Wednesday, 24 July 2019
I Need A Phone Call
Not poetry really, just something I just had to get off my chest before I go to bed.
Thank you, you know who you are.
There is that concept that they name 'stranger danger'
and of course, thunder can clap and the unfamiliar
can hurt you. Detectives examining bruises,
police stations in general; I'm blessed to have someone
there to hold me while I fell into a broken leaf.
But danger doesn't always come from storms
or from strangers. Sometimes it comes at the hands
of the familiar, of those who you thought loved you.
It's been a long time since the first stranger.
Even longer since the familiar.
People are good. They are basically good.
People are good. They are basically good.
A phone conversation today meant the world to me.
Reminded me of what happened, what I came out of.
Felt my heart breaking a little- the voice that spoke to me.
It's been over a decade since we knew each other,
and yet I want to hang on to every word,
and I want to speak of things I have so long buried.
Friendship works that way, I am sure of it.
People are good. They are basically good.
i'll never give up on that.
Wednesday, 10 July 2019
Free writing
The hours strike apart like broken plates because
my hands are familiar with the anxieities.
the best intentions of mine get tangled up
and I wonder if cutting myself open would help just to show
what’s true about what I really mean, underneath, inside.
The terror bleeds through without a sound or word.
It’s just a simple unravelling. But this is nothing
compared to the world, the television and sweet sweepers
and being bitten by memories of nightmares with eyes open.
Thousands upon thousands of circles, futility and reflection:
unchangeable. I wonder why he wrote that it’s April
that is he cruellest month when any of them, any month
or cycle of the moon, can be cruel and can be kind or both?
Will we see parts of the universe through a telescope?
Transcend, transport, escape? We can see patterns all over.
We’ll look for stars, even the dead ones staying on to carry time.
I have been betrayed before. Sometimes I ought to be wary of hoping.
At least I remember to breathe and look up at the city blocks
scraping the sky, instead of at my shoes Reason clouds the heart,
or the other way around. At night it’s fragile evocations,
a mixing of memories and hallucinations of winter dawn.
Will it bloom this year? The broken gate from where words flow
without resoution? No answers. No reason, that only there with emotion.
There are answers but all answers are followed by doubts
and different answers to the same questions.
Eventually I will write about the history of fire escapes,
the mysteries of the two hemispheres together and apart
and how they lateralise when the words and visions overtake us.
And the forever-land of forgiveness I'll find without forgetting the path.
The delusion of freedom, and wanting to believe- I couldn’t count
all the things I’d like to believe. Then there’s. wondering what is real.
He says it’s nothing and everything is a hologram.
I don’t know much but I know I’m not hollow, and whether or not
I’m real or any of this is, I’m glad to see what I see as I see it.
In Berlin
In Berlin I hear the art on the brick walls is better
than you might find in a gallery, and everybody recycles
and they even dispense clean needles for the local junkies.
I’d like to go someday. Maybe I’d learn something.
At least it might be worth the weight, carrying names,
toting around the hundreds of faces I’ll never forget
and having to hold on to the ones that failed me,
or the ones that I failed.
than you might find in a gallery, and everybody recycles
and they even dispense clean needles for the local junkies.
I’d like to go someday. Maybe I’d learn something.
At least it might be worth the weight, carrying names,
toting around the hundreds of faces I’ll never forget
and having to hold on to the ones that failed me,
or the ones that I failed.
Two- A Message; Not Today (both using the Gyrin/Burroughs cut up method to some extent, taking the new formations/juxtapositions/images not for the purpose of 'beating the machine' but to express newest felt truths by means of 'cutting up' the past)
I heard you were married and then
left behind and you were afflicted
and I never got to say I’m sorry-
never got to tell you about
the black echo, then floods of light
that all calls to the heart.
Never got to tell you the message
I should have when I did not answer
and pretended to be unafflicted:
you don’t dust it all off like cat hair-
it is the door you leave through.
