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.

Customs

Tradition has it that Greek television will feature at least 4 channels of public and private television dedicated to 'fun' for 3 days each Christmas.
This is as important as wrapping your presents, wearing socks and wishing 'Happy Christmas' to all of you not familiar with this.

Sitting round the table, roughly around 30 over-middle-aged local celebrities. Some identifiable as traditional singers or oldschool sitcom 'actors'. They have wine and heavy flowery decorations sat in front of them and the camera zooms from guest to guest.
Then, next to the stage a band. Slightly raised on a platform, semi-circular so you can see all of them. In front, two or three wooden chairs with some microphone stands. For the singers and their friends to perform. On the other side of the stage, a grand piano (always black and spotless) with the kitchest Christmassy flower arrangement on it, and a few thick ribbons, wrapping it up like a preset.
The host speaks and asks questions nobody cares about, regarding memories of the guests, sometimes theme-appropriate, sometimes totally irrelevant. And when you think you've heard it all and are happy to die from experiencing boredom to its full extent in life, you realise that no- the SINGING has not even started.

Old school songs from sad films, to well-respected pained poetry, war, poverty, happiness, famous 20s foreign songs (only half of it sung, and sped up doubly to prevent audience boredom and wrong lyric performance). The key is 'moving'. The camera zooms in the shiny wet eyes of various guests. The guests will each take it in turns to sing. Alone if confident, with the paid singer leading, if modest.

And finally the lip sync is announced. For the rest of the of the programme (lasts 4 hours) the orgy of fun will be all about the mouthing of words, looking moved, off camera out of the frame melancholy of the beloved childhood memories of your now deceased aunties pinching your cheeks. Coupled with sparkly black outfits around a table, traditional musical instruments and even more fake Christmas flowers, this is for any Greek person the traditional sign it is time to start arguing with your relatives, applying too much makeup on your unslept face and suppressing your funfunfunpartyparty yawns for fear that the few superstitious amongst your guests will start on the jinx and evil eye you've been a victim of and start mock-spitting on you to cure this.

Happy Christmas etc etc.

how dare I

be so deeply sad. For these incredibly selfish and adolescent reasons all to do with me.

How dare I impose my 'superior' expectations and in effect demand different living standards and arrangements for people other than my own self? And how dare I allow my self to break down in front of them, in such an unacceptable display of disapproval and shock and contempt?

Someone please take this right away from me. And also maybe slap me with a kipper.
I don't want this. Bring back suppessed disciplined respect. Just for another week, before i ruin everything, hurt them all and not-spontaneosly-at-all combust in a last attempt for ash-rebirth not realising I'm not a phoenix by any stretch of imagination.

Three gunshots outside my window. Only 2 hours left before dark. sleeping on a cold hard surface and failing at faking any sort of smile for the benefit of those i love the most and literally live for. Bummer..

darkened, The fly has a say

....sometimes i find myself telling me off. I buzz and buzz and then I stop.
it don't matter what and who and when and where, as such. this is the content of the superior speech:

the sun. can we use it all. fade it with our exploitative nature. use use and abuse. human nature is pathetic. Why not use until your belly's full and then rollover and sleep? how unacceptable to insist on your ridiculous binges and trophies.

no resources. no internal defences. lying helpless like a dried seaweed by the beach. but it's sadly on top of a rock or in a cave. eternally distant from the tide.

we are creatures of the earth. it's true! we even respond to the moon. respond to the coherent internal urge to consider our own existence. a never-ending round-about of self-indulgent self-importance and necessity to share to realise what's happened. humans are so flawed! I cannot believe they were the 'best' creation for a second. take that primary school religion!

but hey, stop for a minute. what is it you're hopelessly looking for? right now, all you are is who you are and what you want is all you have. aiming higher? are you sure you are not just changing the present with an ideal employed to give you some sort of advantage in life? you can live right now. as you are. but you cannot be happy. because of no prospect, of no security. But doesn't that excite you? you could be anything and anyone. Free floating, joke making, ultimate, utter, you. obviously a lazy oaf you, but one that can only verify it's own self. external assessors have never existed as far as your integrity is concerned. and other socio-psychological explanations of self and identity, dull and no-shit-sherlock.

Here is from the optimist fly: you are your bad jokes and the good. you are a shadow of your everyday routine. and certainly of your midnight loo visits. You are the person that checks the plaque on your teeth, before coming back out of the bathroom to your one guest in the lounge. Spinachface is so cliche. You are the person that is too lazy for a tissue at night, the one who opens the fridge to look at other people's food to feel 'inspired' (jealous, and then contemplate takeaway which is a stupid idea), the person that walks on the road, pretending a miniature camera is following around. zooming in at what your eyes are meeting. even if that's just one of the many stopped cars with a parent in, around the local school. So you want more? Sure, but have you dealt with what you have already? Because, pet, it seems to me you wish to skip this step and progress to a level of comfort. you are mildly misled i feel.

