Paper/Person

I informed my diary
Last night
I'm replacing you with paper
It'll keep me saner

I will imagine
As I once wished
To touch
Your skin
Like paper

Little inscriptions
on your face
I thought
I'd leave one of my own

But here you are
Replaced by paper
Forevermore

You are on paper
And the paper becomes you

Pulp and process
My heart into bits of mush
And pull sheets from it
And I'll write you

I have replaced you with paper
And beat my heart into it

Thin sheets of you, and you and you
In short words and long
words and ones which
don't make sense
and they're unearthly
but mine.

And you aren't.
You have been replaced by paper.

My Dream.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A distraction, a disruption, a disgrace.
A disenchantment, a delay.
A defacement, a derailment.
A distant drum beat
Along some dusty street.
Indiscreet debris.
A design, a deceit.
Dedeliniated, darling
A deluded, denuded
Delinquent dud.  

A Hystory Of Ovaries.

When I’m in pain

I like to complain

It so happens that

For the last

One decade

My body leaks

For days

It’s a raw deal

Extra blood

Extra sweat

Extra tears

I think I was given

Too much woman

I keep having to

Give her away

In spurts

Ever so often

And it hurts

Like a bitch

I asked about it,

Concerned

It isn’t a glitch

It will always have to be

Exactly – like this

Sometimes

It promptly arrives

Like my internet bill

Full of mixed feelings

Every 11th of the month

Or too often

Like a faded, forgotten

Familiar face

Shows up

46 days late

Turns my back

Heavy

With exquisite pain

Takes shape of the world map

On my bed sheet, stained

Pours incessant

Like rain on my parade

Which feels like home

Because I am

A monsoon baby

It’s in my veins

I wonder

If the body is a temple,

Many would disagree,

Ask me to leave

Myself at the door

Am I a house, a strange home

Where the staircase hurts

When the faucet drips

I wonder

Does it tremble

Out of anger

There’s no one living in it

No one will see

In the dark

There was

Bloodbath in the halls

Warm palms on my back

Relax, sit back

Woman contorted

It will all be duly sorted

Soon

Maybe because

I like red too much,

Oh wasn’t it

Something to do with the moon

My hands smell like earth

The war inside woman

Is a silent pogrom

Of lovely her against her

Lovely self

Equally stubborn

I wait

Without blame

For the leak to fix

Itself

For it to cease,

Unpinch, to breathe

Through musty windows

For it to leave

I never did ask for

An extra side of

Blood, sweat, and tears

But here I am, I was

and will be, with

Too much woman,

Attached to my existence.

Damn it.

What was I doing? Nothing is going anywhere except the damn time.

Where is time going? Is it late for class? Does it have a date? Does she wear short skirts, accessorise with small talk? Does she have a book on her at all times? Does time's date's father have a short temper? A mother with a long face? Can she not stay out late? Is time late for work? Does time tie his tie standing in the metro? Is time looking behind her shoulder to see if there's someone following her? Is time staring intently at computer screens all day, eyes burning, selling by the second? Is she trying to keep her hair in place, while the evening breeze in filled with little boys' screams? Does time want to travel to outer space? Does time try hard to keep in line? Inside the lines? Does he not waste time online? Does she feel guilty after lying?

Does time not spend nights sighing and sighing and sighing?

What is time doing? Why is time in a rush? Who is waiting for time? Does time want to be with someone and can't? Did time not want to leave? Did time ever just want to sleep, all day, every day, till the cows came home, till the cold winds had blown, away from her? Is time trying to kill himself because he has to be everywhere, underappreciated and overburdened? Is time depressed? Does time suffer from attention deficit hyperactivity disorder? Why cannot time stand still? Why cannot time be content? Does time find herself a damn bore? Is time scared and is running away, it didn't mean to kill anyone? Does time not read poetry? Is time not poetry?

Where does time go? To places with loud music and quiet hearts? Is time running across a sandy beaches with orange suns? With green mountains, blue mist, tiny goats? Is time too overwhelmed being wanted so badly? Can time not let herself be at someone's side, for all of time? Does time have commitment issues? Who does time stalk?  Does time fumble over her words in imagined conversations? Is he in a rush to get things done, because time doesn't belong to time? Is time buried inside a good book, a conversation, sitting in a corner at a railway station? Where does time go, seatbelted, looking out at midnight, at blood red skies and steel grey clouds, dawning across countries, everywhere at the same time?

