head house

but whatever i come to make, i still feel small, the curtains crawl and crack and hiss, no sunlight, and i don't like the light bulb, what i used to think about eating it, and my feet aren't that pretty on the cold floor, they are just cold. a graveyard of papers, a hum of machines, hours falling limbless out of my eyes, and i would grab at anything to make it okay, staring at the webs in the corners, the old paint cracked and the new paint doesn't... whatever i come to do, it's small, it is taking my temperature quietly, a funeral illuminated and buzzing and shitty seats, just a little faster than my art. i breathe out, press my feet into the floor, the dead warmth in the dust of, his feet. i can't make the voice calm, even though it is quiet. the world is staring into a refrigerator, losing its guts on chipped tiles. the world is pretty. but my hands are so cold. the answer is on the tip of my skull, and i shouldn't.

that all of this is just the weather playing tricks. this is my breath taking the world away, the ticking of metal. this is cold feet and papers unsigned. this is a lover in a restaurant ordering the cheapest shit. this is a favourite mug shattered. this is car keys and napkins and the sweat on a forehead and a printer that never fucking works. this is the clouds without the sun, an old woman in a business suit, a spider shriveling in a window you never open. this is her face remaining in a rot of weeks, beaches of mud, urine in the sheets, the television glow. this is a library of magazines and snakeskin, the darkness of planets and cracked lips, old cars and heavy medicine.

it is standing barefeet on cold dull coins and all i can taste is broken cds, warming my hands on insect husks, a permanent summer of rubbish. it's a torn newspaper clipping of your mother's crumpled smile, a dubstep love song, that scabs of the nights remain in filth, on teeth, a crippled kiss.