Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The Wrongness of Reality

Something sits on my chest, heavy, suffocating. Have you ever stopped and thought about something you'd always taken for granted? Did you ever realise how much of things you invented in your own head? That is what this is - it's a realisation, and it's slowly killing me. That's what I get for making things up, without a shred of proof that they exist as I imagined. The mind creates perfect people - why stop it? Except for the fact that reality will set in and shatter everything you thought, nothing can go wrong.

Sunday, June 24, 2012


No. No one gave you the fucking right. No one bequeathed upon you the monarchy, the dictatorship; no one gave you permission to be a tyrant. You do not have a say in how people run their lives. Look the other way, it's the only thing you're good at. Go on, walk away, I beg you. But you won't, will you? Because you think you have the right to stay and demand things of me, you think you have the right to tell me how to live my life; you think you have the right to make choices and assumptions about me when you don' t know the first fucking thing. Don't pretend it's love; don't masquerade it as something it's not, because it's a lie that doesn't sit too well with the truth. You're power hungry; one day I'm going to let you starve.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

A Lamentation of Parting

I tremble with my lamentation, recognising that I live is a state of perpetual yearning, unrequited, unknown. What chance do I have? I shall merely sit by the wayside and watch yet another one slip from my grasp. She'll leave an invisible scar on my heart, and a piece of her will never leave, even as she follows the road to another destination. Nostalgia already knocks on my door, asking to be let in, but I'll have none of it while I still see her, even if I am scrambling for scraps.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Unshakeable Lies

"Where are you right now?" she breathed against my ear.

I found I could not explain that I walked a thousand miles away, along an abandoned road to nowhere, chasing dreams and visions from my mind, which danced before me, tantalising and alluring. I could not say that I was lost in a place untouchable, for that place did not really exist. I dared not shatter a moment deserving of more attention than I was giving it. So I leaned close and looked into her eyes. I took her hand and I whispered "right here".

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The Subordinate Hours

Sleep, dreamer, sleep. Fall away into another world, a realm of infinite possibility. Keep yourself there as long as you can; don't face the waking world with regret. Stay strong, your day will come when you shall lie amongst the dew covered grass, staring up at the cobwebbed sky, clasping hands with your lover, the one who walks in your dreams, open, unabashed, lovely. That time is creeping, slowly, ever so slowly, but even the slowest travellers must arrive sooner or later. Until then, dreamer, sleep.

Monday, June 18, 2012


Sometimes I feel as though I belong in another place. There is an irritation, a persistent tide in my heart, gently tugging me away to distant shores. They lie out of sight, over a horizon I cannot touch, but they claim my heart, my soul, my dreams; they are a waking nightmare, a too-good fantasy. If I can wake up tomorrow a different person, then why is it I cannot wake up in that homely place?

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Invited Words

 Come, tell me that you want to watch, that you want to fall, that you want to fly. Tell me that you want to lie above the world and stare down at a city full of artificial stars, while the real ones blink on from above. Tell me that you wish you could whisper sweet words into a lover's ear. Tell me that you wish she were me.

Tell me, and I'll endeavour to do anything to please you.

Friday, June 15, 2012


Quit your sulking. The world doesn't owe you anything. We're all just bees, buzzing out and about, in and around the things which will profit us, only so we can bring it all back and give it to the Queen that is Capitalism. You don't own a thing; everything owns you. Love is just a side project to feed your soul - unimportant in the big picture of sustainability. It breaks your heart, and maybe you can't handle it, so you throw yourself off a bridge, but it doesn't make a difference; some other bee will take your place, the hive will continue to thrive, and you'll be just another memory in a graveyard of sodden thoughts. So keep it together if you want to make a difference. Remember, the world doesn't owe you a fucking thing.

Thursday, June 14, 2012


Take one stumbling step, and then another. Shuffle forward, inch by trembling inch, facing down the things which want to break you. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?

But no, we sit along the sidelines, watching people play a game we long to get chosen for, but never understanding the rules. So we sit. We watch. We weep.

We're just living to die.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


I don't deserve those things of beauty; light filtering through the trees, a brush of fingertips across a bare stomach, murmurs of a sleepy afternoon. No, those things melt out of my grasp, fleeing like roaches from the light.

Alone, I've become unstuck, wading through a life without a hint of buoyancy. All I'll get is grit under my fingernails, and bruises across my face for all the work I've done. All I'll keep are harsh words and hate, cancer cells of black bitterness taking me over from the inside. Goodness. What is goodness? Good things don't happen to crazy people. No one is going to care about the dregs of life, those people who are so abandoned by society that they abandon themselves. We'll all careen through the streets like ghosts until the whole city is a ghost town.


Things. They all collide and writhe and merge into one teeming mess of life. Not one thing happens, but millions, together, simultaneously, shaking the earth with their forces, rocking, quaking, shattering, until there is nothing but billions of pieces of ourselves scattered across the ground, falling away into the mass, to collide and merge and be reborn again. A death, a life, one with a foot on either side, trying to decide which to be.

Blood, the nature of life, spilled in birth, stilled in death, brought to the surface, red, hot, steaming even though it rises from a hollow heart. A staggering hope, a wistful illusion, a fleeting whisper on the breeze of a possibility, which flits down the street and darts out of sight when you try to get too close; a shadow from a flickering candle. Untouchable. Unreachable. Unforgettable. An education.

And all the pieces of ourselves, the things which let us be, wriggle and writhe, struggle and slither, determined, damned, broken, dragging themselves across a burning carpet of razor sharp memories. And bruised, bleeding, weary, they launch themselves into one another, colliding with another earth shattering crunch; the heavens vibrate, hell shudders, the earth sighs. A birth, a death, a life lived staring both in the face, accepting that that is how it must be. A relief.

Monday, June 11, 2012


We can't help but get lost in the things we feel, brought on by some external stimulus, getting into our bloodstream, raking its claws against our heart, leaving us to bleed out from the inside. We start to live for a moment, an action, a scripted line, to satisfy the interest, poisonous and fetid, which festered within our chests when we were looking the other way. When it comes, our heart breaks, the best kind of pain, tearing us to pieces, but only the pieces of us on the surface, floating to easily be reassembled only to be broken again; we're like the adolescents, addicted to dragging a blade across their skin, because it heals to be cut again, addicted to the feeling, the synecdoche of one pain standing in for another. We're all just minds and bodies, caught in a tide of mutual suffering, brought together by the release of it with our addiction; I, no less than you, and you, not less than them. We're all hiding. We're all running. We're all terrified to face an obvious truth.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Stockholm Syndrome

It's a very tiny flutter, starting somewhere in your navel, the softest brush of wings. Then higher, an insistent flapping on the left side of your chest, in that area you'd always thought was hollow. This, my friend, is what they call "Hope" and you too shall be caught in its web of invisible but unbreakable filaments, till death do you part. But in a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome, you'll fall in love with it, forgive it, pray for it to never leave you. And one day, maybe one day, it will take you by the hand and guide you to where you ought to be. Maybe. And that is what we call hoping.