Does time want to go away, get away? Go somewhere, go places? Does time want to stop and go nowhere, sit down, smile and look at faces?

What was I doing? I looked at a stranger looking at me writing in my small notebook, covered with pretty red flowers. Looking at me sitting at a window of a train on the other platform. A platform in an ephemeral station of emotions. Magnetic tracks led trains away from each and I wasn't going anywhere. Nothing is going anywhere except the damn time. Answer me.

Poem for a Cliché in Full Costume

When did you stop wanting to kiss me in elevators
When did you stop wanting to unsee the crowd of watchers, at inner circle roundabouts
When did you stop knowing which words make my breath take inroads to my trembling heart
When did you stop thinking butterfly blues shaped the maps to the stars
When did you stop demanding fingertips as fingerfood to your hungry needy love - never full, never enough
When did you stop seeing through words that meant something else, hell meant my lovely heart and go, to stay forever
When did you give up, let me slip to distant places in your mind, where you don't step in fear of looking back
Now, the waits are not so weighty
The suns are stars,
Not hot ticking time keepers to goodbyes
I cross the streets
I climb the stairs
That meld into each other
Dusty step by dusty step
A dog on ever corner 'case
Rumagging through imaginary bones
Buried in his heart
Looks through garbage
I bark a sudden tune to soothe
My worried mind
Am I an animal without a cave,
Without a street
Water is bland
The desert is sand
The forest is one tree after another
Tables and chairs and pencil sketches
On newspapers wet in unseasonal rain
Pouring on my heart like warm tepid realisations
Feet in murky depths of meaningless monsoons
I am like a bird without a song
A temple without a gong
Been away,
Far too long, far too long
I have forgotten the verses to my name
The letters to my poem
Coordinates to my frame of thought
I forgot. I stopped.
To be myself, the same the same
The blind spot
The sweet spot
Spots to be cleaned and kept that way
Nice and sweet and blind
To me
A spot unseen, behind a screen
Careen careen
Forget about it
Now we've meandered back
To our daily routine
To think, to dream
To feel too much
To wonder about
When
Did you stop doing that.

After Nap.

After nap is a timeless space. Where you sleep 22 and wake up 12. In a few invisible hours. A precious time travelness, peopleless and thingless which is then populated with memories and feelings too large for feeling. As long as you lie in twilit darkenss, unlived moments and ones as if from dreams will fly by, slowly like migratory birds across a painted sky of remembering and non remembering. Regrets will caw, and doubly forgotten instances will scratch little claw marks in the bark of ancient tree branches dotted across the landscape of a terrible, quiet, grey mind.

As if aloneness bears heavy and natural and wanted, yet not. Like something would come and wipe the slate clean, yet under and against the window with the blue raincloud light, slivers of wet words beneath chalkdust will chide into longknown, silent, uncharted territories simmering with promise.

It starts to fade like a bad but wise dream, but now it's in words and it'll come back, looking for a haunting, ten years into the now furiously busy, moving, black and white static of things and images, not finding a crack to escape from. One day it will step across the threshold of an old house when the mind is fertile and the rain falls in sheets of mist and nostalgia, yet in nothing at all.

The garden behind it will be abuzz with tiny winged insects burrowing their bodies out of wet earth, silvery blurs of life, in a hurricane of an excited flurry pattering of rising up into the sky melding into life, out of hard grassy wombs of parched earth, now muddy and rich and cold.

Traffic noise will seep from grids of iron windows, expensive curtains, children will still shout unknown at the fact that the shout will carry to their distant futures, changing characters, as if postincarnation, postnap, post as if moments have passed in a blur of scared time running away from things that didn't happen and the scratchy slivery memory of things that did, but only jump into wrong numbers on hopscotch tables and the feet land too perfectly to be wonderingly laughed at for long.

And when the hands land on land, slowly peeling itself away from afternoon sun, emanating a heat into little palms, it almost feels as if something dirty, some bodily sensate feelings have latched on to soft skin, now chalk and dust and sunshine from hours ago, as if a nap has put decade old train rides across forests with lone little huts in the middle of nowhere, now occupied by nobody's words, staring into railway tracks where a child just crossed, staring into thatched roof, wondering about existence, its and its. Understanding neither.

