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.