she holds the knife, that screams at him, there's music playing somewhere.

it was the strangest thing, her song in my ears, one smile at me struck, right between the eyes, and in her dress, and in her dreams, i guess i wanted it all, pressed the compass to her bones, lost beneath her skin, removed her voice from a box, dug up from the years, tried to cut out all the adjectives, ...

if you never raise your sword, they'll cut you down with their teeth, propped up on their tongues, dropped the, cut to the quick, on waiting toes, their words at your throat, lost the hate you'd hoarded, staring at walls, aortas gathering up smoke.

X.

how easy it is, to say you will raise your voice, and never make a sound. it's always... i'm slipping through; i never like the idea of people looking, and the idea of bothering them with my words, is even worse? and i don't why this would be. we're all scared the same.

what are we afraid of? the velocity of their silence? the quickening of their eyes, sockets, judgment. it is hard not to feel trapped in that: you may only submit your noise, to the forest...

i feel great, i feel a little worse.

but we always raise up, when we're worse.

you met me with sleep in my eyes / you were always going to make me tired / sad secrets spark between us / writing lightning to breathe beneath the sheets.

your fingertips, where my floor once held.

we

We were so impossible—so fucking impossible. But we wanted to speak. We wanted to scream. We wanted to feel. We wanted to be.

that's the problem with beauty, it always smashes into you, busts your teeth, perches distantly in your throat, crawling.

i feel strange, like the whole world is rushing through me, my heart is a turnpike, i feel strange, this mug with a rose on it, staring at my feet, i feel so fucking strange.

blue. blue. blue. blue. blue. blue.

i am feeling far away and i know this is not any form of prose, and i meant to be working prose, or else it really does not matter, or is not important, or people can't see how these things could ever be whole, matter. but i am feeling weird and reading extremely loud and incredibly close, and listening to el perro del mar - change of heart (j. rintamäki remix). and the air feels colder, and the rain has defied the sky, it is moving through your house, but only leaving itself on your face. and you are slow.

i was staring at the light bulb, and if you stare at the light bulb for long enough, you can see the light, you can actually see it. like fine hairs, slow pulsation, the light is trying to show that it exists. and just pulling the curtain open, and lying across the bed, and seeing how blue, and slow the world is. it feels like being underwater, through my teeth. and i can sympathise with the dog mat, and i can listen to mum say fuck, and the next song starts, and i still feel underwater.

i am meant to make a phone call, and learn to drive the new car, but i just feel strange.

i am wondering stupid little things. i like when you stand under the porch light at night and just look up, moving so far away. i like reading books, warm and lost in my blankets. i like my socks and my shoes and my hands in the grass. i like when you fall into your smile, tumbling, infinite. i like spilling drinks, shower steam, freckles, falling over, the colours in my head. i like you, but i keep my distance.

hurtling into the night, maniacs of teeth, muddy soles, kids crashing bikes.

a general, malleable concern for others, that allows emotional leeway, and isn't vexed by our own damned pride...

...the gramophone

it is a late sunday, slow. I think I would like to share that I am craning my neck, bent and stooped, staring at the light bulb across the room. from this angle, everything is sloping downwards, maybe a little more silently. no one else could walk into this room—they would be too loud, too tall, too fast. they might enter this space, but find themselves suddenly in the hall, counting all the floorboards, their teeth.

(I really wanted to address the notion a friend put into my thoughts, and here, maybe it kindles the fear. my friend, from the car seat, summer darkness: I would like to see a post you write. And then a translated version, in English.

and I can only say, that this is simply how I have always felt. I know writing is thick with mirrors, and the teenage poets, fucking themselves. but I, am just staring at the wall, and these colours, words that crash, and rooms that fall away, into slowest light. every time I try to explain it, I start to hurt, with this dizziness, and—goddamn—I wish I could paint the thoughts, the voices that take my bones away.

The point, though: I can only feel the way I feel. No games.)

I wanted to share this link, some prose, a conversation, the kind that makes the room bend, makes the light bulb a little slower.

CLICK ME, FOR I AM A LINK! A CONVERSATION!

(Said The Gramophone is one of my favourite little places to drift away with, for prose, and a song. it’s just, pretty and odd.)

tumbling.

no, i do not.

the pooling of

I am feeling better, but it is that much better, just to be here in the night. I had my feet in the pool, smiling at the light swimming. feeling inspired, and I can feel the steam still on my toes, the cold tiles, the song in my ears, and I swear, the water knows.

our flood

"And the world will flood your senses."

Ian William L.

everyone

can you feel this?

when you stand before this kind of night, and it just radiates, the air so thick with steam, the wet footprints splashed across tiles, the lingering smell of the barbecue.

everyone hangs in the air, in this moment snapping to, photographs in their chairs.

and, you know, you could get nostalgic—these summers used to be yours. but now there are new kids, with chattering teeth, pizza spilled across the floor. their mothers tracing lines across their cheeks, zinc, smiles.

it really is beautiful, stunning, all these words that mean so little, in the end, and you just have to be there, holding your hands together, feeling it all.

and clarity by jimmy eat world is playing, and it is just, this, forever.

your summer is now theirs

if I could not feel, then I wouldn't want to live. I can't care if you think I am too intense—the world is too pretty to stay quiet.

I think I would like a boy who spends his days in book stores, or a friend who smiles really big, like a kindness.

I am permanently ingrained in strangeness, dripping book pages, mix tapes, night colours.

wrap my hands/hands up, Night!

but loneliness will always try to surround you, blotting out the exits, just you, and the hungry room. we are so very connected, wires where your hours were, and nothing at all. you work your eyes, and your imagination never blinks: they are so fucking happy. I will never belong. I am crawling.

and you play the game, balling up your hands, refuse that last fucking card, the one that just sunk you.

but how do I get out of this room?

because you look around, at the windows tightly wound, doors are so many months away, and the only light source is them (you used to call them the empty armies, biting on your cheek.) your feet pressed up against the back of the desk, looking out for monsters at the corners of your eyes—you will not escape with your body.

okay, I have: an empty glass, a library full of songs (these playlists are your friends), and the ability to make hope. sure, it is a goal, a mission, a list on notepaper, somewhere in this night. the first step: move your body, move your mind. though you cannot escape the room, with its evil eyes, you can certainly move within.

sometimes you would at least have your cat, because they never leave you alone. and with your cat, and a cup of apple juice (I think a cup of apple juice is nicer than a glass), you are inclined to think the world is a little more brilliant, the smallest crack more.

(but, see, dangerous interludes—people can either save us from ourselves, or jam us back into our box of limbs. we were so close to safety, but now you're scrubbing out the clean worlds of my list.)

this is where you have to fight really quite hard, and it is terrible, but, transfixed, you're just a wasted moth. if you are looking for hope, look away—see all the things crooked in the darkness, recall those happinesses. though you stare at horror, in wrongdoing, you have music—always—music to sear the night, unravel the windows, drag the door into this day.

(my current weapon, armed, is who watches the watchmen? by the prize fighter inferno.)

it is the way you just smile, awkwardly, tumbling outwards, for each time you fought the night, you bore the scar. and when the songs play, the words snare what you hold deep. and when the night rises up, the notes ignite, the colours burst, and this battle calls faster breathing.

what makes us different—our whole unseen world. we fell, scattered, but on the mischief of high winds, we are found, so slowly, we are safe.

firework

i'm crawling again, in violence. i'm dripping all this, the thickness of hands. i'm chasing necklines, pulling at skin, stripped down to cold tile. regurgitating a song, bleeding your name, thrashing about in book pages, biting my breath. accelerating the heat, faster knuckles, push my skull right through the wall. i am in violence, i am wrong, i am hateful, cruel, seething wracking horror. best to get the fuck away, before i turn this into something beautiful.

it's the night! everyone knows it is the night, fucking trapping us. and he's busy exploding, and she won't sleep, and you just want to be found.

keep your eyes to the sky, your heart full of distractions.

alliteration is worth living for.

sunlight maniac

and I imagine again, whenever there is sunlight, my face pressed to the glass, finger tips never reaching, a perpetual ghost over a clean river. a sunlight maniac, removing my wounds, swimming in the pavement, warming my hands on a smile. and I can feel it, the sun, its colour and the wind, soft trees going on forever. I am crawling up a hill, with my friends, taking off my clothes, holding my palms against my soles, pressed to the soil. we are warm, and we are young, with the music in our ears, and our going on forever.

we can fight it off/axs

it is a long list of names I will never meet, a single picture, I could never face in the dark, and I start to crawl alone. while you can feel the chemicals building up momentum, it is always, vague, blurry. arms move in slower axs, thoughts ragged behind your body. I record this: it is here.

I always play coy, but it is not a game, just—it really is an aversion, to name it like the night, the names of moons—Depression, or.

but you can move. you can escape. you can get up. you can pour that glass of milk.

Recall their faces, how they fumbled in the Halloween light, just a smile. And you were stupid, standing in the rain in your socks, showing your ugliest look to the camera: just a smile, completely unguarded.

I write this, and try to stay in this tense, not slip behind the haze of broken angles: you are not alone.

a trophy for your hate, tattered champion in your coffee cup.

so bat your tail and lash your eyes, i won't be the giving kind this time.

seed/nothing

I will be your bravest seed.

