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/