i do not have problems acting like a grown-up.
"I'm using all the words up.
who else dreams of downpours and polish vectra technologies. and how i know that the way the world suddenly shifted once you arrived in it leaves you feeling melancholy strange. somehow slightly less absurd. it's just that i do know what makes bats fly sideways. and why your neck was sore this morning. how come you're having trouble sleeping nights. i love you. like clotted cream. or the aftermouth of sex. all haphazardly and stunned. but no more or less unhinged. than before.
i never learned to ride a bike
i couldn't wake him this morning. long limbs twisted in low thread counts. coffee stained. walked myself to work. alone instead. last night all i had were nightmares. something about a flood and your heart's palpitations. and he kept moaning. all night. about habanero pepper tongues and the weight and consequence of my nighttime hair. this is all fucked up. alice keeps shouting to the rabbit. as if he might listen. covered in polka dots and the howling face of the alarm clock ring. she holds his sleeping hand to her mouth and says the words without sound. when i can't go. anywhere but here without you. in this almost dark room. again.
how is one meant to respond
these days are filled with exoskeletons. and dirty sheets. the art and reliability of being. let down. even when i burnt your plastic jesus. into mid-morning horrorshows. these days. jesusfuck you're the only thing i've got to cling to. words and black ink. stains. i claw my space. to sane. in this baking soda volcano. you.
i paused and turned. felt daylight fading into the folds of jumper to pocket. relieved at the predator howler-scream. colliding hallway drums. some spine crushing hug. in any dark tight space, without you. eye. i feel, alive. the fading sense that what might be pulverized before i feet the door. is. in seven. four. thirty-thousand seconds. that guy. that guy who collects cans from classrooms. that guy's asleep in a chair. in a room with no lights. alone. and i smile against the scream. would that one of us were eaten. ripped into blood and guts horrorshows. no, i shout at the room without lights. turn to run. no. not i not i not i.
when life was in-between. i used to think about the interstitiality of the skeletal bones wake. the vision of both eyes. blinking. even aching for skin. the breath of you. in night angles. and bed-sheet poses. all those deliberate black and white portraits struck for your camera tongue.
sometimes i think people don't really get me. especially what and the way i write.
i just poured a glass of wine. in my underwear. in the kitchen. with the backdoor wide open. while my neighbor was out doing her gardening. for fuck's sake i said to no one, don't i really do try.
States of being have always fascinated me. dead/alive. happy/sad. asleep/awake. And thinking for years about things like Schrödinger's Cat, the poet-prisoner Condemned to Devil's island, the Banality of Evil, and the hero/hero/hero/hero/hero, haven't necessarily made anything more or less opaque. I suppose this is why I've always resisted binary (in-conflict ) states, as they don't seem to adequately reflect experience or the complexity of being--at least when I consider my life and my self.
Well, apparently, you're not alone.
I've always been overly interested in the Maxwell's Demon thought experiment by physicist James Clerk Maxwell.
Mashable! seems to be a really good resource to watch for all your social networking news and ponderings.
This morning, I've been playing around with:
so many fuckless days and nights
she was going to say something about tearing off your skin with her teeth and loving you so much she felt crushed to be alive to die but then she remembered that sounded unhinged and psychopathic and so she stood in the lift in that spot where the metallic sides make her invisible legs and thought about razorblades and rope burns the weekend