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.

ghost song.

and you said, I love when the universe seems to align, and we can just talk. and I get right back up, ignoring their chalk.

tell the bees...

that today did not go to plan, and i can be content in that. i don't like changes to my patterns, they upset me. but today i woke up, and work needed me. so i did not sleep in, and i did not go to gym (because i can only go at daytime when there is no one there or I get anxious and unhappy and leave.) but work was nice, productive. there is still hope for the position. i just need to make my proposition to the new manager, and i think she likes me. i really hope to get this. i can't imagine the new pattern, but once submerged, it will be okay.

and now i feel like i am floating away with letting up despite great faults which make me really happy (namely, our younger noise; it's beautiful and drifting.)

tonight i am going to the cinema with jasmin, to see she's out of my league. seeing jasmin is amazing... i cannot wait.

i want this beauty to stay so brightly.

the first night, when.

the first night with this, that which i should have done a long time ago. i used to keep a journal, back in the day, actively scribbling, to keep the chemicals still. but it has been a good night, if you look at the small things. this is all i can ever do. i did not wound an argument, i kept my head clean, i smiled a lot. i was thinking of chelsea and that makes me happy, i can be better for her. and i made someone else smile a lot, i'm glad i could. that makes me glow.

tomorrow i am restructuring a pattern, gym. it has only been two weeks... holidays. it's fair to call it that. cannot always be perfect, in chaos. but it burns up most of the bad brain.

i know i've said it a lot, but i really believe. if i could just organise a neat structure of work, then i would be really happy right now. they could leave me alone, because i was not a complete failure, afterall. because things they do not understand are doomed to the rocks. which makes me think of brand new. (and i will listen.)

so, keep cleaning, cut it all neat. there is beauty, but i do need to move forward. small life is not maintained forever.

I will find you there.

and to want something beautiful, that silver smallest glory, how we know till morning, tempests shot through the eyes.

glued to a wall.

and we were here, tangled in each other, just here, just here like, where the fuck were we? like the windows were open and the day was here and the dogs were dying and people were waking from their plastic cups and their slurring eyes. and we were in between the sheets, chopped up in kisses and fingertips, a safe, blooded pool of smiles. we were on top of the glass, we were making our whole world a freak show, searching for new colour. we consumed, all fireflies and lightning, fork and knife. we were walking through walls, letting the silence take us. and I remained a first page burn out, a spark struck to a match after sex. and you were my meth, my math, my mission.

cartographic.

i'm biting my lip to count your teeth, string my fingers to your sockets, to notch those trophy bones, and we're folded to this post, ribs skip to your planet, with our map of my blood, my head crowned in hate, lost of throne to this bed, your killer's army, in our blankets and streets.

this gives me, mightier

They are arguing. I am trying to change. I won't intervene. If i do, I always turn the house screaming at me, because I am not good at getting angry, my some faulty rage. If they are both angry, then it has to be okay. They destroy each other, and then they are clean. Little rivers of hair, and headphones. And she said Fuck, and so she can't be the victim. I have to let them fight. but—you are meant to stop it. But I can't, but I do, but I spin in mightier circles.

This is something. This makes my head lighter. But the bridges are unlabeled. He scares me. He doubts me. He is much more successful than I am. He is much more normal. I get scared. Now, we are adults. We are meant to play normal. You can't stay broken and strange forever. But I struggle to even write. And I didn't go to that new place that I was meant to. I made them mad. I upset them. I can't explain.

I need to get a new job. Once I am in the pattern, it will be okay. The rest of the world seems to manage. And even though I say I would rather be poor and happy, I don't want to be left behind. I don't want to be the last one. I don't want to feel this way. I should be happy.

This would so many years ago that I felt—you can't act that way without explanation. I know that I remember. I just have to make them solid once more. And small projects. It doesn't matter if it's messy, if it's not how they would do it. We are all different, in our happinesses.

But sometimes it's not enough to tell yourself that. But it has to be. Be better.

a fear from a day.

the world doesn't stick to my patterns, none of these clean fevers. so when i'm chewing tiles, you're fine, accelerating the digits. you're lining your pockets with friendly bones, seismic and fake. and i will destroy you, with this wounded sleeve.

violent libraries, really only

I said a very long time ago, that I would find my voice. I would conquer all the evils that haunt my head. I get so caught up in everything, but nothing comes out. I try to write on paper, but I need lines, and then they feel lonely. I try to write to the white spaces, but they're violent, and all those silent eyes. I'm too in control, madly. I can't even write to you, and I can't even say hello. I'm just a storm. sometimes I lose my mind, and sometimes you will feel it, but not for a very long time now. I try to keep it all under wraps, until I couldn't speak.

fuck—too messy, too clean, too straightforward. fuck—I am an engine of angles. fuck—I can't commit to any more than a ghost of a sentence. I said I would find my voice, and I said I would write for chelsea. and maybe I just need to get started, to be warming up a beast.

I want to say everything. I want to help. I want to be helped. I want to be heard.

but then, still, I feel suppressed by an army of eyes. I've never been any one way. so I keep my secrets here, bad colours, maybe.

anything important...my brain just freezes up. I'm always lost in projects, small nothings. I'm shy. I get more anxious with words. I'm going to be.

I will explain everything. I really will write for chelsea.