And it is all true: if i took one thing, chopped it up, chopped it out, what could I be? Could I write these things? Could I help them see? Would the sunsets destroy me? Would you be a ghost? Would you be mine?

It all just is, even when you are staring at the wall.

the world owes you no kindness, just the violence of its colour.

"in every speck of dust, in every universe, when you feel most alone, you will not be alone."

1, 2, 3, 4

explodist

It gets faster and faster, the thoughts and the heat. It is always the same—always going to be the same. I stare at them, and they don't stare back. I am kind with broken limbs, ingest the little scrap, and still remain. How the fuck are we expected to maintain to the fucking rules of this fucking world, when we are not them? And I cannot. I can't do job hunting. I can't escape patterns. I can't be very alone.

And it is never enough to give in, because this brain has to be bent enough to fight—resist—survive. I should celebrate cheap, little survival.

Maybe you are not looking in the right places. Maybe you should stop looking.

But then the right song plays, and I can come back: the only living boy in new york, by simon and garfunkel.

press record

So this is not sharing. This is a journal scrap. I have to record something, just so that I exist, or I stare on forever. But I keep my elbows close, and I can hear another fight brewing. And I see you sometimes, but I don't say hello.

I am trying to get Adam to play on my computer, because I really would like to watch it, but it never does. then I stare at pages from The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, press my face into the paper.

I should have gone to gym today. I should have, but I didn't. And so nothing anchors me—just this hatred, this scrap loneliness.

all of this love becomes violence.

venom

I hold so so much hate, that I want to undo your existence, all the little things you do, to cover up miseries. And I want to pluck them, reveal your shriveled corpse, and not bravery. I know it is wrong, but this is my venom.

he sits in the room, tiles and broken things, warm light, sweat in his hair. but he rises, he pulls his sleeves, tightly over knuckles, silently with his teeth. his thoughts are hazy, just his feet pressed against the floor, the warmth in that chill, he can almost see the beach. there are two couches, they just stay, they could be on fire. and he walks a circle around them, just to feel his feet, just to see the room. and he jars his neck and it does not change.

when i go quiet, i get scared of making the first new sound.

but i need to, i need to. i need to make the change. i want to make something so fucking brilliant for you.

‎if you can share one thing, incite one smile, it's worth being the outcast.

asound

when your whole world goes quiet, I will be fumbling with a sound. if you press your heart to the wall, you won't remember how to feel alone. because I have swam in that basement, and I have been killed by the stars, my heart counted by the clock, but I won't stop this time.

though recall the days, you waited here in hell, the sunlight streaming through, that held the scraps of hands, my world trying to find you, to swallow the dial tone or black lines, holding bones to your ears, the rust keeps you quiet, whispering into the closed hands of clocks, the world trying to keep you.

tiny

hide the names and count the dots, the warmth that makes the world go quiet, so sink your elbows into this.

spook from photograph

I wish you would put the camera down, make an ugly mess of me, and keep us with your eyes.

both the moon

when I am calm, I think I will be the moon

I will watch you, his light shining through

when I'm gone, I think I will be the ghost

watching you, leave what i'm bound to.

point of us

Should I love you? Should I hold you down? Should I stick the needle of our record through your eye?

can't always be the champion hurting, sometimes just the witch they're burning.

tore a hole in the calendar starting today
only absent from your blood not the fear.

1147

I am stranded in the darkness, rot strung along my fingertips, tasting bones—stab the light right through me, keep me, but I am lost, I am lost.

I don't know, and maybe you can only save the others, and sometimes you do it to save yourself, and you never will. and maybe I didn't jump in to save you, but just to drown.

don't leave me alone with this night. don't leave me alone.

at some point, you will have to face reality, the world. you will have to hang yourself on another tie, tear open their stomachs, and, smile

you are the same—you are alone—you are not getting better—you are not getting any closer.

the song in your throat, is just a creeping death, the coldest of heat, that records your misery, birds in your eyes, a monument for the corners of eyes.

but you try to keep a consistency, the last defense, the space between, the river of white, the punctuated wounds, the end.

(why don't you protect me?)

I can't even—I can't even—I can't even break into the tense. I can't make it through. I can't make it in. I can't be present.

I am absent from my blood, lost on a string

I want to talk like you, I want to wear those bones.

(breathe accurately.)

my face stretches out to fill my palms. my teeth ache to count the minutes. my throat burns with memories. my elbows will hunt you down. my knees thrash. my dreams swallow the light bulbs. my head just hurts. my heart will tear you apart.

can't, see? have to separate this, try to make it better, to die in. i can't break the rules of misery. the chemicals win, the chemicals win. need help, need safety, need to stop.

you turn me round, and move through beds, trying to find the cold side of my grace, i hang you out, the noose drawn through my face, to end this trial, blindfolded, or faith.

so pretty you ask to see my blood.

shot through black

sometimes even the sunlight cannot save me, and the way out is still hidden. something creeps into my skin, and it looks out, and wants to destroy, everything that defies it. sometimes even the shower cannot wash it away. sometimes even you bend before it, crooked and weak and unknowing. that the heart of all beauty is seething violence. it cannot be dug out, sung out, known out. it is small and it is black, and it waits. and it destroys.

weapons for war.

names go to smoke

I think you need to settle. turning all of your sadness into rage: it's no way to be. stop, be fucking crushed, and work from there.

the water wanted it

It was there, but the water wanted it. So in a shower, I lit the fuse, I burnt the tiles. This was my fuel—you saw the fire. We went cold so soon.

toomucher

This—this energy—can't they fucking feel it. It is electricity in my bones, grinding my teeth, and arching my back, this, jolting, exploding colour of cold smiles, a hammering of fingertips.

(find beauty where you fall, in the piles of mail, their shadow, the warmth in your sleeves.)


Ian William L.

because i write this to you, the ghost in the glow. you wonder the same, hiding your hopes, in the soil to catch you.

lover-fighter-breaker

but for all the silent brawls, I am too hungry for a fight, that I will always swing, and put my heart right through the wall.

the return

so I have to admit: I lost my way in all of this. all my best writing comes from the madnesses that haunt my head, but lately, I have just been...cheap. I am entirely too much violence, too little trade-winds. and though I like everything, I never liked those big speeches, the ones that promise return. I know, because I offer them up, and they are wrong. because I must always remain this way, an explosion of suns, and silence—everything.

I think I am still trying to apologise.

it should not be about me, and it was never supposed to be

I write to you, the ghost in the glow, who wonders the same, in hiding your hopes. I wonder if you know how similar we all are, behind the games, the wounded teeth. but, there is hope—I know it. when you keep falling down, biting your own neck, then you can only recover. grace will mark you, and change will scar you. you will notice some tree, some small bird. you will smile. you will see that people are not sleights of hand—they fold their hands, and come into spark, and loose a light, a brilliant rabbit from your days.

it is just—we recover—we return. if you are falling, you play another song. you find the quiet that the night knows, not its vicious little—here, where I am, this stagnancy

It has been too long, and I return:

you wanted a song, or a boy made of strings, but I am put to trigger, who is only biting bookends, writing this forever, if only there was some time.

wakesand

and when I wake up, I won't even know my room, but strum my wounds with a bleeding tongue, rubbing the hours from my eyes, at this last retrieve the minutes you stole.

blood, smoke

why you keep love like a cancer, offered up when I am trying to quit.

capturekiller

I am staring at the ceiling
without a camera to see
I am writing lines at the party
that swallow pills in lowercase

and, capture killer,
even so fucking pretty
a ghost on the couch
can't you haunt me?

I am stealing looks
through walls
I did not know...
cut your throat, and speak.

Ian William L.

exit wounds

Then we have nothing to worry about. It’s who you are, baby girl. You see the beauty in everything and everyone, no matter where you go. That part of you is never gonna change, and I won’t let it. 

Criminal Minds

reflected broken this.

i remember the taste of bathroom tiles, a sound rang through the glass, but then my reflection chips, casts a stone through, the panes we've known, to mirror these fears we throw, i just fell and shattered this.

hate type.

those with savage hearts think that they rule, but i read in the newspaper, that all of his failings do not make you a greater person.

just once more, once.

when i look around, i see great things. when i lying down on the bathroom floor, i see the blue of the wall, i see constellations in the scars, all swirling around in shitty seas. archers made of paint, they drip down to the tiles.

(she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming.)

the problem is. these things, they are only mine. no one else will know, and when you stare, some things will not share their secret name.

(you're pathetic, rot, wreck. cross your legs, teeter around your knuckles, cry into the headphones. they will never know.)

all these fucking songs, these nights. the little leaps in my chest. the way i drift under the rain. i pull my sleeves up, it makes me feel okay. i sit at the bottom of a bedroom wall and feel it crawl up over me. i'm hoping you'll notice me.

i can't take the world for what it is. it has so little magic when...

you can not expect great things from everything that does not see the stars in your paint.

it's beginning to get to me...