Eventually, dusting off, the emptiness of eyes,
the time gathering in between the pages of books-
where had they gone, those mornings of smoke
and flower petals and fool’s gold? Why is it now
just choking and tiny wounds, turning white?
I can’t see them. I should be able to, I’ve known enough.
The door is broken. The alarm is ringing.
The wound from the old loneliness is one black hole
pooling my introverted silence into the floor,
a collection of stupid words and jumbled reveries.
Suddenly I’m on an edge and I can’t breathe.
Fear like that burns and folds into the clouds
until the even sky looks wrong. But still, I can’t do it-
I can’t bury every day as though somehow
my hands have become portals to places where
I was another me and I never had nightmares,
and to places where time to today didn’t happen,
not as I saw it through eyes wide and a halo of gold
sometimes, then sometimes through the shadows
carried by the hauntings. I started over once,
when my mind fell apart and when I pulled back the veil,
saw for the first time that I did not exist without it.
I started over but I do hold the memories in my luggage,
making my weak backbone buckle, but hauled up
on genuine shoulders. The kind you can cry and laugh on.
I can breathe now. Something as simple as speaking
has made me brave, and I am not broken, not today.
left behind and you were afflicted
and I never got to say I’m sorry-
never got to tell you about
the black echo, then floods of light
that all calls to the heart.
Never got to tell you the message
I should have when I did not answer
and pretended to be unafflicted:
you don’t dust it all off like cat hair-
it is the door you leave through.
Eventually, dusting off, the emptiness of eyes,
the time gathering in between the pages of books-
where had they gone, those mornings of smoke
and flower petals and fool’s gold? Why is it now
just choking and tiny wounds, turning white?
I can’t see them. I should be able to, I’ve known enough.
The door is broken. The alarm is ringing.
The wound from the old loneliness is one black hole
pooling my introverted silence into the floor,
a collection of stupid words and jumbled reveries.
Suddenly I’m on an edge and I can’t breathe.
Fear like that burns and folds into the clouds
until the even sky looks wrong. But still, I can’t do it-
I can’t bury every day as though somehow
my hands have become portals to places where
I was another me and I never had nightmares,
and to places where time to today didn’t happen,
not as I saw it through eyes wide and a halo of gold
sometimes, then sometimes through the shadows
carried by the hauntings. I started over once,
when my mind fell apart and when I pulled back the veil,
saw for the first time that I did not exist without it.
I started over but I do hold the memories in my luggage,
making my weak backbone buckle, but hauled up
on genuine shoulders. The kind you can cry and laugh on.
I can breathe now. Something as simple as speaking
has made me brave, and I am not broken, not today.
Thursday, 6 June 2019
Six words, a la Hemingway
Things are very hard these days.
Pull pint, double shot, no time.
Twenty minutes to finally breathe again.
Can't make plans so don't look.
A relationship between personality and poetry?
I do prefer poetry to people.
(Really, pretty much to anything else.)
Gonna miss you when you're gone.
A field mouse disturbs the grass.
Climbing over the gap-toothed style.
There are never any happy endings.
There are always some happy endings.
Where did all the poetry go?
Pull pint, double shot, no time.
Twenty minutes to finally breathe again.
Can't make plans so don't look.
A relationship between personality and poetry?
I do prefer poetry to people.
(Really, pretty much to anything else.)
Gonna miss you when you're gone.
A field mouse disturbs the grass.
Climbing over the gap-toothed style.
There are never any happy endings.
There are always some happy endings.
Where did all the poetry go?
Regulars
There are a few things I like when it comes to my work. Overall, it's exhausting and mind-numbing but in some ways it's beneficial to be ground down and anaesthetised. But what I like the most is recognising people who visit regularly and remembering their drink orders.
There's a guy with white hair who looks like a cartoon character and drinks London Pride and works just upstairs from the Foyles where I once worked, and says that he hates it due to a culture of nepotism and 'cronyism' and talked with me about the power of social influence on one slow evening.
