Almost a week has passed.
I have done nothing.
Days spent lazing around like a fool.
Waking up late.
Lying in bed under the stupidly warm and comfortable coverlets.
People say I should be grateful.
I say shut up.
A week has passed and I have done nothing.
Stupid b.
Watched the Oscars.
Interesting.
3 and a half hours of my life wasted.
Excellent.
2 more months.
And then I die
Monday, February 23, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Inconceivable that it was something like that that made me turn. A surprise, is what it is. My eyes are crusted with the stiffness of the morning; a poem in itself. Lying in bed can last no longer than two minutes, and then it is up and on the go and moving.
Fingers; hands start to work. Scrubbing, washing all the dirt and other things that have seeped like seawater into sand, onto my skin. If only I could wash () away too. But its abstractness detracts me from any remote possibility that such an easy eradication remains a way of escape.
Escaping is a coward's game but in this one there is no other way of finding means to and end and so everyone is a coward whether they like it or not. You in your smart tie and neatly folded cufflinks, hair parted sideways to the utmost perfect follicle, the face not moving but only the mouth: a waddling duck in a sea of impassive self-containment. Me in my children's clothes, or perhaps I would like to believe so, because I must rely on the preconception that assumes change is inevitable, I must rely on the fading thread of hope that life cannot always be like this: that one day I will take off all these clothes and dance naked in the street, laughing, as I stare at you staring at me in your same pressed shirt and immaculate tie.
Fingers; hands start to work. Scrubbing, washing all the dirt and other things that have seeped like seawater into sand, onto my skin. If only I could wash () away too. But its abstractness detracts me from any remote possibility that such an easy eradication remains a way of escape.
Escaping is a coward's game but in this one there is no other way of finding means to and end and so everyone is a coward whether they like it or not. You in your smart tie and neatly folded cufflinks, hair parted sideways to the utmost perfect follicle, the face not moving but only the mouth: a waddling duck in a sea of impassive self-containment. Me in my children's clothes, or perhaps I would like to believe so, because I must rely on the preconception that assumes change is inevitable, I must rely on the fading thread of hope that life cannot always be like this: that one day I will take off all these clothes and dance naked in the street, laughing, as I stare at you staring at me in your same pressed shirt and immaculate tie.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Dissatisfaction
That feeling when
you know you've done
it all over again,
and while doing it
you are thinking about
how wrong it is
and yet you are still doing it.
Why?
you know you've done
it all over again,
and while doing it
you are thinking about
how wrong it is
and yet you are still doing it.
Why?
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I crushed it with my foot.
The (-------------) was left on the (-------------)
I crushed it with my foot.
I am alone and the thoughts are recurring.
In the face of feline adversity I saw bristling fur.
As I turned the corner I scowled at a child.
Angry, all the time now.
(-----------) left it on the (-------------)
and so I crushed it with my foot.
The (-------------) was left on the (-------------)
I crushed it with my foot.
I am alone and the thoughts are recurring.
In the face of feline adversity I saw bristling fur.
As I turned the corner I scowled at a child.
Angry, all the time now.
(-----------) left it on the (-------------)
and so I crushed it with my foot.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
6.33 a.m.
Cruising along the dark roads, the occasional glare of another's headlights my only guide. We are companions, we are. Strangers behind cool, closed cars leading inconceivably different lives. Hello mister, do you have children? Hello lady, do you know what it is like to be happy?
Windows down. Wind in my hair, goosebumps on my neck. Speed is beauty. What if I died this morning? Driving round the corner, right there on that very street at 6.37 in the darkness. Thinking about ( ). Dying mid-thought. End. Null. Gone.
This is the nearest I have come to feeling something remotely resembling freedom. Between the trees I see the moon. An irrepressible moment of inspired pulchritude. At times like these there is no denying that God exists.
Mouth drawn shut, there is no need for words. Singing along to the radio would wreck the silence. I am writing this in my head, and I will have memorised it to the very end. So here it is.