I want something, that's purer than the water, like we were, it's not there now, ineloquence and anger, are all we have, like saturn's rings, an icy loop around me, too hard to hold, lash out first at all the things we don't like, or understand, and it's beginning to get to me, that I know more of the stars and sea, than I do of what's in your head, barely touching in our cold bed, are you beginning to get my point?, they're always fighting with aching joints, it's doing nothing but tire us out, no one knows what this fight's about, the answer phone, the lonely sound of your voice, frozen in time, I only need, the compass that you gave me, to guide me on, and it's beginning to get to me, that I know more of the stars and sea, than I do of what's in your head, barely touching in our cold bed, are you beginning to get get my point?, they're always fighting with aching joints, it's doing nothing but tire us out, no one knows what this fight's about, it's so thrilling but also wrong, don't have to prove that you are so strong, 'cause I can carry you on my back, after our enemies attack, I tried to tell you before I left, but I was screaming under my breath, you are the only thing that makes sense, just ignore all this present tense, we need to feel breathless with love, and not collapsed under its weight, I'm gasping for the air to fill, my lungs with everything I've lost.

night reels

Sometimes you stand in the house, bent and stooped, a glass heavy for your hand, that held the carton, and you drop the glass that shatters to kitchen tiles. You pour the milk, and wait for centipedes. The light bulb clicks, glass hangs, the moths are ravenous, all carpet, hungry wings. a frame of night, fingertips arch, for corners, clockwork. And we do these things even when life is great.

on the language floor

I will be stuttering catastrophes, always counting apostrophes, and if we can keep this in lowercase, just mumble below the stage, quote this from a dream debris, write us in parenthesis.

all the things that may.

fuck all that came before. it's not impossible, you'll see.

memories to be.

there's still sparks we have not seen, the bite of stones to skin your knees.

that bites my skull

I—am—really—feeling—bad—tonight.

Intense darkness is setting in, and I can't see a fucking thing to keep me safe. I can't feel better, for hours now—these hours.

It won't pass. It won't pass. Please make it pass.

I try to remember—try to remember—try to remember. It is more than now, this moment of wounding—it is more.

You have no idea, just to write, even here, this much little safety. I hope you understand—fuck—my brain—it couldn't. But here, it is different, and I can use that.

I need something, to keep me safe—fuck—I keep stumbling.

I let a boy smile too closely, one, who doesn't really care, except that I do. And so I will keep caring, like a star, consuming itself.

And I gave another chance, because I cannot ever turn away, and all he did was pluck away my fire.

this—is—fucking—crying—my—eyes—out.

insect jar

This feels like space between the walls, all missing teeth, seven legs in the insect jar. Just an alien feeling, numbness, the crash after the fix. A lot of my systems are a mess. I need to recover, at least. And I know I will, but I always allow myself just enough damage—six legs, and one writhing.

Still, I would never give a fuck about all these things in the end, if you came close enough—all naked skin, sweat, crazy fucks, a cure and kneecaps.

Forever fearing contact.

It was a blur. It was nice. It was nothing.

But you're beautiful tonight, and the stars are burning bright, and I give this curse to you, like there's nothing else to do, so let the purple sky explode, let it shower us with toads, let the scarlet river flood, let it drown us all in blood, tonight, I guess, I'm human, so thank you, for fighting, and having sex with me.

Fuck the scene, that does not distill your means.

the more fight

I guess it is late, and I think of sleep, but my ears remain. the music hooks, and i stare at my cold feet, the lights that spin. and I guess I am already slipping into tenses. I don't know why I can't speak, or feel, unless it is for someone. I don't want to invoke you tonight. it still feels abusive. you can't turn something like that, into a form or function. so, i guess, it will have to be vague, the more fight.

but i do stare at my feet, through the wood, the dark. I imagine all the unopened mail on my desk. I imagine it at different angles, and with lines all through it, and flashing violently, and putting it in my mouth, just eating it all.

I pause up, my eyes burning through something. I squash my face against the monitor, I breath like the light bulb, slower, here.

I would glue all the coloured plastic of the cd cases, to the ceiling. I would pick up my shoes and throw them at the wall. just to see the sound, catching ghosts that were there.

these things all exist, but only when the rest of the world is not looking. when I was a kid, it was all the same. there was the big tree, the circular garden, the wooden tongues of secrecy, little stones in my knees. this feeling that takes me, it used to speak.

but this was all a noise, prickling through me. and I can focus my thoughts, sleeves pulled up a little more, trying to ignore the knee caps, the rhythm.

(and I push my head up against the monitor once more. the world falls apart safely.)

I want to write about you, even if you knew I was writing about you—you told me to. you are a tag I want to include in this, but I still try to imagine you don't see, not listen to all the violent noise in your eyes. but the world could be better, and I am controlled. I have to stop. I don't like the idea of being read. I have to imagine anyone who ever looked this way, as very far away, or else I freeze up. I push my knuckles right through my tongue, break the tense. that's the secret, and it can't exist here.

I am excited for thursday. it is hopefully something I have waited for, something fucking brilliant, wracked and shitty, shining. I really hope, just for, it to exist. that's all. everything else can just go, and be, and I will be okay.

and i can't stop dying, to get into bed, in a nice way.

I close my eyes, and I imagine more. I see photographs of places, bright mountains. but, vultures, composed of words and bullet holes, spider webs and wet tongues.

(I am staring at the ceiling.)

I like this voice, how it lets. I feel the colour fed by it, and release.

(and we were talking, about the sides of the spark.)

deuxiéme

the earth waiting.

when you're sure, i'll be stone, when you know, won't you carve me from my throne?

weeker

I feel like the girl that los campesinos sing about, the one without focus, a messy blur, trying to finish the chapter, trying to finish the song, writing lyrics down on my knees like I belong. and even, those are just lyrics. and it has been a while, and I can acknowledge that much. but then I have to wrangle all this madness, and try to divine a point, a purpose, an anchoring stone, an angry spark. but, I am lost in the mess, headphones biting into my ears.

I guess it would be safe to say, I am always procrastinating, forgiving myself for these blurs. but how long do you get? but, see, it goes sidewards: I've been busy at work, but I've lost the hunger. I hope for a renewed contract, when I need the broken nose, the door, the four winds.

(my brain dislodged here——wandering.)

I am trying to record a week, and not stumble. but where did clarity go? i'm feeling like a mess, chels, fuck. i know, it's ridiculous once more. so i'm not going to fall down here, i just need to write something coherent, and i can only do that here, it seems. i try to write, but i'm hitting a wall. i want it to move the fucking world, not just house my broken voices.

again, i said from the start, you were my motivation. these letters to you. and my brain would obey me! and remember that! then it would all be easy. i would be anchored, eternal. but it blurs and bends. try to focus. get upset.

feeling lonely again. i never get to say that out loud any more. not to anyone. everyone just laughs at you, for wanting to not be alone. or, you know, keep on waiting. and i can wait. but i want to say...i am lonely. so fucking lonely. and the only people i ever encounter, regard me as this alien. over and over. i know it's old news, so it's stupid to mention. and maybe i can't even say this, if i transfer this over to my archives - hungered eyes, you see. and i hope that never offends you, that the things i write to you: they find my head, and i have to use that... to try to bridge myself to the world. i feel bad for that. but it's not my intention, ever. you are more than a translator. you know that. you are the only colour that keeps me.

but i am feeling lonely, and lost. hospital broke my gym pattern, and now i struggle again to reign my aliens in. get back to gym. wait for my contract at work to expire... two more weeks? either get renewed as full-time, or get a new job... i just need constants. so i don't have to worry that my existence is meaningless.

i am writing this to you. i really fucking am. i swear to sparks of that...

i am lonely because i don't mesh. and i really do try. and i really do not try. because you have to be both these things, don't you? i want to be myself, but i want to try to not be so...

it's so lonely...ugh. why can't i shake that? fuck. why do i ask out loud... sorry. sorry. sorry.

and again, you save me, chelsea.

i was in the hospital. this is not related to an excuse; it just is. food poisoning, and it reminded me. when i was little, all i ever wanted to be was in hospital (or be a turtle.) i should have known the warning signs, way back. you know? walking behind trees, talking to myself, hoping for hospitals.

they are better than lists and likes

don't you just want to be surrounded by people, who smile at you with their sentences, even though you are shy, and even though you've just met?—and they say stupid things and fall down—and the night is measured in plastic cups and buttons on coats—and you are weird and you are warm, and everything shivers for a home—don't you just want that?—I really, really do.

and the stars think...

I am a big love, with no apologies. I absorb the world around me, but can never quite emulate it well enough. I can be intense, and I guess I am a little bold like that, a little scared. I believe that everything you are will count for something one day, when chance meets spark meets fate meets tumbling over. I am kind, and uncool, and especially slow.

hope is the thing

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

press buttons, presser

kind of give up on the fucking world but do not. keep listening to los campesinos! keep reading books about things that are little, and great. stare at ceilings, and go to gym. write about people who are not aliens. cuss in unison, and play mind games until.

defenders

I just have to remember my one colour—be kind.

box of teeth

my head is a mess, staring into glasses of milk, more plastic than—and fingers clenching, and throwing my headphones at the fucking wall. I just pull my sleeves up a little more and try to let go. i really feel like a song, a person, something I really shouldn't go into.

but, I did not write: record this infinite night.

it was, it sparked up, and now has it come to—returned to napalm, writhing, a box of teeth, all fucking menaces.