There's a wine connoseur who drinks ESB ale in a tankard and tells me about his visits to wine tastings and port tastings and whiskey tastings and God knows what else, and who fiddles with his phone and eventually falls asleep, without fail, over his dish of pork scratchings, but not before inviting me to accompany him to one of his many beverage tastings and I am too busy.
There's a guy who pops in early afternoon and always has the exact change for a pint of Guinness, who then disappears and reimerges with another order, who grabbed me to the backdrop of Save The Last Dance For Me and we danced together while my boss clapped, inebriated as she usually is.
There's an incredibly effeminate customer whose name is David and comes in every day, who drinks chardonnay with three ice cubes and stays for many hours, way past closing time, applying his make up while looking at himself in the mirrored wall.
There's an attractive man with a beard who wears pressed shirts and drinks lager, standing outside with friends or strangers to smoke, and who I would like very much to kiss, and when I let slip to my manager that I thought he was good-looking he made fun of me and told me my boyfriend would be jealous.
There's a woman who has a bespoke drink devised of vodka and a very small amount of orange juice with ice and a straw, who was there the other day at midday and again in the evening until midnight, but who won my affection despite her lingering after the last bell because she gave compliments about me to my boss.
There are two men in creased suits during after-work hours, one of whom looks a lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine and drinks Seafarer's Ale, who always rack up an expensive tab and want receipts so I wonder who is paying.
There is another man in a suit who always attends with a group of other men in suits and who showed me his phone, saying, 'Look who I had lunch with!', to which I replied, 'Nigel Farage!' and went into a brief soliloquy about his politics before kicking myself because I realised that they were actually friends.
There is another man in a suit who used to do what most people would gauge as flirting but has since given up and orders Guinness and asks for huge amount of cashback but mostly stays outside with Heineken Top, who is named after his drink order and because he's so tall he's always at the top, and always asks for a lager with a top, and during my first week I stupidly put soda water in the lager instead of lemonade.
There is a man who always sits in the same spot at the bar and slowly drinks his lager and occasionally asks me for help with the Evening Standard crossword.
There is another man whose voice gives me nightmares and who stands at the entrance to the bar so I keep having to squeeze past him and each time he says, 'Hi Daisy!' in a very strange squeaking voice, which I used to think was a joke but now realise is his real voice.
There is an Italian guy called Marco who had a birthday party the other day and gave me a slice of cake and many hugs and made my heart warm.
There is a couple- a long-haired blonde and man in a blazer- who come in and stay for hours until they are both more than tipsy and they are kissing and cuddling, and she drinks wine and he drinks lager, who had a conversation about becoming boyfriend and girlfriend on official terms, which I picked up from eavesdropping, but which worried me because I could have sworn I saw her with someone else a few weeks ago and when my manager and I were gossiping about them and I mentioned this, he said, 'I like her style.'
There is an attractive close-shaven man who drinks Amstel and sits alone, scribbling in a notebook, and when I asked him what he was focused on told me that he's drawing jellyfish because he is making illustrations for his friend's writing, so I have decided that I would like to be his friend.
There's a guy with white hair who looks like a cartoon character and drinks London Pride and works just upstairs from the Foyles where I once worked, and says that he hates it due to a culture of nepotism and 'cronyism' and talked with me about the power of social influence on one slow evening.
There's a wine connoseur who drinks ESB ale in a tankard and tells me about his visits to wine tastings and port tastings and whiskey tastings and God knows what else, and who fiddles with his phone and eventually falls asleep, without fail, over his dish of pork scratchings, but not before inviting me to accompany him to one of his many beverage tastings and I am too busy.
There's a guy who pops in early afternoon and always has the exact change for a pint of Guinness, who then disappears and reimerges with another order, who grabbed me to the backdrop of Save The Last Dance For Me and we danced together while my boss clapped, inebriated as she usually is.
