thoughts

were my brain not a puzzlebox, perhaps I would have grown tired of it's contents, taken them out and held them enough times that they bored me.

would I be motionless, like some perfectly held tension, the early morning surface of the lake before a leaf falls or a fish jumps. 

If I had more time or less, or some idea of how much, would I feel calm? Would I stop turning and reviewing, would I clip along the ridges like a sail boat?

Shame really, this lack of appreciation, dull, no matter how the sun shines or sweet voices or the soft beds or the salt or the lemon or the sea. 

gallery visit

the projector sound rattles and it sounds cold and warm.

the sound makes me feel comfortable, but sad 

 beginnings and endings, all now the past, here in the present 

beamed onto something. 

fragments hanging, a portal raining against the wall 

the sound makes me feel calm, these things are as they are

what they are not they cannot be 

I look for a place to lean, feel the wall against my spine

on and on and on

Sometimes in the tangle of vines I think I'll finally be lost.
It's a relief to be honest, to be tangled beyond further movement.
Sometimes, I guess I almost want to be caught in a net.
You know that moment when someone's head hit's a wall in a film.
And the scene changes, and there is a palpable sense of finality, of release.
fuck, I don't know. Some Times. i just want to move on.
Even if I can't be included in what follows.

drunk listening to emo, slipping into my middle age

Hate is governed
and blessed
less and less
sycophants
panting with
watery eyes
I despise
nothing and everything
I have sinister memories
 I remember
I'd kill to forget
 oh
or I'd kill to remember
anything
once or again
or again
or again
friends of friends
that I find
far to boring to pretend
which is how I find myself
time and again
sycophant
over and over
under everything
every skin
anything
new years eve
years ago
memories on bridges
some how more poignant
with all that water
flowing side to side
like queasy swaying
maybe i'm pretending
like I know
look me up and down
I don't have a clue
keep pretending
until tiredness hunts me down
cornered and under and under and down

.

Perhaps this was always the point in the horizon that we were headed for
the lost land pushed through like a pin prick in our collective consciousness
I've suffered with deja vu my entire life, maybe
I'd hoped to reach a point where it made sense, that, or anything

Skin is a neutral smell, holding a rock that fills my palm, standing in the rain
sensations distinct from the slough of sadness
steady me against and rising anguish,
relieve the mundane burden of adulthood.

willing

These are just memories
nothing new but dirt
and that's just recycled
blood rust and hurt

The plants growing ragged,
rugged and raw
tendrils out seeking
the light from Gods maw

The rocks have no ability
to stick to the shore
not that they want to
they don't want any more
but they did when they were animals,
flowers and trees
now they are blissfully unaware
of hurt and disease
of impending apocalypse
of hunger and fleas

I'm just forming memories
like scales on my back
like scales in a kettle
some memories stack

but some things just won't settle
and my spine starts to creak
and some of these memories
make me not want to speak

there's light at the summit
a blistering heat
God yawns through his fingers
the morning is sweet

but I wish I could stop eating,
stop yearning to live
If I were a bit more discerning
I'd cease to exist

on a rock

I've been trying
 to raise the dead
to lift my head
from my knees

I've been trying
 to cut my hair
with my hands
but then I freeze

Like a lizard playing dead
with the scissors at my head
just curled in my bed
almost as hollow as when I look into the sea

Which is the part,
Shelf it I guess,
I'll remember it later,
walk at a good pace.

arms in coat pockets,
holding in the sides,
and every now and then,
make sure
the headphone cable is tucked away.
adjust hat.

Look at giant attractive woman made of vinyl sticker,
don't stare, people in cars see you staring,
People in cars, passing on foot, riding past eyes forward on bicycles wearing those weird wrap around glasses... all of those fucks. You are the single focal point of their vision and thought for the entirety of your time in their vicinity. In fact, once you have minced off into the middle distance, they disappear, like conjured birds that are no longer entertaining. puff.

head hurts,
feeling guilt,
feeling lonely,
solipsist anxiety.
call someone,
show you that you are real.
but what about the people that you used to call?
to affirm your benevolence and relevance. to make you feel good and bad and warm and sick.
the ones that you aren't really supposed to call anymore? those fucks. If they have been spirited away, into the great tide of irrelevant infinity, the great beating mass of love and plastic bag anxiety and prioritising holidays and shitting and clapping in false appreciation and breathing too loud and social media account deletion and reactivation and emails to strangers back and forth and back and forth.. If they are there, in that no place, not nearly near, well what then? where does that leave you? what if the next number you dial, as you trickle down through your super premium contacts of best friends and parents and people who also really get that thing that you get so fucking much... what if they disappear in to the many beating hearts of society. what if for all of your pulling them to turn by the shoulder you are only greeted by more backs. I mean, you might as well peel the giant woman from the tanning salon and take it home.