Strip it all. focus on something other than you, like on your friend's success. Smile and express your happiness for them. Now wouldn't that be nice to give yourself? semi-patronising, american, self-congratulatory clap right now. because you are alive, you can go to the shop and overcome the fear of speaking to the guy behind you- his basket is eager, but he is just as absent-minded as you, not hitting on you sleazily. You can definitely type, read, click and play with your computer- discovering little secrets enclosed in the letters 'ctrl' and @. you are definitely alive, so presumably not starving. you own a notebook and a pen. write it all down.

since I was a child this is what I wanted to become:
a) a hairdresser, to crash the market with my unique triple plaited plait- C.
b) a dancer to wow the crowds with my body discipline
c) a singer. to move everyone. as i was. this featured borrowing friend's little brother's fisher price tape recorder, writing about 50 songs in a week and directing the bands of little slaves/younger kids and one my age (Viv) who has an exceptional voice and had the album of Jordy. Which was clearly stupid fun amongst attempts to play 'school' and make a surprise meal for the parents, so was well cool.
d) a coin archaeologist
e) a linguist
f) a ghost
g) a singer and poet and be interviewed by MTV and snub them and also be very honest and giggle, as practiced in the mirror
h) a person so cool and respected, their aura makes everyone get goosebumps of excitement and anticipation for contact and attention
i) a person living calmly, far away with mysterious income to sustain the massive material goods
j) a therapist. a witch. a guide. an advisor. an expert.
k) a responsible, respected professional.
m) a person feeling real, with people around who are also real. a person who knows their fabric detergents and can cook up a storm for a visiting relative of their partner.

but it turns out this is all incompatible with reality. aaaaaah weeeeelll...

SoberOctober

Listening to Causes 1(Track 04) on a bus.
"Melancholy" in the rain.
Wishing. Hissing under my breath.
Swearing and changing and I realise my thinking is a narrative in my Mother's voice.
What I plan & hope & hate & fear all in the distance,
are actually here. Right now.
My outdated future plans have caught up with my age.
How could I have ignored my head for so long?
I am proud and upset. I've succeeded in this betrayal.
Have made things mildly worse for the sobriety to sort out.
One thing I've actually done well in, however.
I've limited the shame. No pain- no fucking gain.

--

--

Magnetised. Drawn to the dark. moth and lightbulb.

Oddly comforting. Semi-closed eyes.

Such a physical experience
and yet such a nonexistent cause.
I'm set. Craving self-destruction.
Intensity that is related to blowing your head off with internally directed energy.
I describe,, and describe,,, and describe. My description the only skill I now truly possess. The rest of me, encaptured in the thoughts, is making love to itself, somewhere between Interpol, the realisation of wet socks, and planning the next deep, deadly drag of the scheduled cigarette.

Wish i could loop-in a cool way. Like in music videos. Like in my recollections of a dream. Half-constructed -half lied about. Wish I could flop my head over, the way I feel like doing -and it would look cool. The way I romantically see it.
I love the similarities (and hate them too) between real life & my head version.
I hate to be abnormal.
I hate I'm not a teenager.
I hate it when I don't understand.
I hate the twat above my shoulder on the bus. fuckoff.

Morning Rebellion versus morning self-pity

The strong obsession with ForeverFriends bears she suddenly remembered. The love for the soft fur and peach toes and palms of the toy. Strange, she thought. An obsession with something although she was never considered back one of the BFF's. Never part of it. Never a need to purchase such a sign of eternal friendship arose. Just some pocket-money saving and buying matching half-hearts, just in case. (what the fuck was wrong with her? what a miserable and moronically dramatic kid.)

Shame, the sunray whispered, as it touched her freckles trough the frosty bathroom window.
Shame, she sighed, as she selected her toothbrush, preparing it for the two wet drops to start the morning ritual.

She looked in the mirror. Winked once. What if I rebel? Put my socks inside out, apply my makeup wrongly, eat the burnt crumbs instead of toast, pour tea over the doormat, break my pass, hide my keys in the house before i leave, stand still for a little too long, without any excuse, or any reason. Be late. Be odd. Be free. She winked again. (God, winking without smiling looks like a brain malfunction.) Would that be freedom? A free world, but frankly there doesn't seem to be any way of doing all this without an excuse such as adjustment issues or a breakdown or extreme lactose sensitivity.

Fuck this, I'll just go commando. Attribute everything to sexual mischief. She put on her flowery rain hat and picked up her keys and went to work.