Deja Vu

My heart does a blackflip, my mind a turnaround. One shrug, one smile.. That laugh, some sound. Peculiar likeness to a time.

Like a jolt, a current of realisations running through my skin, buzzing through my thighs, my arms, my insides. Some particular high.

Like the moment before a kiss, endless wait. Too soon, too late.

Is there a purpose to madness? Some sickness, some sadness. Ethereal gladness, a heart full of hadness.

Haveness, hapless.
Lose a poem, choose a poem.

Slink.

This is a classical moment. A moment in the life of writing and non writing. Days when it's okay to come very close and let it go because it was so close. And close is good. When it's okay for it to be left just out of reach and see it become smaller and smaller in the distance. The thought and the will and the intention to be written down in black and white.

Words about nothing.

Then it's a moment in time of perfection to be put down. The multiple meanings of being put down. On paper. Or just put down. Of deliberate forgetfulness and deliberate fecundity. Of words coming in and going out. In an endless stream of tireless tirades of feelings and thoughts and findings and leanings and deliberations.

Sitting pretty. Sitting tight. Sitting down. Sitting up. Sitting straight. Sitting silent. Sitting speaking.

On paper. In small time machines, across epochs of small night time deliberations, across smells of songs and silent slinking.

With the music and the muse and the moon. An extended aberration of still lives and live stills.

Life grows longer and nostalgia grows shorter with a disappearing wick, smaller and smaller in the distance.

Up to finito

Flinging fire, observing softly settling dust on long ended moments of passing doubts.

Slipping up into a normal, stepping down to surfaces of surety and singing lispy lullabies, of mundane privations, pertinent, pleading porous boundaries of need and unneed.

Lighting lamps across a lake, on a window, on a stage. Of the painfully plain and elaborate truthing of the matter at hand, like sand on a windy morning. Admiring varnished little corners of a made up mind.

Stilty.

Swallowed Neruda

Overlooked pasteagerness

Absent good-enoughness

Tensechanging headscratching

Love

Warm gooey masses of 

Shark infested clouds

Of pinkness and sadness

And red and white and black

Forgottenness and livedness

Loud dreams and the quiet between them

Niggling, snuggling, bubbling

Plinking, sinking

Stumbling, fumbling

Trembling, crumbling

Ringing, singing, springing

Surefooted mountain goat of a love.

Like a lost wax hardness

Shiny hard kind of a love.

Like an emptied jelly containment

A wobbly soft splattable 

Sort of a love.

Clinging clanging

Bells in a temple

Superstitious sort

Vermillion and yellow and saffron

Kind of a love.

Middle of the night

Nail biting, empty packets of things

Bottle cap flying across the room, 

Lots of electronics, lost networks

Sort of a love.

Remembered and 

Reminisced and

Retained and recapitulated

and rendered and risked

And remaining

Kind of a love and it's tributaries

To an all encompassing

All roads lead to Rome

Sort of a Love.

A running and sleeping

And

Ridden and dreaming

And

Living and breathing

Kind of a love.

Promised, punctured, pincered, plundered

Pilfered and preserved and

Precious and perfect

Sort of a love.

Long and short and a lot and a lot

Stolen and bought and a fought over

And thought over

Kind of love. 

Listless and lovely 

Lingering and lusty

Longing and livid

Lo and behold

Sort of a love.

Crisp and callous

A thesaurus and

An ad and a warning

And a psalmy 

Kind a love.

A love like a love like a love.

Forgeteverything, pouritout, doitall, laughing, suffering, tryingtounderstand, an it-ness, a me-ness, a he-ness, a we-ness of a life in a moment, foolyourselves, think aloud, neverending-ness.

Singe.

Where do I live? That place where sleep hasn't left. It clings to me like a shadow of you sent along phone lines, across years, jumping through quietness, shouting through roads, tumbling through skies, it falls on the small of my back and pulls me closer.

Shadowy, silent, soft. And so binding, so blinding. So biting. Breathless boundless.

Rustles my hair, calls forgotten names, lives in the past of the future and the future of the past. Cries hot love and singes my eyelashes. There weren't much to start with. I'll do with yours for the meanwhile.