I no longer hold the sentences to explain, that I wholeheartedly fucking abhor the way people function. I am meant to be the one that is odd, and strange, and creating the wrong and awkward patterns. but I care, and I build invisible kingdoms, from shitty fucking light bulbs and glancing moments. it is everyone else who does not. it's just—bite down, more, more. it's just: I had a good fucking night. it was warm, and we were both aliens. but, it is always the same. when I am not escaping orbit, I try to crawl closer, but it's all just distance.

you—just—return—to—them.

like I am stuck out here on the opposite side of the mirror, licking stamps and wounds.

I can't focus. I'm trying to stay quiet, trying to listen to them, trying to keep the hope there, for a spark, but it won't.

I should give up.

(but I can't.)

I should fucking—

neutral swells.

he scratched at his head, his hair, cracked like bathroom tiles, he could taste them. and all the walls, the blue paint, the low light, all coming down like paper, lines and lines.

the new scraps.

you breathe little anchors into the world, you fuck with my oceans, you smile under the moth light, you crease with your dreams.

tin man of.

other people could see a sunset, hear a song, feel it all moving through them. it came as a smile, or a colour, or the curling of toes, prickling, cannonball. he did not. he only felt texture, lying in bed, pressing the backs of fingernails deep into the pillow, biting his teeth.

wound.

a door opening is a jet plane crashing into the house.

partything

my world is great and alone. it haunts the streets, tasting sidewalks and catching glares, little fires thrown outwards, stars of warning. it pulls its coat up and trips over its ankles, staring into any surface that will stare back. it hungers at the corners, willing the paint from the streetlights, frozen and thawed, a stuttering of ellipsises. and all these great—a book of poisons, clawed madly at the spine of the world. it manages a smile, stolen from the infant with the broken neck, the people falling off their beds. it says hello, all cut up from the tongues of newspapers. it steels elbows against the wall, fumbles at its knees, recites the stains on the floor. it falls through the crowd, a prickled spittle of numbers, gasping for a neck line or a fish bowl, sweating muted apologies. it crashes into the darkest corner of sound, a satellite in the noise, adjusting its eyelids, pushing fingers through eye sockets, creases of hair. it takes a plastic cup, one refined stumble, and pours their world in. it braves a quick take of air, a practiced mumble, and swallows.

hazy

earthquake, pt. II

Let him that would move the world first move himself.

Socrates

messhead

I am going to gym shortly, because lately, that is the only consistent thing i can do. i feel lost, get upset, and go to gym until it all goes numb. it's kind of upsetting but i try to ignore it, by focusing on all the little things that i can see and feel and observe. the sunlight through the slits in the window, the coiled sleep of toes pressed against sock pressed against wood, all comfortable angles.

I think it's always going to be the same. well, it will. I can't rewrite who I am, just scribble more onto it, tacking colours and stars. but then, at the very bottom, when all my little rushes go, I feel like I'm letting down: I'm not writing enough, I'm not writing what I want to write, what I envision this all to be. I have wanted to start the project for so very long, but I always stumble just before the leap. I get so damned anxious, it's near impossible. I was standing up, but then I got knocked down. and i know, more than anyone, to get back up again, but the cycles aren't strong enough yet.

and I get lost in these blurs, here. I can't focus and write——large paragraphs——can't——focus. it's all thrown roughly.

I really do not like feeling like i'm letting down, but even if this is what I feel like I am meant to do, I can't always write. I can't force it—I fucking can't—and that's my strongest belief, not some lax dream. but the world doesn't always understand.

perched eyes

I just want to change something, or say something, that I cannot change or say. so I will put it here, let if fall silently, across my feet, made cold and crooked. I am listening to keane, letting it explode within me, trying to read the book thief, and knowing all I need is sleep. But I don't, and I still keep looking, with fucking perched eyes.

I give you too much worth, even if the jury is divided here, cutting itself in half, a maddening state of limbs.

Sometimes I imagine that they would look my way, or just see, that maybe they could change their path, or change mine, or just add a heavier weight to existence.

...and the world is outside.

he stood in the window, pressed up against the glass, a squashed mess of palms, breath clung heavily, the loudest thing in the room.

maybe.

"i don't wanna sit on the pavement, while you fly, but i will, i will, oh yes, i will, 'cos maybe, in the future, you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back, to me."

-- ingrid michaelson; maybe.

the sound of worlds

So my friend Geoff passed this along to me: a collaborative project of music and spoken word. It was something nice, for such a little morning:

http://www.inbflat.net/

do you know something I don't know?

"I wanted to drink, I wanted to dance, I wanted to love you, I wanted a fucking chance."

-- kid canaveral; good morning.

bruises.

you give me all your bruises, and i think i thrive, these purple little movements.

our night/for now

as doctor who says, Pain is easy to portray, but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and the joy and magnificence of our world... and here, in this infinite night, with no work tomorrow, and having just seen toy story 3, which was really quite beautiful in itself, some small kind of closure that I won't try to overwrite it. but I don't understand the crime there, in saying something was powerful, and beautiful, and just it caught in my bones, and how could I stop it from there.

I am listening to I watched, as you disappeared, rhys marsh and the autumn ghost. It crackles, and swims together, into this night.

I will one day create something great. But, for now, I am creating every single day. And the few people who, feel these, and smile—that's all that matters, for now.

all of the vaults.

you're pretty with a fault, slurring through your kindness, spat in secret, boy of the vaults.

it's hard to move you.

"you're barely getting by, you're never satisfied, open your ears and shut your eyes, it's hard to move you, when you're dead inside, this emptiness in your eyes, can't impress you when you're not alive, why do we even try?"

-- a thorn for every heart; it's hard to move you.

...collision

And then I am some magnet, and my charge is their charge, and we destroy each other, or the spark, or anything.

majorcollider

I want to start my project. I want to contain my anxieties about it, about what people would think, and laugh, and smirk silently. I want to do that. So I am doing something that is going forwards. I want to stop being sad. I want to stop that. I am sad, I guess.

Don't you ever feel like the wrong end of the magnet, that that you are positive, and everyone else is negative. And they are meeting in book stores, and in violence, and in plastic cups. And they all ignite a little spark, and you can feel it all around you. The more you look, the more sparks there are to feel. And for once, you wish everything was still. But that is bad, because how can you hope for happiness, if you deny others theirs. I always struggle with that. I hate myself for that. Because I really do only ever wish you well. But my own wells are all drained.

Too fucking slow. Too warped. Too ragged. They pass, and my fingertips repel them. I couldn't get any closer.

paint stripper.

i think i'm really through with meeting great people. i mean, i am meeting them, and i am wishing i was not. great people carry colours, and those get stuck all around me, and when they leave, i'm emptied once more. but they just don't take their colours back, they strip away my paint. and right now, i'm giving them too much, always too much. they'll reduce me to a couple of pickets. and i can't keep them away, just pickets.

i don't want to accept this silent world. and i don't want to write my noise. i want the whole damn fucking harmony.

not really awake just.

the cat strides out from the coffee cups, the boy with the ceiling all around his ears, the mess of sleep and cutting light.

falling through doors

we only want the mud on our shoes, a vice cut through this stillness of night.

ecstatic beauty

art moon.

that took in too much colour, and ran now dizzy. where are you, mooning chaos? do you come?

sunflowers, flickering

Big question, but, to me, van Gogh is the finest painter of them all, certainly the most popular great painter of all time, the most beloved. His command of colour, was magnificent, he transformed the pain of his tormented life into, ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray, but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstacy and the joy and magnificence of our world, no one had ever done it before, perhaps no one ever will again. To my mind, that strange, wild man, who roamed the fields of Provence, was not only the world's greatest artist, but also, one of the greatest men, who ever lived.

Doctor Who

when love speaks/stumble on eyes

When love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony. 

William Shakespeare

a fire

Some weeks just lack colour, a fire I cannot fake.

This week is one of them. I cannot remember it, to think upon it. So, no movement with the project, and no thoughts, or ideals. They are there somewhere, just below a spark.

23

(this was a letter. but I feel it may brighten a few extra darknesses, I really do hope. but it is for 23, because they are amazing.)

so, you basically gave me a license to romanticize, over the top, all. you may grow to regret that though I choose to believe/hope you will not. and I just watched a grey's anatomy episode, and I am listening to 23, and I just had the strongest fucking urge to write, to let you know, whatever this is, however small, however soon, yeah. I just had to write. like, colours coursing through me, that means I don't have to keep my knees pressed together, because it's okay, and I don't have to pull my sleeves up over my hands, because I am safe, and these actions may be tiny and weird and other people do them and don't understand why that even matters, but yes, to me, they're important. they're my tells. anger is another of my tells. that lets you know I am bursting with feelings for something, big stupid happy feelings. saying absolutely everything, the way I feel, no games: that's another tell. which, puts you on a winning streak.