There's an incredibly effeminate customer whose name is David and comes in every day, who drinks chardonnay with three ice cubes and stays for many hours, way past closing time, applying his make up while looking at himself in the mirrored wall.
There's an attractive man with a beard who wears pressed shirts and drinks lager, standing outside with friends or strangers to smoke, and who I would like very much to kiss, and when I let slip to my manager that I thought he was good-looking he made fun of me and told me my boyfriend would be jealous.
There's a woman who has a bespoke drink devised of vodka and a very small amount of orange juice with ice and a straw, who was there the other day at midday and again in the evening until midnight, but who won my affection despite her lingering after the last bell because she gave compliments about me to my boss.
There are two men in creased suits during after-work hours, one of whom looks a lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine and drinks Seafarer's Ale, who always rack up an expensive tab and want receipts so I wonder who is paying.
There is another man in a suit who always attends with a group of other men in suits and who showed me his phone, saying, 'Look who I had lunch with!', to which I replied, 'Nigel Farage!' and went into a brief soliloquy about his politics before kicking myself because I realised that they were actually friends.
There is another man in a suit who used to do what most people would gauge as flirting but has since given up and orders Guinness and asks for huge amount of cashback but mostly stays outside with Heineken Top, who is named after his drink order and because he's so tall he's always at the top, and always asks for a lager with a top, and during my first week I stupidly put soda water in the lager instead of lemonade.
There is a man who always sits in the same spot at the bar and slowly drinks his lager and occasionally asks me for help with the Evening Standard crossword.
There is another man whose voice gives me nightmares and who stands at the entrance to the bar so I keep having to squeeze past him and each time he says, 'Hi Daisy!' in a very strange squeaking voice, which I used to think was a joke but now realise is his real voice.
There is an Italian guy called Marco who had a birthday party the other day and gave me a slice of cake and many hugs and made my heart warm.
There is a couple- a long-haired blonde and man in a blazer- who come in and stay for hours until they are both more than tipsy and they are kissing and cuddling, and she drinks wine and he drinks lager, who had a conversation about becoming boyfriend and girlfriend on official terms, which I picked up from eavesdropping, but which worried me because I could have sworn I saw her with someone else a few weeks ago and when my manager and I were gossiping about them and I mentioned this, he said, 'I like her style.'
There is an attractive close-shaven man who drinks Amstel and sits alone, scribbling in a notebook, and when I asked him what he was focused on told me that he's drawing jellyfish because he is making illustrations for his friend's writing, so I have decided that I would like to be his friend.
Wednesday, 5 June 2019
May Hill
I’m with you on May Hill where bedsheets smell like tea and milk
I’m with you on May Hill where time stands still as if in a snow globe.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt the names of flowers.
I’m with you on May Hill where I waited for the morning birds.
I’m with you on May Hill where I am sorry I lost my mind.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandfather died in his bed.
I’m with you on May Hill where all the stories began.
I’m with you on May Hill where quiet is heavier than sound but slower.
I’m with you on May Hill where what is thrown away burns in the garden.
I’m with you on May Hill where Christmas is redder and greener.
I’m with you on May Hill where green grow the rushes, oh.
I’m with you on May Hill where I first heard a lullaby.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandmother broke a leg.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt to sing.
I’m with you on May Hill where we go out walking to Ella and back again.
I’m with you on May Hill where time stands still as if in a snow globe.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt the names of flowers.
I’m with you on May Hill where I waited for the morning birds.
I’m with you on May Hill where I am sorry I lost my mind.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandfather died in his bed.
I’m with you on May Hill where all the stories began.
I’m with you on May Hill where quiet is heavier than sound but slower.
I’m with you on May Hill where what is thrown away burns in the garden.
I’m with you on May Hill where Christmas is redder and greener.
I’m with you on May Hill where green grow the rushes, oh.
I’m with you on May Hill where I first heard a lullaby.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandmother broke a leg.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt to sing.
