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.