I just, I wanted to share, because when I am like this, I can write fucking planets into existence, beaches form where I leave my footprints, everything pretty and dark and distant, quiet and understanding in that. because I wanted to use this, and make you a morning, a day, to smile, a smile. My greatest work; just one smile for you, for tomorrow, understanding that every single day is hard. It's a fight. But every single day is also blessed, wracked with the infinite, pained in brilliance. I know that much. I feel these things, big illusive fish. They splash me, and sometimes I drown a little. Or I swim...

You need to help yourself, because there's so much more you deserve, so so so fucking much more. We never let go of our darknesses, because they make us bold in turn. But they can't shackle us forever. So, I'm going to stand on the edge of your darkness, staring into that night sky all 'round you. Except I'm friends with the darkness, I can slip a twenty in it's pocket, make it leave you alone for twenty minutes. Maybe not now, it may be rude to interrupt. But I can.

But, I believe in great things, shitty laughable things, the white in your bones, colours in your head, signs. So, I think, it has to be... 23. Maybe when we're both 23, you could finally see me through the darkness, and meet me there. I could mumble, and you could stumble (I don't like that that rhymes.) We don't have to wait forever.

But, the task at hand, more importantly. I gave the darkness a fiver. And I got this smile. And it's for you, for tomorrow. I hope that it finds you. I gave it to the light, to pass along (but light has a complex, what with everyone on it's wagon and all, and keeps what it finds, sometimes. But I'll put it's light's out if it does -- I think that's the phrase.)

I'm here, I'm now, I'm ready, holding on tight.

the more I look at lightning

are we closer here?

tomorrow I am meeting 23. of course, this was already supposed to have occurred, but not everyone can keep their tiles like that. and, yes, once more, I could not be more limitless. I just wish it were already six o'clock, tomorrow. and I just wish, a spark into existence, remembering names.

I need more words. I need to be less tired. It is frustrating, closed tongues and jars.

the cold rests before

In this quiet afternoon, where we come to stop, and what should we be, but what we see.

I am never really sure. I tend to absorb what comes close. So it is really tough sometimes, to remember, to hold on, to hold out, to not take in knowledge.

And I am really interested to know: are you fine in yourself? Because, it is easier for some, than others, and I am always wondering, every time I feel bad.

I need a great boldness, when I put life into a latest project. I think the four winds are coming this way.

I was staying awake.

night falls, down the last of our sighs, sleeves trickling out the door, slower, all burning brilliance, the sooner state of tomorrow.

city paradise

your winter.

hang me out like you haunt me, i still wait, sick with silence, 'cos yeah, I believe in big smashes, the best of bruises. well, you spit poison at a glance, when I'll never really care, let's stay loud, warmed with all you swore.

your movement.

you should stare at the clock, break your clock, come find me in the middle of nothing and nowhere. let sleep lie for one night, just neck lines, fingertips on fault lines. get your coat, your keys, your hungering chaos. come find me, come ignite with me. come be consumed, come soothe me.

long live the king is. dead the.

your youth is ash, a cigarette of ghosts lit with that stare, struck with salted words, fasting the throne.

free before them.

make it ugly and loud.

to jump

When you ask a person to jump, his attention is mostly directed toward the act of jumping and the mask falls so that the real person appears. 

Philippe Halsman

astronauts of the flame.

they say it's calm, like our stones aligned all in time, but your planet smashed into mine, upon these palms, braving lines across the universe.

I will be your bad teeth

everything is amazing, even if it's just in this small room, and this hot mug.

and there should not be a limit on the amount of times you can say that.

I can't focus again, but believe me, I am happy. I am keeping my feet pressed firmly together, fighting the cold wash of the tiles, watching coffee mugs and spilled papers, dry knuckles and smiles that they do not know i am making.

when my dad talks calmly to me, it fills me with so much hope for myself, that he did believe in me all along. I know it is easy to say these horrible things, but sometimes, it's true. my greatest fear is not being good enough for him, the always fear, for all of us.

but what are we doing here? we are just slow and secret, and we're finding it is real.

I am overwhelmed with the chance and possibility, that we're going to keep each other, safe and warm and believing.

everything is going to be alright, be strong, believe.

hahaha!...

You walk in from your mother's balcony, panda eyes, freezing cold. You bury yourself in my chest to warm, I notice the goosebumps on your arms, millions. And whether it's because of the number of hours spent laid face down on my bed listening to white noise or, well, obviously it's not, I somehow manage to translate them from Braille. And each raise in your skin spoke more to me than the reams and reams of the half finished novels you'd leave lying around all over the place, and every quotation that dribbled from your mouth, like a final, fatal, livejournal entry—I know. I am wrong. I am sorry. 

Los Campesinos!; This Is How You Spell, "Hahaha, We Destroyed The Hopes And Dreams Of A Generation Of Faux-Romantics!" (spoken)

fortunes.

and maybe you'd come soon, stealing the pennies sold to pensive eyes, the ballasts and ugly treasures, tricked from the milk of unkindness, beneath the treaty, of halloween skies.

speeding. breaking. holding

i want to write a mess, i want to record a blur. is that a colour, or a sound? i want to put structure to today, a paragraph i can punctuate, adequate with pulled skin and shine. i was happy, i am happy, i will be happy. but i want to write a mess.

i think i wrote that arguments and anger build up and i should try to let it go. also, you should try to help. it all gets very confusing and then i catch on fire and i scream and i scream. and i guess i really am not helping. but then, all amounts of anger are misplaced sadnesses, that lost the contents of their pockets, and they really needed those contents... (i also strongly dislike that both happinesses and sadnesses are not words in their own right. i have many happinesses, and many sadnesses. it feels wrong to colour them any other way.)

but if i focus, my sister is sad and angry. i should... i tried to help. then i started to burn up, so i slowed down. she's got fingers in her ears and they are very sharp.

then i thought about different people. or how we are different. i'm still always judging you for being so normal. i feel so badly for that, i keep slowing down. it really doesn't affect me, and noticing that the pattern exists, does not help. so i should just give myself to that particular madness. if you take your shirt off, people will stare at you. if you lose a limb, people will also stare at you.

...but we don't really much listen to anything.

and tonight i wasn't sure what speed i wanted to go along as at all. i think this is just the other half of all my happiness. it swings around and knocks me down and balances out quite nicely. i am in ____. and completely lost. or no, i could not say it was complete. i think i just need to physically touch. otherwise things become ghosts, and then i feel strange. like i am back at the very height of passion, dead on the floor. in love with circuitry, and no more sparks. it's... i am a shark and you hold no more blood. i need your body and your bone. need to know it's all different.

"we'll be breaking hands and holding blankets."

lions feet.

just because you leap once, doesn't mean you can't leap again.

zebra dust.

how the warmth of love surrounds you, makes you wake to the world. given a little hope glued as your sleeve, surrounded by little things and smallest light, and gravity forgets in the grass.

the youth in us

shown to me by 23, and it made me cry.

small little hurricane

I just hate this. Who says we shouldn't care, that whoever cares the least holds the power. Who says power even means a single damn thing, to anything. All I know is that it is impossible not to feel, not to care.

And you're only here for the taste of gravity. You leave me waiting. And if I showed you one pure thing, you would be fed up, you will be gone. So I just keep thinking, a hurricane beneath this colour of blue, adjusting my slouch in bed, killing the sheets.

wouldn't the wind.

sentence structure envy and lucks of stroke. you could clean, but you're just letting the house fall apart, cat noises smash plates. a day to be, means a day to not think or feel, biting your tongue on all the wrong reasons, scared to let it go. and wouldn't the wind bring you any closer... but it's just another argument between blood, recycled adjustments to sunlight, sketched in a new green, fingertips tripping at bone.

rough and unsteadied.

i am at a stand still, dangerously. i've said that i don't deal well with stopping, i don't like waiting. work is stable, gym is stable, but on the whole, these things mean very little.

sometimes i just don't understand people. i am very quick to be myself, so i guess that can be off-putting, in the day and age where... yeah. i don't really know. i'm finding it really hard to write again, or put it to page. i have all these surging thoughts, some really brilliant things i would like to share. it's just incredibly tough to show that... they are recorded, and removed.

i am just really excited for my day off work tomorrow, but it shall come, and then i won't, and i will just go to gym until i feel calm. the one true thing... i have to keep in secrets, for now. i guess all we can ever hope for, is that one chance. with everything we do and encounter, it's the singular idea: we just need one chance. to shine, to show, to be.

i am going to be working on a new project... i really want to hear from the world. i believe you have great things to feel, and words to put to the sky, soon.

let me know

it's hard to write right now. not because of sadness, it's, grass at reverse angles. there's so much colour and light, and i'm scared. i know i sing out, that beauty comes to all, but when that yellow bird comes down, how do you even touch it? it turns to pieces. but the answer is already within me...

this is tonight in words.

soon as you find it, you feel it.

all in time, as

Grow old with me. The best is yet to be. 

Robert Browning

our youth

When we were in our youth, we had dreams that we could fly, we had friends that weren't invisible, and love that never died, and as we grew old, and felt the pain, we always knew the truth, that love would heal, if we stayed true, to the dreams of our youth. 