I’m with you on May Hill where we go out walking to Ella and back again.
Time
Time is an elastic band.
Time is a flat circle.
Time is precious, but truth more precious than time.
Time is item reorganised.
Time is too slow for those who wait.
Time is a human construct.
Time is too swift for those who fear.
Time is a frame for the masterpiece of experience.
Time is too long for those who grieve.
Time is a medicine.
Time is too short for those who rejoice.
Time is not on my side.
Time is the most precious element of human existence.
Time is our afternoons measured out in coffee spoons.
Time is more valuable than money.
Time is the sound of new leaves turning over.
Time is the most undefinable and yet paradoxical of things.
Time is a tapestry that weaves itself again and again.
Time is trying to put a limit on infinity.
Time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.
Time is unkind.
Time is an illusion.
Time is all we have.
Time is the longest distance between two places.
Time is a game played beautifully by children.
Time is all your yesterdays and all your tomorrows.
Time is what we want most, but what we use worst.
Time is all it takes.
Time is taking it all.
Time is catching up to you.
Time is whether you want it to be or not.
Time is treasured, wasted, spent and bought.
Time is a greedy thing.
Time is stolen by punctuality.
Time is a slippery thing.
Time is mostly spent being dead.
Time is there to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
Time is not mine to take.
Time is not mine to give.
Time is in the tide.
Time is just a point of reference.
Time is not going to explain.
Time is clinging to me like cat hair.
Time is without meaning.
Time is the meaning.
Time is mine and it’s worthless.
Time is never on my side.
Time is nothing.
Time is all.
Time is a flat circle.
Time is precious, but truth more precious than time.
Time is item reorganised.
Time is too slow for those who wait.
Time is a human construct.
Time is too swift for those who fear.
Time is a frame for the masterpiece of experience.
Time is too long for those who grieve.
Time is a medicine.
Time is too short for those who rejoice.
Time is not on my side.
Time is the most precious element of human existence.
Time is our afternoons measured out in coffee spoons.
Time is more valuable than money.
Time is the sound of new leaves turning over.
Time is the most undefinable and yet paradoxical of things.
Time is a tapestry that weaves itself again and again.
Time is trying to put a limit on infinity.
Time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.
Time is unkind.
Time is an illusion.
Time is all we have.
Time is the longest distance between two places.
Time is a game played beautifully by children.
Time is all your yesterdays and all your tomorrows.
Time is what we want most, but what we use worst.
Time is all it takes.
Time is taking it all.
Time is catching up to you.
Time is whether you want it to be or not.
Time is treasured, wasted, spent and bought.
Time is a greedy thing.
Time is stolen by punctuality.
Time is a slippery thing.
Time is mostly spent being dead.
Time is there to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
Time is not mine to take.
Time is not mine to give.
Time is in the tide.
Time is just a point of reference.
Time is not going to explain.
Time is clinging to me like cat hair.
Time is without meaning.
Time is the meaning.
Time is mine and it’s worthless.
Time is never on my side.
Time is nothing.
Time is all.
How many?
How many years before the fire? How many years still looking up at the sky at night and seeing nothing but black? How many years of imagining a mirror up there above you, something to gaze into all wide-eyed to see something that looks just like you staring back, to see creatures who have spent all the days in their lives looking up wondering whether someone else is out there? How many minutes spent hoping that maybe we aren't alone at all? How many hours did we dedicate to dreaming up these people, dressing them up in bodies like ours and lives like ours and words like ours, in names that fit comfortably around our tongues and then giving them our hands to shake? How many days did we wait for them to give a reply? How many times did we send out exploratory ships and crews on voyages into the big endless blue, navigating between the stars using a tape measure, looking for some small hint that there are others out there too? How many times will we come back, shaking our heads in disappointment but our eyes glimmering with resolve because we are not giving up yet? How many seconds will we waste away, raking through the galaxies, only to prove that we are not alone out there? Surely we are not alone out there.
