is sick to fucking death
things i love:
how we can feel so fine. so understood. when we immerse ourselves in the literature of the divided. of the misunderstood. the exile. but when we attempt to stop. to break out of those pages. those words spoken by the prophets of our time. or lost times. how we fall again into the desperate places we know all too well. that we have known for our centuries of being alive. of being. just. who. we. know. we are. i am just this. one woman. not even of knowledge that begs any kind of forgiveness. of what the poetess of my life's blood calls her spies. those counterparts going the good long haul with your words bouncing around in their skulls. without them. on my own. on paper. i am just one simple woman. begging again not to be left out. let down. played out in ways she already knows will happen when you've let yourself at such an age map out the world in masters' lyrics. i only want to have a normal life. i ring. into the kitchen of this life that i live into the ears of the only world i ever want to know. but even then, i guess, i won't probably be happy. i confess, waiting to be, hoping to be, proven wrong. but probably goes as it does. like fine whiskey among good friends. the burning glow of the things that might make you feel asphalt-angry and in-loss. my voice wants to scream the thing about dying young and grabbing fast. but my head says. we all die in that house fire. alone. left to the memories like spite. i don't even know how to bear my bones, anymore. how to make the words pour like daydreams into any cupped ear. even the poison dulls. i am only here. in this not so present place. a house filled with bones and dirty sheets. wanting to be both and yet not ever the same.
i wonder, sometimes, if there's any reason why every time i try to play "Candy Shop"
i don't know
i've recently been informed that, apparently, i'm the cutest when i'm eating cereal.
what are you like in a downpour?
this is the way the world goes. sick linoleum skin. chemical burns. all these hours wasted on the inane drip of loss. like the uselessness of nose bleeds. and food. i had a dream that i flew to your undemocratic country. and we stood like old lovers and pressed palms and eye lashes. and stole moments toward forgiveness. resuscitation. these days. only the dream of you alive and well. locked in a picture book memory smile. makes me keep moving.
I bought a bicycle the other day. Such a strange thing. To exchange wheels for legs. My first try I use my feet against asphalt. I imagine it's a little like whistling for the first time when you're deaf. Constantly looking out the corners of your eyes for friends faces. Confirmation you're actually making sound so strangely from pursed lips. Forced air. Moving on wheels makes me feel like melting ice cream. Unhinged from the reality of years of flat soles on asphalt. The slow slap of the shape of me against the world. This. I think. This is something totally new. In the car park. At home. My concentration keeps me always turning left. The only mockery left in life shapes itself into the form of a used dirty frame with two wheels and dodgy breaks. I do better with one foot on the ground. Whiz down the sidewalk. All squealing and wobbly.