Neon Trees; Our War (spoken)

in steam between

i had a shower, which reminded me of a lot of things. i was thinking, about how people make their happinesses. i pull my sleeves up over my hands, and lie on the floor of the bathroom. it's quiet, you can just drip. but, the shower itself. as i've said, i think people should have showers before they attempt to make any mark in the world. the steam will steal you away, it clears your eyes, it warms your heaviness. could any act of malice be set in steam? it'll just go.

i'm counting the amount of space between paragraphs, horrible. i am brimming with ideas, daring streaks. i don't think i have the voice for them yet. this is okay. i am moving in decimal places, the cold across a tile, the colour of the ring.

any way you run, you run before us, black and white horse, arching among us.

skin games.

i've been writing my nights on neck lines, stolen from thieves never followed.

tiles and, fever sets free and

so a few days pass and i guess i've been participating. i miss chelsea, the word 'participation' makes me think of her...she would know why. but i write this, tired and strange. i can hear my throat clicking, the slow flare of paralysis. but i am not unhappy...i've been happy. so this is just the violence of the dreamer, starved for sleep.

i need to write some things... i've got these ideas, ridiculous and bold.

but something is blocking me... and i can only think of articles. but they accredit it all to depression, and i'd like to think of it as a need for sleep. there is a choice there.

there will be more.

(i still feel that photography makes me less happy than it is intended to. you turn your eyes on me, and i am a shifting line of sparks. you need to look a little softer.)

p.s. keane's new EP, night train, colours this. the shadows are sad, but they buck.

'cos when your back's against the wall, that's when you show no fear at all.

wicked blood.

books of girls.

he hunched over the wheel, biting his teeth, laughing between pills of smoke and movement, the jolting lull of traffic, sunshine and neck lines. somewhere near the driving mirror, a spider pierced his metal skin. there were always spiders. two new books pressed to the passenger seat, a clean tribute amongst junk and visions of himself, where, he held a conversation, one that no longer quite existed. but he was nervous and happy and violent, like the strange taste of old stamps, the touch of wet grass.

Catcher In The Rye...I'm very selective. You're pretty (I'd never say that.) You are right, Maybe it was a desperate ploy. Ha ha ha. the crunch of white lines, could have been whole birds, small people who would disappear and ease his actions.

Maybe I will buy this, It seems strange. he had bought them, running fingers across the covers, moving the afternoon before him. he could taste things he didn't understand and it was exciting.

he spoke to ghosts for the rest of the day.

you are the only puzzle. you are worth

I was writing about the night, about how it divides us. And now it is here, a clean cut, and you've got to find your fire, or fall to shadow.

And, these moments—this moment—it is, and always has been, mine. Because I know so well (and I won't swear, because I have pledged not to swear this week) this is what life gives us, the puzzle, so out of focus, but shining just enough, that little streak between, that divides us.

You can wait for answers, think there's safety in the blackness, or you can brave it, take enough, to die within it, in absolute wholeness.

You can find the new perspective, the one you don't want to look for.

You can know your wounds, the ones you press to page, to distance.

You can try. you can live. you can fail. you can be.

Right here, absolutely in flames, trying really hard not to swear, in honouring the pledge, but life wills you to swear for it, for it is worth just that little much.

swearstopping

I was reading the newspaper today, and stumbled upon an article regarding SwearStop; a week's event to raise awareness for schizophrenia, and help provide a little perspective. can you go a week without using profanities? put your polite words where your mouth is, and give it a go. ;)

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=111330222224554

or, check out the website for more information, and how you can more directly help.

www.swearstop.com.au

all the same (free hugs.)

the weeks.

where did all amazing life go, you tore it from the skies...
when you presented forth, my whole suns, cast down as to stone,
what stole hubris from craven throne.

get back up

i hate when it feels like i'm losing my voice again, feeling lost again. i want to write a lot of things, but it all closes up, like i am back at the start of this. i hate him for a lot of this. but you can't just break down or give up... the darkness isn't binding. so i've just got to write, until set alight here. listening to conor oberst and the mystic valley band, finding calm.

so, i don't know when i'll forget. until then, it's this tribute of knives, keeps cutting. i love so big, that the lasting pain just keeps lingering. i still steal glances, like a fool for wounds.

i feel a little lost every few days.

for when we're standing there.

i am a revolution, in the smallest, shitty details. we are triumphant, in our grandest follies.

tired birds

You just drift, sitting in traffic, wiping a stain from your jeans, watching the lady with the cigarette jaw, the violent hum of the truck, the cold slow weight that is all about.

I am worried something has been mortally wounded, and that maybe I won't ever feel so strongly again. I know it is ridiculous—it is ridiculous. So maybe, this survived brighter in my hopes, than in actuality. And maybe, I am just tired, to wonder about anything at all.

people are my suns

whenever i crawl into bed and all the darkness is creeping up and picking at my limbs, then i just get back out. and there are so many wonderful fucking things waiting. and you just have to brave it all and let it all in and remember. just right now, this is another moment, that i want to remember to feel this. i want to remember.

thunderbird.

the making the floor creak

I just keep thinking, I just keep hiding what people are saying. it's no wonder why I am so disconnected in my own little world. it's okay sometimes because i understand it. but it gets a little sad, when I just want to talk someone, but I cannot. I find it really difficult, especially online. some people think it is easier, but it is impossibly difficult. it is removed, and I can only say a few words. I can't ever stare at the floor, and the spark is robotic and far.

I want to share some views, but I feel drained and sleepy. gym is the only constant safety I have left, right now. I know it all keeps moving, and there will be more, but for now, I wish there were more.

we make fucking sound, to be overly strange in that, or else silent, and—fuck that.

dead light

but we are only stealing sparks, consuming lovers' names in the dark.

deep of us

my eyes were stuttering

where you held me under the water

and only secrets go

to your freckles those faults I whispered

lost in breath stolen

violent darkest blue.

armour glow

I was in bed crying, and the night was really bad, but I started to read The Perks Of Being A Wallflower again, because this is next to my bed, and always makes me feel better. I wish I could explain it, but I think only Chelsea understands. It is just, you only need small things, and everything else goes away. And it made me warm, and I thought of music I wanted to listen to, and things I wanted to say, and things I wanted to do, and how the crippling darkness can't fight that much of an armour.

The characters feel like the best friends I ever had. And I also suggest listening to Basement Parties by Matthew Pond PA while reading. I changed the lyrics in my head, because it feels more pretty, more sad. I think that is the way of things.

I'm tired of going to these basement parties, where everybody wants to leave their bodies, I'm hiding in the bathroom with no witness, I'm speaking through the door about some sickness, we don't mind silence, we don't mind sitting, I can be quiet, you always hear me.

untitled II (rage film)

I am so sick of having to turn all sadness into something, take all my wrists, and cut them until they fold into structures. they are prisons clawing at my head. they adjust my glass until it catches the light. I move my eyes so close to the world, that it all becomes a blur of spots.

I am hurting so much. I didn't want to—I fucking refused. people will always leave, and people will always tell you, people will always leave. so there is no point in feeling hurt, because it will be, over and over. and I can't, but I am, and—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it.

I need to escape it. I need some safety, but now things are rapidly dissipating, the rain retreats, and there is little point to screaming at the sky.

I miss you, you fucking, horrible, bastard.

I miss me, always disappearing.

untitled.

i wanted to write, but if it's fake then what's the point. i was quiet and torn but i was okay. i could hide in the shower steam, know my body to be a lizard. a new tail to cut off until thursday.

i pin my hopes up. with violent butterflies in my head.

in the aeroplane over the sea.

halfway war

I am listening to letting up despite great faults, staring through the sunlight, trying to capture the voice of this moment, but I am feeling a little bit stifled. I am a little hurt how quickly people can replace love with hate, but I guess that's the persistent balance of natures. and I assess the structure of my actions, and I really do not believe I acted with any venom in my arc. I told accurate truths, because what else was there. I kissed someone else, because you cut me free. I have stayed quiet, because i know to. I am honestly not sure when I should speak.

signs

this is still amazing, every time.

everything is full of gods

i was going to write this morning, stirring from a hangover, drinking from my sweater, feverishly cured. it is cold and grey outside, which sometimes makes me feel better. it feels quiet, and when the rest of the world is quiet, i feel okay in stopping. i can pull my sleeves up over my hands and just smile. it feels like blankets are draped through the air, keeping me safe, keeping me quiet.

but, i am stirred. I was always claiming this year as my animus. I can't provide its fingerprints, but I know it is there. I have waited to move. I took my notebook, my weapon against a violent world, and I created this. these are my colours, and my name. these are my fireworks, shot into the festival night. I've murdered every evening for a voice. I believe i can create one smile, for someone like you, all matted in expectation. when we just want to float, and finding greatness in that.

this one code, this one sunday. I am moving, and I have been moved.

and, twice

I am finally home, at 5.38, a.m. it was a good night, when friends came through, and made everything okay. that, and running into someone. one of those chance meetings, where they slip away, just as you reach a really dizzying moment. I spent the rest of the night searching, but they were only for that moment, then clock hands and dust.

which makes me think of hot tub time machine, surprisingly: maybe the universe will bring us together again.

and, I challenge anyone to listen to little wonders by rob thomas, and not feel a world move through you, a shiver of a smile.