16/02/17

Box up that bullshit.
wrap it up in cellophane.
sell it in a magazine on a plane.
Ask the attendants to litter sentences with that products name.
Sit back, push the set back into the knees of your rival
look out with perfect perspective, so the window and your drink and the window and your drink and the window are set into the horizon. Fresh to death.




somewhere over the clouds, out past the past and round into the future, looking through the window on the starboard side, boring into the back of your head. The wet ice doesn't taste of whisky any more.

15/02/17 or near enough.

Helicopter clicks away, over the flat top building,
there is more life in the smoke from your fag
fuck you and your cigarette. The day is bright.
bright and clean and dusty, sharper lights and sounds
pointlessly clear acoustics.
 there is more life in the smoke.
fuck you and your cigarette.
I feel like I am dipping in and out of wifi range,
playing that game on Google
with the dinosaur
              jumping over the cactuses,
and then writing a long Facebook message
and then it won't send,
and then I'm jumping over cactuses.

to think it could all be torn up in an instant

The bordering might not hold
I don't understand how to format a document
what if the line ran on
 unbeknownst to me in my blind ramblings
so that most of the meaning lay there off to the right
somewhere missing the concrete certainty of the block text
where everything is neat and comprehensible
oh what a surprising flounce of behaviour

it is a stupid paranoia
to worry about a tangent
an arc dying out in the dark
like a firework
I don't know which type of firework
I don't care

but there
is the real paranoia
what if I follow the wrong decision
what if I get lost in the dark
far past the border
that contains our shared memory
our shared minds
where we agree/ talk
all neat and comprehensible
and tangents are still beautiful

Бездельник

We would have to make an enormous effort
to make our paths intersect even a little
I would have to book a ticket every month
I don't earn enough money...
and the time difference is hard
I can't even keep track of getting enough sleep
let alone know when you would or might want to be sleeping
I used to know when you were eating
I usually ate the same thing
I used to sleep better when you were sleeping
I used to sleep late so that you would get enough sleep
because you really don't sleep all that well in general

this isn't going to work like this.
with you lighting cigarettes without me
falling in love without me seeing it
I can't just hear about it from you
you don't fucking know whats going on

don't

keep talking about the times
before i got here,
before i exist
thinking about that...
its like, i mean
pfft
I'm balling my head up in a fist

friend

I hope you'll give me one more chance,
to picture the storms in glasses.
the wood grain is more than enough,
to feel or to taste.
for a night or a week.
with you beside me
we can be only
    ignore the great uncertainty
that rages beyond the door

life is a landslide

pure imagination, this could be the sunset you wanted pasted on your patience
sweet hallucinations of a fence bent around a world
such much mystery neatly solved and folded by the door
hot intoxication, could make the machinations stand for more
make believe things stand for something
then make you throw up on the floor

what a bore
what a fucking bore

sight is not a silent sense

you are fire in mirrors
behind me and cold to the touch

smudged
 the white noise
a train
rumbling through the quiet night

impossible to reach
not impossible to fracture

by touching only my hand
 alone to my eyes

you are alive in mirrors
you are alive

cower

run little walnut roll like the fire is your tail
spin little lyre bird you have function and a brain
can't you be the trident that pierces falling rain?

you could be a thunder clap that crashes mountains
you could be the thud of a kick drum

sleep like an ostrich
sleep like I imagine an ostrich sleeps

stand taller than that, be straighter and more upright
stand taller than a small man in a bar fight

curl and unfurl
be a boy or a girl

sleep in the belly of a cave
be frightful. behave.
be a raucous riotous grave

you too could be the sleeping wishes
found under the fingernails of the desperate and depraved

meanwhile the boys inside gut fishes and cry out for the waves.

hearts song to the shoulder blade

this is the last time,
could it be at half speed.
baby, hear me out
  could you could at least

slow this down
my heart is tripping to keep time
trigger finger stuck
 lagging behind

there is a white wall against my shoulder
there is chalk dust on my shirt
there is a brick wall caking over
all the beating muscle is too much dirt
this is the last i time.

I have fallen at your feet
I have hell to thank
but not your cold hands to hold
I have the sublime
 ethereal and insubstantial

Do you remember
coming to meet me in work
telling me to finish early
demanding I go straight
without detour

Do you remember
the wind and the rain
like a tide

Calamity will never again get you

You are erudite and important

Bathing in the now infinite water

That spans more than the whole world

When the river ached at its banks

Born to be an ocean, it broke

A word was shouted as it spoke

And it span us like a carousel

all clung tight around its throat 

with our fingers tight as mesh wire

With our guts scrunched up like iron wool

Our nostrils and eyes were dry and chapped

Cracked and bleeding