the ghost film is stuck fast, can it ever be, with you in the corners of my eyes, in a photograph to fill the frames, when i speak does it show, when i've said it will you, search your pockets like this was a station, my breath looking out the window at the trees that count days, this train crashed with us all smiling ugly.

afluxior

i want to do great things and expect nothing in return. i really fucking do. i have tried, and i do, and i don't. i write this down, because words for me have always stood strong, to the extent that i wouldn't speak. or, they take guilt and flight.

i am in the flux, my feet unstuck the mud, testing my pages in the water.

i need the guilt, i need the flight!

i need the guilt, i need the flight.

an insect

today is another violence, when no one can come closer, and it's just, an insect crawling along my skull, these little stings, tapping, losing its guts. so without a hand to tell me, It's okay. Come back. it has always been up to me to survive, and at some point, I swallowed the book of tenses, and I hid away forever. it's a terrible—when you want, just to speak. if i could say something clear: I am not okay. I am scared here. I would like you to come closer. I would like for you to say hello. I would save myself to reach you.

but the insect pulls the strings, and wrenches at my guard.

you'll remember

the song says You'll remember, and I know, I just have to hear my eyes once more, breathe life back into my hands, paint my feet across the floor, endlessly. maybe it was the lack of light, the torn mail, the grip of—of what? fucking loneliness. but I can pick up. I can get up from here, and march across the wood, fall down bleeding into rubble, sparks. so for all of this, just the room hanging in the air, creeping through the hairs on my arm. I will find the cord, I will know the cord, I will remember the cord. that fucking light of, excruciating madness, beauty, life.

the mouth of the cavern is crawling outwards, like the jaw of the plant to take you.

you better be cruel, and gather up your gravities, better crack their paper head, and never hope for change.

i would never write a bio for you, i really do not think. i am a rubber band, flung from the stick, an easy brilliant thing. i won't really acknowledge any of your violence, unless its pretty. i don't dogear important pages in books, which seems pretty important right about now. a lot of people remind me of wax. they never alight themselves, just stay posed, just stay safe and cold and cruel.

i hear them driving a highway through my eyes, running hard for a soul, digging deep with a hope for horror, and they just, wear their photos for skin, kept in the negative, dribbling back to dark rooms, a small pose in a shallow scene, i know they're writhing in the water.

bite through your tongue but keep going: you are alone now on tuesday the eighteenth of january, twentyten, but you are not at end. you have to cry and you have to get mad, because you can't deny the dark, you can't deny the thorn, you can't deny the car crash.

the world has made you its juggernaut, and you must endure. you are made, unmalleable, and you must meet the other, for they wander before the cliffs of the pavement, the bullet fired from the song.

they won't falter, but their metal hands wait, at only one height, at only one hope, and you must remain, you must remain, you must remain.

this room tastes like shampoo, a memory of beach foam i can't ride against, crashing waves, thick of seaweed, kid stomachs and big cracking teeth.

i'm only interested from where you were small, you bruising that stupid smile, pulling sap from the trees, perhaps in the violence, you couldn't sit still on the throne, that now, you'd cast down terrible ugly kindness. i could never reach you with these arms, paragraphs slurring through the pulses, bookends and brave eyes and everything awkward i believed in. but i never turn off the night light, and i never empty the lake, where we melted into candy and bent corner shops, after we crashed our bikes, and stole away faster than the sun, as the sounds all came down, the night we now know to be forever, i'm still inable, in drying rooms, you never look alive, in your photographs.

it grabs you by the tethers, what once remembered, and it fills you so full of sleep. you could never crawl away, just the heavy alone, chained in eye lids and wet sheets and knuckles on slumping walls.

and time around me grows heavy, a room full of teeth, and the words of the songs are harsh, and slowly crawling from skin. i accept the madness, but still to obey the science, the law, the kindness of... but i don't give in. i keep the health, of the numbers, of the day. i am one and i am two, and i do not leave. i hear the people exploding, and the chords in their eye sockets: the judges.

i tangle, because how could i speak?

off tongues, and revealing too much...

when i leave this violence, i will glow, another piece on the string, pulled across a life. an artform for outcasts.

(You'd be surprised to find how much was in your mind.)

you've waited so long out here, in a night, let science into your heart, you're left on a cross, that drank the worst, and never better, saying, I am lovable for who..., in acid tongues, in crippling, splayed, heart of fools, held to gold, i could never hold it.

i've waited at the water, a tiny ship without a motor
the steam sits on my nose, and eyes dripping out of focus
they leave my feet to hang, but never stir the surface
i've hoped for the ocean, yet nothing's really worth it.

they christen their boats, break the bottle to my head
and set sail, as brave masters of swollen breath
i'm losing limbs into the swell, clinging to defeat
sea sick from any motion, choking on my teeth.

but the sky is a line, and if i tugged at it
you could come tumbling out just in time
to brighten my life, like the colours would wish
side by my side, two little stones skipped.

she's waited at the water, a little ship without the sail
while wind smears her cheek, heart's hoping for a tale
they leave her hands to hang, but never feel deserving
to hope for the ocean, when

[they christen their boats, break the bottle to my head
and set sail, as brave masters of swollen breath
i'm losing limbs into the swell, clinging to defeat
sea sick from any motion, yet she never quite retreats.]

what can we do with this rage, but make something, so fucking beautiful, so fucking raw, heat and skin and fuck and love. sometimes you have to scream, so that fire, and fucking world, you're breathing loudly, spitting life.

you're so full of love, cut down the middle, to the wet street and the cold sky, you fucking walk.

i stare at the grass and imagine i'm dripping through it, thunder storms for finger tips, puddles where i walk.

i'll turn this fear into words, trap it in a sentence, supress it, just a page, tear the spine from its form, a book cannot murder me.

This time I'm standing up. This time I've got the devil's grin.

for it fell away without sense, but saint elmo's fire, at the tips of your eyes.

if only we could keep the words that are said, are sent, that drip from our tongues, in flecks across someone elses brain, wherever it is that these words go and are trapped and strung and sorted, and made into colour, a spark, and nothing. we keep photographs in boxes, or we tear them up, but words just come and go. not the posed words of a book, but the rough things, the blurry wants, the young babble, the scathing attacks, the wretched graves...

i've pinned a piece of the sky to my chest
so let me know when i'm falling for you.

what do we want for

what do we want for, but someone to chase our name into the night, lay fingertips over a crooked sieve, save our cities from the endless mist.