Unfinished jigsaw
I am trying to learn over again lessons in love,
to teach myself how to be alone, without being
lost but I have never known how to be beautiful--
and I do not live anywhere but the room where
I sleep is so crammed with empty boxes and
all those empty corners I could build a nest in.
If I had the flesh for it and the energy for it
I could grow wings to pull myself up and then
fight a war with gravity and someday I'd win.
I could grow up if it weren't for a gap in the bed
that I am too small for and the gaps in memory
I am too big for, and for the emptiness of space.
Alone is a state of mind, in and out and between
and it's a place, a strange place I am and I'm not
and I've been here before but back then I didn't
notice the cold.
to teach myself how to be alone, without being
lost but I have never known how to be beautiful--
and I do not live anywhere but the room where
I sleep is so crammed with empty boxes and
all those empty corners I could build a nest in.
If I had the flesh for it and the energy for it
I could grow wings to pull myself up and then
fight a war with gravity and someday I'd win.
I could grow up if it weren't for a gap in the bed
that I am too small for and the gaps in memory
I am too big for, and for the emptiness of space.
Alone is a state of mind, in and out and between
and it's a place, a strange place I am and I'm not
and I've been here before but back then I didn't
notice the cold.
Wednesday, 24 April 2019
Memories in Motion and Finally, Meliorism
There’s a window and the night waltz comes, just a little too drunk,
so there’s nothing much to say but the words of the insomniac,
and secrets that cannot interact. The moon is quiet in the sky,
but like an egg uncracked.
Here is a story, made up inside my head.
Failure and glory, but it’s someone else instead.
Dirt under my fingers from digging in the night.
But beauty lingers, petals falling as I write.
In and out again, he floats as a cloud right by, made up of memory.
Hello stranger, may I ask why your greeting
is a just as good a goodbye? And your words of love
as concrete as the sky.
Here is another tale. I think this one may be true.
You were fractured on the inside and I took care of you.
I know those were your secrets and those I’ll always keep.
I know there will be sometime you’ll visit me in sleep.
So I’ve gathered the remnants of your stay,
thought of destroying them by May.
But no matter why you proved unkind,
you know the inside and out of my mind,
and I’d never give a moment or memory away, for I love blind.
so there’s nothing much to say but the words of the insomniac,
and secrets that cannot interact. The moon is quiet in the sky,
but like an egg uncracked.
Here is a story, made up inside my head.
Failure and glory, but it’s someone else instead.
Dirt under my fingers from digging in the night.
But beauty lingers, petals falling as I write.
In and out again, he floats as a cloud right by, made up of memory.
Hello stranger, may I ask why your greeting
is a just as good a goodbye? And your words of love
as concrete as the sky.
Here is another tale. I think this one may be true.
You were fractured on the inside and I took care of you.
I know those were your secrets and those I’ll always keep.
I know there will be sometime you’ll visit me in sleep.
So I’ve gathered the remnants of your stay,
thought of destroying them by May.
But no matter why you proved unkind,
you know the inside and out of my mind,
and I’d never give a moment or memory away, for I love blind.
Don't Think Twice about Love Letters
Love letters are the kinds of things I can only write at night. Hello moon, how do you like these lines? Insomniac sentences who always wear muddy hems, refuse to reveal more than absolutely necessary. And only what’s necessary counts. When I write them down, I want them dirty. Gritty. I want my recipient to find dirt under fingernails after reading. Maybe some behind the ear. Tongue coated in saliva. Do you need a bath, love? Your skin’s looking a little grimy. My love letters aren’t fluent in softness, sweetness, regret. They’ve a bitter edge, tartness. They only lift their dresses when they shouldn’t, are only addressed to who they can’t have. What, moon? Love and her letters aren’t always as pure as you and your Cheshire grin.