but I cannot forget the way I feel right now, in these small hours.

once.

i realise now that being single does not mean being alone. i am single again, but i am not alone. i don't have too much more to say than that for once. just abandon all form for vodka.

you can always start again.

leaf rots the lover leaves

i don't know where it all goes from here. but i will be small and strange enough, i will be brilliant. i'll only go looking for today, which is where all the happinesses hide. fuck every other day, it's only dead leaves. fuck every other plan, it's only lines on maps. fuck every other you, it's only faster.

all we know, thieves.

no one really appreciates anything, they just want to steal glances. we smile at the sun like it gave a shit in its sunlight. we'll hold your hand to hear our hearts mapped a little more.

keep singing.

i'm always spinning through the slots allocated, i guess. happiness and horror, alone and at your elbows. the madnesses mesmerised like notepaper i can't quite fold. not the way i'd want. i'd want to be happy, i'd want to always be helpful. even if i am invisible, i want to paint over that. i want to post the question to a paragraph, not to paralysis. i still can't shake the letters away.

everything suggests to be better than this, sing only in yellows. but i keep it's chair clean and die under the table. i am largely avoided, because you don't know how to approach anything like what i am. i'm only anything like what i am because you avoid me. i can't be short and sharp. just a short project or a sharp smile. i'm tired.

it's strange, you say you don't see the electrical storm, as I swallow the contents of my desk, finding no way.

tempest shot through the eyes

Tonight I should be able to dredge up the ocean, like the night sky, glittering with everything dead and gone. I should be able to bring down mountains, reduced to pebble and seed. I should be able—

I work my best when I am coming to pieces, all the electricity arcing around my head, fire on my tongue.

You have to realise, there is more to life than a lot of things would tell. Our brains glue so thick to the small days that fall around us. But you have got to cut free. You have got to climb so high for clarity. Whatever is striking us down, never really enters us. We keep our sparks, the only stars still alive. Winking between storms, we keep floating.

So I stand on the edge of three months, and dark days. Three months that could mean a career, something shitty and sustained, a few coins to keep my pockets busy. Dark days that I don't have the answers for, not yet.

first day of my life.

second wind stops.

i can't commit to this misery, i need to reject it, force it off. i know i am stronger than this, have already taken arms up against so many nights before. i just need to calm; that taking no action is the perfect colour of movement for today. whatever comes to light, that's just how it is. the four winds take me.

the hurt to feel.

i'm strange and sick and so fucking unique. that is what i give. you could not meet anyone else who cares as much as i do for every little thing. i try in my way, to get you to smile, for all i could. though this world limits me and poisons me and makes me quietly brave. but i see you, like all the song lyrics ever could. everything they paint is, right there. soft coughing whispers around your hair. what no one else sees or knows or will ever know because they don't have their windows down or their sweater on or that mix tape with the kid colours and the inky letter shaped smile. i wait. i stare as i'm waiting to find. but the more i care, the more i give a damn about you, the more you destroy. like you were afraid of any fucking brilliance.

and the world comes sweeping back in and i lose any steam i've gained here and i can't write any more but i'm still sad and you still don't know. if anything, you move a little more away. any expression beyond those shitty slutty smiles is wrong and wracked. i can't fucking stand it. stuck in a world that doesn't give me a damn. give me your fucking fire, at least. hate me, so i can give you all my fucking love. break me like a cure all. care at fucking all. understand that all madness balances out the infinite possibility of beauty. hold my fucking hand. then you would understand.

if you could feel louder

I am scared now, and you don't even know, and I don't know if i can tell you. I am strange, and I am brilliant, and I can hold lightning. So why am I so afraid? That you will leave?

Lightning, it flashes so brightly, but fades away, it can't protect, only destroy.

I think the whole world is so well dressed, and shitty. I think they are so ugly in their masks, with eyes of the storm.

You feel this one way, that just leaves me to ruin. You hold your teeth, calculated and abandoned, dizzying in splendor, and then you leave. Why do you leave? Or why do you feel so falsely, these stunted kindnesses?

I want to ignite. I want you to die, if not for my pills of smoke. Like it was, with the little smiles. But it's already missing, moving through these cold, sad distances. Do you even know? Or are you racing me there? When I only want to destroy you because this is burning a hole in everything I understand. I wish you would come back. Hold my hand, slowly.

earthquake

The poison is back, immeasurable tremors in my teeth, violence on the blood line. And I want to destroy you for everything you are. You are never enough, not for me. I will go back to the darkness, swimming in blood. Milk isn't helping. Music isn't helping. But I enjoy it. This is the problem: you try to control the rage, and you are cutting off your head.

our younger noise.

in my head, i count the days.

measured up in lines.

i studied but i don't believe in study. except for when the teacher is telling you about themselves. i work but i only believe in the people i work with. i could take the world from it, but i can only ever take the people.

first steps from flame

I am tired, so I think I should write. these sleepy secrets, just stop swimming, and escape to the white spaces. so I think I have recovered, and I know I cannot stop. I have been at work, trying to deal with the realities of a noose, that shine of a shoe, loss of skin, patient immolation. and largely, it helps, it stands alongside as gym as a cure, the funnel for the force in my knuckles, crawling up my phrases.

but I can see the problem. I am already weaving this—I should talk about the weather. I should ask you about your siblings, or your thoughts on the economy. it would not make sense, but it would be direct, it would cut. I could step back through the paragraph: I am here. I am fine.

is that why I am strange? I never know. something is wrong. can you see it? when everything feels better when I—I don't know. it feels like a different colour. it is unafraid, it is bold. I am conspiring in your systems, and so very average, dreaming in uppercase.

I am fine. I have got this focus, which is funny, really. everyone needs a focus, and my inspiration, is digital and laughing, is brilliant and fist-first through my headphones. I am smiling, and my feet are cold. but, this focus—you keep your focus in flames, a driving force, for the four winds of change, and calamity.

I lived for love. I lived for colour, for life, for romanticism. or I do—I still do. if you focus enough, it is enough. but see, it is not, and it never is. I am leaking back through. you have to consider all the really unimportant things, and this isn't some twisted acknowledgment, the sleight of hand. but all the unimportant things, are the important things. I live for the unimportant, that really are important, and if you can feel that, you will see that.

I don't feel about a career, but you have to. I don't feel about keeping face, keeping up, doll lies and coffee cups. but then, you have to, and some extent of the rules are important.

I don't know what I am trying to say. I can only think: this is what living like this does.

bad blood

The past week I have been followed by a ghost. I have tried to shake him, but he hides just beyond every smile, and that little poison, leaving me a little bent. I am trying to keep my elbows glued to the frames of the photo, anything to keep it all out.

I know all exultant things are forged in darkness—the little universes slipping between our fingertips. but, it is increasingly consuming me, and I don't know why. I am happier than I should have ever been. and so does it all follow in equilibrium: the happier I—

—I am doomed to a violence. Don't give up on me, please.

the lightning bolts that love his heart

This isn't fucking art. This is rage. Seething energies. Rushes of green underneath my skin. Reverberating.

Why does it come, over and over, leaving me spent. And the rain comes down, and it doesn't even catch on the window, or make me smile at all. I want to rip apart everything I am not a part of. I am back on the outside of everything, in a single moment, eternal through the striking hours. And I am mad, because I want to feel. The whole problem: conduit, colour, cage. It cuts through me, fucking m. I want to feel, and share, and survive.

This isn't art. Don't come through with those expectations in your eyes. You strangle me. It's still here, boiling, and low light.

And, see, I understand—I am not blind to my malice. I keep my eyes everywhere. I feel bad. I can see the patterns, and the cycle, ecstatic in screaming, bursting heat. and then frozen to small miseries. Black spots swimming around me. So I write it all down. This way I know. This way I can learn.

I just don't know what the world wants. You have to bring something to the gaping mouth of the table. You need an offering of colour, those days you wanted to keep. You have to take your loved ones, and their limbs. Whatever you are, you have to feed it through. or go to ruin. I can't be strong enough in self, writhing, and that's always going to be my weakness. I try to help, but you have to be whole in that, brave everything. And then I am exposed—the lightning bolts that love his heart.

I don't pity myself, I promise you that. I just need to feel. I know I am not alone in this. We are just separate, and silent. But we can come together. We can be the armies of autumn.

left behind in puddles

A night of life brings a blurry morning, lines jagged through the crowd, greyish tongues. and these questions that float in with the calm.

(I just think that a house shouldn't be built on a gold mine. It should be comfortable—a catalyst. Fist fights and apple pie and milk dripped down to tiles. And I don't know why it bothers me so strongly. It is not jealous, but just an alien way. I think all those happy homes hide knives. It makes me want strange. I want to see you, violently, at least some life in that.

I am capsized in a plastic cup. I need to crawl back under the blankets, stare at the ceiling, create some new sky.

a brother in bruises.

maybe we are different. but you have been here for so long, that i can't help but feel like the lesser. overshadowed, and though those days are long gone, and i've fought so hard to simply be... i don't think it will ever leave. i'll always feel my road is cheap, and this makes me so angry, biting at my own neck. it's never going to be your fault, and i'll fight it. we are all different, and maybe i will forge myself in failure first.

sharpest

A word is not the same with one writer as it is with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket. 

