there.

you are there. 

here, I sleep through days & dread night.

I finally saw city in light.

volcanic rock coats pale sky, bricks, bread and a baron.

isolation, the black block screams.

1660, dark ale & cold meat.

the city breeds life, 

hollow to me.

he's 15, he spits, he holds his member.

he's 18, an avid, angry drummer.

he's 25, the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

wink, nudge, nod, nude.

he's glowing, he breeds,

hollow to me.

distraction, distraction, distraction

a life.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, you're awake now"

"You'd left, left me, left our city. You took a train to Tokyo"

"I don't plan to go, haven't thought much about Tokyo.  Haven't thought much about anyone, anywhere, for that matter"

"Oh"

I am empty. I am listless.

an emphatic denial.

You'll heal, 

They'll be no need for me to lick your wounds.  

They'll be no need for me to dream a life.

The equivalent to fools gold.

and, left the fool,

I'd wait for you in every city.

You'll never show, You'll never shine.

You'll find another to collect the goods I waited years to savour.

Languid in my lowliness.

I am empty. I am listless.

let go.

developing the best ways to avoid confronting anything; sentimental, 

imagining myself small & insignificant, 

each word that leaves my lips just a test for the next, 

inaudible, no sound corresponding with another.

I cease to speak anything worthy.

palms at heart, I sit

in front of all the plants that will soon replace my presence,

except in bed, where their soil would stain the sheets.

I feel like I own nothing,

Lately, not even novel wit.

or a faultless way to let go. 

today.

life discourages me from finding the purpose of existing.

typical.

Vowing to wake up early every day from last-week-forward.  Assuming, that waking up early could also be another way of stating the return of insomnia.
Awake, stealing expensive toiletries, making sure to exfoliate.  The mice will keep company as Fitzgerald gleams the romanticized French Riviera, mockingly. 
The plot line of my sad evening.


He beams murder victim as the perpetrator holds him down gently and begs,
C L O S E  Y O U R  E Y E S.
Hitchcock's created a headache.


He's persistent and persists to hyperventilate, overreact, dehumanize, over-analyze.
Tense as a taut balloon, suffocating with helium, 
all his body's blood's in his cheeks.


We're screaming. The resonance of the collective WE.
We're toast. He sleeps to the soft hum of a dehumidifier,
exhausted from the fight he fight with himself, alone.
He's got too much to hide, 
& I can't seem to find, him, anymore.


liberated, soon enough, none-the-less
but still, I've yet to learn to sleep 
with or without, the mice.

hibernating.

slacking.
and it's already next month.


I've been trying to come up with a a new subject to focus on that does not consist of narcissism, feminist philosophy, smoking myself silly, any place in the United Kingdom, learning spanish, exploring text and leaving my lover.


I must quit sleeping in until 1:00 p.m and being a jealous, raging cunt to my Boyfriend.
waking from wanderlust at cash-out to find myself repaeting the same three phrases over and over.
direction, direction.
trying to learn what it's like to love the life you've got.


he's in because he's your best friend.
he's in because he's your blood.
and I'm left, stark & searching, because I'm the basis for the beginnings stages 
of the creation 
of a stupid broad.

monolith.

This isn't a specific space, a particular place, an exact time.

It's the abyss that fills this indistinguishable cavity.

lackluster.

the lament can hardly be characterized as a cause

or as, causing,

the constant disillusionment

of the colour of the walls,

or the transaction of salutations.

the mechanical ploy of love.

the automated existence can be a cogent argument

for what, are, actual desires.

and what is,

actually, existing.

the meticulous procedure,

of the lid opening to expose the iris

is laborious enough

to make one give up.

the persistence.
the quest to fill the abyss, the cavity

with something, one could assume, 

is more then irresolute gesture,
in whichever direction.

ONE of the SAME.

"please?"

"well, of course, ideally,

I'd like to"

hitting an all time low.

self educating, self medicating.
trying to teach myself to design, from a designers perspective.
in other words, his.
he's a vision, he's a talent.
he's a depressive.
too much David Bowie on vinyl,
too much howling at the moon.
break the bottle
& rye besmears the hardwood.
then,
I'm too tired to fuck
& feel.
The thick fur coats my lungs
christ, I think this place is killing us.
why should lovers compete with such divergent ideals?
I'm inspired.  My abhor is driving me to write,
to read,
to leave.
I've listen to Ashes to Ashes 9 times this morning.


Time and again I tell myself
I'll stay clean tonight
But the little green wheels are following me
Oh no, not again
I'm stuck with a valuable friend
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too"
One flash of light but no smoking pistol

I never done good things
I never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue, woh-o-oh
Want an axe to break the ice
Wanna come down right now

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky
We know Major Tom's a junkie
Strung out in heaven's high
Hitting an all-time low

the snot.
I could never imagine ignoring the drip from your nostrils, coating your lips in a warm film of mucus.
the terror, the tin cans you bend.
the collection of walls you've shoved your head through.
the blood.
the indifference, the confusion.
the cats purring at your bedside.
the fur, the hair.
the unrequited itch.
the warm glow of 5:00 am on fake glass in your friends home.
the awake.
the sex I pretend not to feel.
coming in the sheets, washing the sheets, sleeping in the sheets, weeping in the sheets.
the stares I get for drinking J.D. and coffee with only a book for company.
the warmth I feel in empty, the warmth I feel in alone.
the girl at the table beside me with the awful hair and the awful boyfriend.
the pitty.
the sadness,
the sadness, my brother, my friends,
the sadness is lingering.
the unshaved legs.
the busted teeth.
the vacation.
the city.
"this city, is eating me, alive"
he screams.
and all I can do is watch.

you were my god, in high school.

galvanize.

scrimmage

'I can only feel the blood in my veins when I'm drinking, and the air in my lungs when it's below freezing'

Typical, as the lonely hearted, extraverted, twenty something, lost-cause, could cry, simply to explain herself.  