Monday, 22 April 2019
Meaning in Life Questionnaire Results
Conducted at Penn State University, I took this psychometric test. These were the results considering my Presence score was 21 and my Search score was 29:
If you scored below 24 on Presence and also above 24 on Search, you probably do not feel your life has a valued meaning and purpose, and you are actively searching for something or someone that will give your life meaning or purpose. You are probably not always satisfied with your life. You may not experience emotions like love and joy that often. You may occasionally, or even often, feel anxious, nervous, or sad and depressed. You are probably questioning the role of religion in your life, and may be working hard to figure out whether there is a God, what life on Earth is really about, and which, if any, religion is right for you. People who know you would probably describe you as liking to play things by ear, or “go with the flow” when it comes to plans, occasionally worried, and not particularly socially active.
Little stories
All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don’t know why, but I do know that the universe never began. Make no mistake, I only achieve contentment and simplicity with enormous effort.
Reality prior to language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded the possession of silence.
Where does music go when it is not playing? - she asked herself. And, disarmed, she would answer: May they will make a harp out of my nerves when I die.
Reality prior to language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded the possession of silence.
Where does music go when it is not playing? - she asked herself. And, disarmed, she would answer: May they will make a harp out of my nerves when I die.
They often talk about falling, not floating or flying but falling. Falling up, falling down, falling all around like wishes or kisses or ash. What goes up, must come down. She falls over her own feet. He falls off rooftops for her and she waits at the bottom. She falls off faithfully for him but doesn’t always find him where she lands, if she does at all. Is this love?- she asks or herself- or self-destruction like the white-coats say, or hope, or blindness, or admiration? Maybe even madness. To face the possibility of falling everyday and always climbing up up up.
Tuesday, 16 April 2019
“Every window in Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.”
The story of a girl with the same diagnosis as me- BPD- played by Winona Ryder who is manipulated by a sociopath played by Angelina. Brilliant. Watch it.
Some time
Some hours, then, perhaps days, your bones were only my luggage.
I carried them and would have continued carrying them to the end of Forever-land.
How long would it have taken for your will to burn out, turning my truths to lies=
Museums of tendons, ligaments, joints, bruised shoulders and a bag of fool’s gold.
We saw countless midnights but here comes another, the only one since
Before I can remember that the keyboard hasn’t been bearing it’s gap-toothed grin
In the shadows between one black hole and another. I wish now that the water
We had let take us downstream was fresh, not a wishing well of whisky.
A snow-globe storm of portals to other cyclical natures of our affections-
How we afflicted ourselves. I used to think cutting myself open to watch
Red petals bloom in the sink was my worst affliction. Or disappearing, day by day,
Suicide in slow motion. How silly to think that it was always my failure to
Accurately weighing the inequality sitting right in front of me. Once it’s too late,
Though, arguments go to dust. Internal, introverted silently bleeding,
and eventually, eventually dusting off and healing.
“You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.”
I carried them and would have continued carrying them to the end of Forever-land.
How long would it have taken for your will to burn out, turning my truths to lies=
Museums of tendons, ligaments, joints, bruised shoulders and a bag of fool’s gold.
We saw countless midnights but here comes another, the only one since
Before I can remember that the keyboard hasn’t been bearing it’s gap-toothed grin
In the shadows between one black hole and another. I wish now that the water
We had let take us downstream was fresh, not a wishing well of whisky.
A snow-globe storm of portals to other cyclical natures of our affections-
How we afflicted ourselves. I used to think cutting myself open to watch
Red petals bloom in the sink was my worst affliction. Or disappearing, day by day,
Suicide in slow motion. How silly to think that it was always my failure to
Accurately weighing the inequality sitting right in front of me. Once it’s too late,
Though, arguments go to dust. Internal, introverted silently bleeding,
and eventually, eventually dusting off and healing.
“You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.”
Wednesday, 10 April 2019
Dear Higher Power
Dear Higher Power, Dear Higher Consciouness,
Please, make me useful? Make me unhurtful?