William Wordsworth

the night is a tattoo that.

something i scribbled down a while ago, but i was tonight reminded;

i'm feeling a lot, i believe in that. i believe in being broken and being in love and being fucking infinite. i believe in hope; that slowly we move towards something we've only ever dreamed of, what we've all waited for. what we continue to fight for. i believe in the past, in being wrong. i believe in the present, in failing. i believe in the future, in finding the way.

things to make and do

i guess this is why we get upset. beyond the ideals of balance, the black and white of life. soon as we're finished the race, we're pointless. the sun is shining and i am happy and i am pointless. that beautiful silence becomes stifling. like i should be rising up violently, screaming anything. we need to be shitty and wracked and climbing the spire. or i guess i've never understood silence, beyond the slowness and the smile that creates it. it stays and i want to destroy it. it's suddenly unkind and wounding me with those eyes and that breath. i don't like silence, i don't like stopping.

so i'm always composing these lists. little things to keep my arms at length (i now know how the girl with the bad cheques felt.) that i need to go to gym, that i need a new job, that i need to put my head through the glass. the cycle... a lot of things... the balance of all.

do other people just stop? i honestly don't know. i can stand still, i can be stilled, but if i stop, i fall off the planet...

i think i'm not used to having such a stable happiness to fall back on. i can recover in a single night, so i have to keep falling. do i?

ridiculous. i feel a guilt in saying so early, that i am happy, that i am defiantly wrong. that i do not know.

tidal through the webs.

this morning is sleeping in heavy water, it's calming. you can stand outside and the whole world is quiet and still, all the webs have been swept from breath. it's stupid and small, but it's so fucking brilliant. you can lay in the grass, and it feels like just say yes running through your fingertips, you just smile, and the trees are all so far away, and the sky is for you.

i'm smiling as the sunlight fills my window. i don't have a lot of words, but sometimes silence is a beautiful song. you can just watch the world.

I'll believe in anything

Every person, no matter how big or tough they are, should always have a partner. you never want to go on the streets alone, it's a mistake. it's just, you get lonely, you get upset, you get beat up, because you never can tell if someone's gonna come up the front of you, and start to get your attention, and then, they, they're...and this other dude's gonna come up behind you, and bust your fucking head. Partners are always better. 

You learn how to fight, one way or another, or you disappear. I know how to fight, but I like disappearing. 

Wolf Parade; I'll Believe In Anything (spoken)

colours.

live with inspiration. live for inspiration. live inspired. celebrate everything broken, everything bold. the rich black, where everything starts, eyes crawling outwards. the deepest blue of the milk carton, the old blanket where you no longer move, the floor that catches you. the vibrant purples of the beetle crushed underfoot. the violent reds of silence, the orange as days find themselves in dreams, the yellow in the moment that the trees follow. the green as the ocean falters, swells up, swims, drinking the sky. and the white movements of nothing, of never, of nowhere. of the question and the circle. it dances and whispers, and you are new. an infant with broken bones, standing on the edge of the night, smiling.

the names of moons.

all you ever need is one good night. surrounded by your friends, drifting between the shadows and the smiles. or in the warmth of that kiss, hands held, with the one you were chasing suns for. you just need that night, that leads you back to the light, safe from yourself. because all those shadows and shapes, they are those trying to reach you, crowned in your storm.

so i'm warm for now, with the names of moons, listening to bright eyes, moving through my blankets.

across a dark infinite night

Hope is exploding in my heart like fireworks across a dark infinite night. 

Chelsea Lynn Kirtley

...wanderlust.

some nights are bad. like they were made for a night drive, blurry beach, an infinite, anywhere.

I feel so...

i am listening to the receiving end of sirens, the earth sings Mi Fa Mi. i feel calm, like a little colour could be growing here. i can't keep the structure though, so i have to burst out. i don't know how to deal with anyone seeing what i write. my anxieties flare up, and i retreat to some awkward stance, a shadow stepping through the tenses. and even though you're just eight eyes, who probably don't even see this, i feel crippled again. between what i want to say, and ... i don't know. a nameless torrent. an oubliette strung along my jaw. stop, start, sever. because i want to be heard...

there are so many fears and questions, and structures of reaction. i wonder things that aren't... a complex series of circles, struggling. like how I should be like everyone else. or i should know who i am, and brave my name. how i should be happy or sad or angry or the correct emotion for an incorrect situation. i wanted to be angry, i was angry, but that is ridiculous. i get sad, and i have no right. i'm happy, she said i was always happy.

i was thinking that the one thing that makes me the saddest in the world is when someone in my family is sad. i can't think about it. it's crushing.

i was thinking the powers that someone holds. that someone who studies our sleeping patterns, and how they make us who we are. just thinking how much power they have.

i was thinking... a blur. i have lost this thought.

and i won't be your babylon, i'll never fall for this.

them all in half

The idea of soul mates actually originated with Plato, the ancient Greek philosopher. His theory was that, humans originally consisted of four arms, four legs, and two faces. Zeus was threatened by ... their power and split them all in half. Condemning us all to spend our lives trying to complete ourselves. 

Bones

polarities

i still can't... with all great attempts to pinpoint the stem of the horrors. i know it's just a buildup, bad chemicals. with the music in my palms, wrapped around my eyes. but, the answer has to be gym. it consumes the violence and leaves me in a calm. this week... this is the fucking week. no matter how long you fall for, you can always recover. just one loss in digital, just one night.

if you didn't wear your emotions, did you ever leave a mark, were you ever even there? i'm always trapped in malice, crowned in bravery.

and i was always thinking... i shall try later.

a death in the

today is a bad day. today i am a fucking artist. no, fuck it, i don't even have a brain. just a masterpiece of debt and shadow. i am so angry, i can't speak, i can't say a single damn thing. i don't know why i go looking for it. it's so easily found, when you fall off the planet, flipping coconuts until you bleed out. it's never enough, though, to keep me away. i don't even know. it's so fucking blinding, this violence in my eyes. it severs everything, the structures of a day.

i would just need you to come into fucking orbit. fuck. fuck. fuck. close your eyes, look goddamned away, leave me here. i'll burn up in purple death. falling through the floor... but i won't, but i won't.

pressing all buttons, hiding, you're already laughing.

nothing words

My gift is words that no one will ever understand, strung up in kindness, and calamity.

in ax of, past

I don't like nostalgia. All that happiness. All those memories. Six years, suddenly stirred, feeling a severed limb. I mean, it was brilliant, and amazing, but it's done.  And I know everyone feels it, but it always cripples me. I just cry, and feel so low, and I don't know why. I was happy there. But I am happy here. It is just unexpected—I never thought I would feel this strongly.

We are moving so fast, forgetting everything.

the currents go and fuck and drown.

breaking my bones on the doorknob and so alive, so fucking alive, here in the middle of nothing and nowhere. i am consuming the darkness. i am the writhing force that swallows the serpent. listening to sounds and silence and eyelids ripping apart, so pretty. i lay my hand across the tiles, i bite my skull, i stitch vows to my elbows, never bend.

i break down, i bleed out of my eyes, to notepaper and night sky and fucking nonsense. i love like madness. i am wild fire. i rot and wither and wane. i speak so you do not see, i saw, i sing. i know your doom and i hold all hands.

i think in metal and glass. i remember colours and lines on palms. i sleep with skeletons. i fuck lost causes. i use your lungs like lighthouses. i drink the broken neck of your nights. i read walls. i walk on and on and on and on. i am high on voices.

i believe in everything.

louder teeth

Everything is loud, bright, exploding glass. I feel happy. I feel haunted.

you just kind of.

i know charlie never tells. i was almost going to, but then i realise, you weren't here in this tonight. so you wouldn't feel it.

and we cannot go looking for happiness, it has to make eyes at us. i'd be stumbling on futures, and it would be a house of cards with heavy expectations.

sleepy walls, and savage.

i'm only an artist when i'm dying. it feels that way. the rush of colours through my bones, that compels me to chaos, tasting sentences and hearing fingerprints. crawling along the roof, thinking of birds and light bulbs. it all builds from something i can't explain, beyond strapping you into my skull. think a mile in my...

i can't be an artist, not technically. not on a technical level. i keep structures, but i can't be one, i can't be a structure. i would try really hard to write when told to write, but i was cavalier, violently. deep cuts of nothing to the paper. Academic, that's what jasmin said. i can't be academic. it's like dyslexia, but swimming in my ears. or that's how it feels. so now, when everything in the world says i am a writer, and i need to write, i cannot. i wish it weren't like that, maybe. maybe.

sometimes, most times, i just stop. the flood of colours is still there, at my eyelids. but, nothing. this is what i have to learn to deal with. i have to find the structure of chaos that i am meant to channel. wear it like i am fighting through sunday. i want to write a book. i want to write songs. i want to write my story on the walls (i have, to some extent.) but maybe these aren't my vessels. i still strongly believe that i will find my way. i know i could make some people see, i could make them smile. with these slow songs and lazy grassy days, just fingertips to find us.

i had a really nice night.