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.