Building a wall around oneself is a form of art. It takes constructive thought and prolonged introspection. Look and observe and you will see how easy it is to shut the rest of the world out. Hide between a thin piece of cloth, or impeccably stacked bricks, it is all the same. Escape. Elegantly for that matter. You get to evade the looks and the questions and it is just you, and this darkness and this wind on your neck whistling in your eyes and round the bend.
Faster now. But the sky is lightening. Familiar road. Maybe dying this morning isn't such a good idea after all. I'd miss Chemistry.
Cruising along the dark roads, the occasional glare of another's headlights my only guide. We are companions, we are. Strangers behind cool, closed cars leading inconceivably different lives. Hello mister, do you have children? Hello lady, do you know what it is like to be happy?
Windows down. Wind in my hair, goosebumps on my neck. Speed is beauty. What if I died this morning? Driving round the corner, right there on that very street at 6.37 in the darkness. Thinking about ( ). Dying mid-thought. End. Null. Gone.
This is the nearest I have come to feeling something remotely resembling freedom. Between the trees I see the moon. An irrepressible moment of inspired pulchritude. At times like these there is no denying that God exists.
Mouth drawn shut, there is no need for words. Singing along to the radio would wreck the silence. I am writing this in my head, and I will have memorised it to the very end. So here it is.
Building a wall around oneself is a form of art. It takes constructive thought and prolonged introspection. Look and observe and you will see how easy it is to shut the rest of the world out. Hide between a thin piece of cloth, or impeccably stacked bricks, it is all the same. Escape. Elegantly for that matter. You get to evade the looks and the questions and it is just you, and this darkness and this wind on your neck whistling in your eyes and round the bend.
Faster now. But the sky is lightening. Familiar road. Maybe dying this morning isn't such a good idea after all. I'd miss Chemistry.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
I don't know why I let the hate seep down from my eyes like tears and they are stinging because what are words more than thorns on a rose that pierce the skin and make you bleed and make you weep; you are a weed in a garden full of blooming flowers, a bad piece of rotten piece of decayed leaf and stem. Be trampled on. Be pulled out. Your roots are the ones that never grow and never will and therefore you cannot be anchored to the soil; no homeground and no sanctuary.
Bugs crawling over your skin
like infested flies whose
tiny limbs carry the deathly
punctuation of a plague, a
fullstop to the long-drawn
sentence that now you find
is only filled with
(................................)
Bugs crawling over your skin
like infested flies whose
tiny limbs carry the deathly
punctuation of a plague, a
fullstop to the long-drawn
sentence that now you find
is only filled with
(................................)
Quick Succession
Sorry darling but for all your ideals and seemingly thwarted emotions you are just a pathetic little child
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I walked on hot tarmac, barefoot. The heat felt good beneath my skin. Even the thick soles of my feet, calloused and peeling, were insufficient to stem the penetration; the burn. I deserved it. Nothing less. You must always be one step ahead because otherwise, you are three steps behind. The pursuit of an elusive dream is born only from within the throes of a bout of momentary insanity. Wind pushes you back. Sun keeps you in the house. You drive along the road in your cool, closed car, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding around you. You open your mouth and your words are blasphemous. You close your eyes and your world is a nightmare. You sit surrounded by people and yet you are infinitely alone. Your heart is a closure, your mind a playground for the devil. Your life is measured in numbers and little words on paper that don't mean a thing, but mean everything. You are the lonely piece of debris floating in the midst of the ocean. You are the suffocating man drowning under the waves. Your hand is the pathetic, skinny one enshrouded and blocked by golden arms. Your clenched fist is a joke; your legs weak ducklings. You are the toad that hides under the damp rock, bloated neck. You are the old woman that is rocking in her chair, from the night until the morning. You are the folded piece of newspaper that people tramp on; blackened with footprints. You are not a work of art. Your hopes are pathetic, your aspirations profane. You walk the collapsing bridge. You are the child that is arrested, the stifled bud. You are a murderer; you have murdered yourself. Look through the murky waters of a pond and when your eyes become accustomed to the gloom and darkness, when all you see is sludge and shadows, know that that is you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)