All this information she's been trying to digest, obtained from the daily bread she's pretending to feed on, is just there to sop up the wine she'll drink at night.

If she could reference a film she'd watched, made in the early 40's, innovative for it's style, directed by Hitchcock, then she'd be set, without education.

lack of focus on the New York Times Headlines, reading every other sentence in every other article to highlight interest, except she won't retain blatant connotation.

she'll exist in coffee hubs and solid black leather boots through the winter, as though she were you, or her, or even the girl of his dreams.

she isn't sexy. but she'll devour all the sexual implication you toss in her direction.

as cold as her heart seems, she'll rock your cradle to sleep.

then wonder, ponder, how her brain could possibly retain, any additional information,

when all she worries about is how she'll sleep.

Although all can be accomplished in a day, all can be desired in a week,

she can't pick a year to be satisfied with what's current, existing.

 She'll pretend to suffer, pretending, she knows what life could offer,

even, when, this could be,  just fine.

hash key

we'd lay there for hours, and december would roll on by.

after months of the dreaded overhaul, the psychoanalysis,

my co worker deems me as "bipolar"

I drift off, yet again, in a strangers bed, living vicariously through someone I've never even met.

How does one afford equipment, space and sound like this?

This month is more like the movies then anything, to me.

I'm sitting back, attempting to relax, letting the dialogue reign.

he sleeps, soundly.

from open concept kitchen walls to wood shafts and the, on site, laundry.

the million dollar mixer.

this place is a prison.

stay still.

Removing the mug from my lips, I think about how delightful it would look to have a stain strewn across the cylinders side.

I write "Purchase Lipstick " in my agenda, knowing I will not buy it otherwise.

Or, at all, really.

Lipstick, has always seemed a hassle to me.  I would never want my mark brightly pasted on the cheek of the man I slept beside the previous night. Nor, would I want it smudged across my incredibly large smile.

Oddly enough, I continue to contemplate the thought of me with cherry lips, on a daily basis.

As if, there is nothing else to think about.

So, I jot it down, while staring out the window at this gloomy December, two a.m, 

the rain patting my decision on the back.

Then, the faintest sound of a fire engine is drown out by incessant screams from howling woman.

Will I be too painted with a coat of red disguising my otherwise pale pout?

I think of these whores, barking at the moon, suffocating the loudest sounds of the city, with their sloppy seconds mouths covered in caked on colour.

I close the window motionlessly, and the rain has stopped encouraging me.

I feel if I am deliberating a product this closely, I've been awake too long.

Shut the screen, close the critics tight.

I could be reading about London in the Sixties or Unknown species of Iguanas.

I could be, somewhere, very, different.

no one belongs here more then you

waiting for the days thoughtless, tactless ideologies to drain 

along with my dead hairs & that which i shave,

starving for an extra minute under water,

to physically rinse the film that outside 

has left upon my skin.

drowning in the street filled with heavy heads, hearts and bad,

bodies that brawl, contend, & speak with discretion

I am only at home, under the shower head

where warmth is a lover and everything just appears 

prettier

for only, about, fifteen minutes.

the razor-blade-way is far too cliche so I towel dry,

usually.

people are strange.

otherwordly, abnormal, eldritch, unusual, peculiar, odd, puzzling, outlandish, zany, offbeat, unconventional, different, bizarre, anomalous. 

i like you.

stranger than loving the strangest of the strange.

decay.

                    

Miny molecules fell light like lightening from her cupped hands, only, I noticed them and without thinking, began to ask questions.

Her, the stranger, held her withered skin out to show him, and I, We, continued to eat our ramen and edamame with slight disdain. Then, she parted her lips, and

her guts began to cover the floor with filth. After hours of quiet tidying to keep everything neat, it'd be a mess, yet again.

Her, the stranger, distraught, preformed for us by the making of a bed she would later lie in.

Grizzly Man mumbled at us, majestic and true to a form he was certain he belonged to.  I could not decide which way to place my gaze,

this whole evening had been erie, 

I had an ex alcoholic mad man screaming from a collapsed tent, an ex meth addict holding my hand and a suicidal HER ripping up the floorboards while screeching.

The scene was like finding the feet of a dead body and being thankful you didn't find the face, first.

"why do i dream so often

 of his body when

 his body will decay

 his flesh will be fluorescent grey"

VS

man VS beast
women VS men
predator VS prey
stealth VS sharp
will VS won't
love VS hate




come, home, please.
sweet birdy.
my darling,
i promise, i won't bite.