Turn me into a bare white wall so that I may be
vigilant and harmless, so that someone, someday,
may punch a hole right through the middle of me.
I dream up cities on top of cities on top of cities.
I invent mercies and miracles and monsters
and in my mind, everyone has good intentions,
perhaps just poor execution. I'm still trying
to invent a word that means: I will be better,
I will love better, I will prove myself better
next time. If there is a next time.
The future wants to kiss you on the lips.
The future wants to kill you in your sleep.
Everything that exists on this earth
is in equal measures both good and bad
depending on how brightly the light shines
or the angle at which we are tilting our heads.
Please, make me useful? Make me unhurtful?
Turn me into a bare white wall so that I may be
vigilant and harmless, so that someone, someday,
may punch a hole right through the middle of me.
I dream up cities on top of cities on top of cities.
I invent mercies and miracles and monsters
and in my mind, everyone has good intentions,
perhaps just poor execution. I'm still trying
to invent a word that means: I will be better,
I will love better, I will prove myself better
next time. If there is a next time.
The future wants to kiss you on the lips.
The future wants to kill you in your sleep.
Everything that exists on this earth
is in equal measures both good and bad
depending on how brightly the light shines
or the angle at which we are tilting our heads.
Inspired by The Bard
These violent delights will have a violent end
For now is the winter that we contend.
With fire and powder, explosions resume
Which, when we kiss we will consume.
To die, to sleep, perchance to have dreams.
The stars shine darkly, shedding their beams.
In malignancy of fate, what dreams may come?
Slings and arrows and a coiled mortal thrum.
I cast a plague on both your homes
When the summer’s day counted my bones.
My conscience made me afraid to speak.
Not wise, nor slow, just stumbling and weak.
It must be ancient grudges, a new mutiny.
The way the stars cross with dignity.
Just the same, please alter me no more.
I have one foot in the sea and one on shore.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Nothing is the love and all is the fear
That will strike once wound, the watch of wit.
This new world has such brave people in it.
Don’t know what we are, just what we may be.
Taking arms against the troubles of the sea.
Yet it is on this stuff that we build our dreams.
The good faces are the deadliest, it seems.
I’m a witty fool and I’m a foolish wit.
Some become mad, some are born into it.
Whatever piece of work is man?
We defy the stars whenever we can.
In forty thousands came all the brothers.
Though God gave me a face, I made up others.
Light will break from yonder window tomorrow.
Until then, goodbye is such sweet sorrow.
Beware the leader banging his war drums.
Something wicked this way comes.
This above all- just to yourself, be true
And doubt the stars are fire, not that I love you.
For now is the winter that we contend.
With fire and powder, explosions resume
Which, when we kiss we will consume.
To die, to sleep, perchance to have dreams.
The stars shine darkly, shedding their beams.
In malignancy of fate, what dreams may come?
Slings and arrows and a coiled mortal thrum.
I cast a plague on both your homes
When the summer’s day counted my bones.
My conscience made me afraid to speak.
Not wise, nor slow, just stumbling and weak.
It must be ancient grudges, a new mutiny.
The way the stars cross with dignity.
Just the same, please alter me no more.
I have one foot in the sea and one on shore.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Nothing is the love and all is the fear
That will strike once wound, the watch of wit.
This new world has such brave people in it.
Don’t know what we are, just what we may be.
Taking arms against the troubles of the sea.
Yet it is on this stuff that we build our dreams.
The good faces are the deadliest, it seems.
I’m a witty fool and I’m a foolish wit.
Some become mad, some are born into it.
Whatever piece of work is man?
We defy the stars whenever we can.
In forty thousands came all the brothers.
Though God gave me a face, I made up others.
Light will break from yonder window tomorrow.
Until then, goodbye is such sweet sorrow.
Beware the leader banging his war drums.
Something wicked this way comes.
This above all- just to yourself, be true
And doubt the stars are fire, not that I love you.
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