.
Sit up
look at the mirror
you are only what your reflection thinks you are. you are the light and dark and empty space around the eyeholes.
Sit up
look at this mess
you are the only energy left in your universe, you are you are you are and must and should and will be strong enough, to make it to the door today.

waiting

i am waiting for a very important document
i am waiting for a letter.

i am waiting for a letter that affirms I am ME. I am my issue. A letter that confirms my issue. I am confirming I am and the letter is on its way.

i am waiting for a letter, an official document, to prove me right.
I am waiting for an official document, affirming my issues, the presence of which are essentially obstructive to my well-being.
i am waiting for a very important letter, to document my issues, to officiate my woes, to prove me right, to tell them I am really and completely a true person with actual issues that do indeed require special treatment.

oh the treatment.

oh the letter.

oh the waiting.

i am waiting for this letter and have waited and this letter has not come. yet. waiting for it, unlike having received an official document, is officially dead time. i am waiting on dead time. dead waiting for official time, to officially officiate me as dead. no, as issues. as one issue. my issue. my official waiting time penance for an official something which has not reached us yet, so I don't know what it is. and what could it be, worse than waiting?

i am desperate. I am desperately waiting for this document to reach me. i am waiting for my officiation as a person of issue. i am waiting to be issued with my official report. i am waiting for the issue documentation to reach me officially. now. i am desperate. i am despair. i am waiting for despair. i am officially despairing waiting for an issue-filled affirmation of my ailments.

did i mention bored? i am bored of waiting. bored of being desperate too. i am bored of waiting desperately and desperately bored of waiting.

i am waiting for the letter to reach the mediator, to reach the moderator, to reach the offender, to reach the mediator, to reach the moderator, to reach the mediator, to reach the official VOICE of expert testimony, to reach the mediator, to reach the moderator, to reach me and the offender.

and all this for what?

why wouldn't they take my little voice at face value? my little voice, for i am desperate. my face full of pensive waiting. my value devaluing by the minute, as i wait and waste time and wait some more, for what we already all see and know and wish we didn't have to think about again, we're so totally over this.

we are waiting for waiting's sake. as if by magic, waiting for time to pass will make our life issues any less valid, excusing us for a momentary loss of self-respect and discipline, legitimising our tears and our frustrations.

we are waiting for life to pass, just so we feel there has been some action. as if  - if anything, waiting is a mere description of inaction. pensive. bored. dead. i hope this has been worth it. like with world problems. like with anything important or big or serious we need to discuss or deal with.i may go back in time and change my status. as soon as i stop waiting, my issues will officially be over.