Anyone Else But You.

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on your back is the latest trend

So we're seeing in songs again. In the rainy part of 2007. In the cloudily hot part of 2008. In the humid, drowsy part of 2009.

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side

We're using art as life. We use lies to tell lies. We want some coke with those fries.

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people

We don't know who we talk about anymore. Or if there is to be anyone at all. Or we squish in moulds strangers to turn them tiresome. Sometimes soon, sometime late. Sometimes never at all. Sometimes always. We fool ourselves with familiarity. And fadedness. We put some glue and stick new faces.

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't you forgive me?

We do nothing all day. And be proud of it. Across a decade, we look back and wave and jump to the start, running around in circles, falling back and pushing our faces in the rain, justifying existences and complexities and not explaining them at all.

I will find my niche in your car
With my MP3, DVD, rumple-packed guitar

The roads are blacker wet. Only parents have cars and we walk along with crabs sideways against whitewashed walls. We walk along pavements, look down, stare up, avoid faces, listen to dreams.

Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B A start
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart

Open verandahs leak video games and ratty cameras take inconsequential videos of leaning eucalyptuses, it gets darker and the cats curl up on ledges.

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel

We knew there was a real. Because that's just what exists. We talk nonsense, we talk genius. We are unforgettably brilliant, we are painfully inane.

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage

We were the same people. We were one. We were nothing. We were I. The other wakes up from tiring cold from the future and walks back to the iron gate, swings it to the center and leans ahead, face cupped in palms, stare at gravel ants.

My name is Adam, I'm your biggest fan

Open windows were green and there was no one. Perfectly timed stairs and bald patches in the garden. We didn't know us. We still don't. We look for mirrors in screens. We dig up and cover up and throw away and reclaim without knowing why. We cherish and dismiss, we don't care. Never did.

Squinched up your face and did a dance

Inconsequential and all-important. We twirl around in pleasure and fall listlessly down to nothingness, we live in songs. We have time machines and empty seats. We sit alone in rooms and think. We sit and think. And we sit. And unthink. Beat ourselves over us. Speak in gibberish and replay.

I don't see what anyone can see
In anyone else but you

Du, du, du
Du, du, du
Du, du, du
But you.

Joey never met a bike that he didn't wanna ride
And I never met a Toby that I didn't like
Scotty liked all of the books that I recommended
Even if he didn't I wouldn't be offended.

Sore dreamspot.

3:28 pm Wake up from a bad dream, try to decide in half seconds if one should lose sleep over it.
Close eyes again, try to decide on one reason why one was taking this nap at all.
Shift to another dream. What was good, what was bad. Do day sleepdreams come true.
Why does someone I hardly know have to figure so prominently in such a dream. What about the important people. But what makes them important. I didn't want them to be, pre-sleep. They weren't during sleep. Post sleep why do I have to question what I wanted and got.
Because dreams aren't real? There was a lot of things I did. With previously unimportant people. Now they are someone else. Fall in love with a near stranger, get up to worse things. What's stranger. What's okay?
What's not? It was hardly bizarre. There was an exhibition. A basement. Textiles? Hats? There were parents. There was barefoot me off a school bus. A wrong school bus with the right person.
But there were shifts. And there was filtered sunlight. There was quiet talking. There were faces borrowed from life. Feelings pumped in from some secret little fountain of cruelty. Uneasy feelings replace chokedupness. I think that is nice.
Possibility of scratching a scab lightly as it creates this alien desire is better than flying headfirst to be hurt again.
I can just not scratch at all like a good girl and smile because I know it's healing.
But what was I feeling? Oh it was just a dream. I didn't mean to. But I did. Maybe I want to. I am not but I might and I like the sound of that.

8:36 pm
There's the mild, rainy winds of a drizzle day's end. When air carries around life and doesn't just exist to be breathed in, but felt and loved. Now there are fragments floating around, of an absurd dream, with unimportant people. But the illusion of importance looms in large, crashing into my side, crushing my sense of balance, of this farce sense of understanding that there is some one person that was supposed to be dreamt about. In quite the opposite way, there is no feeling of mad wrongness after the dream.

The various criteria of phasing out people probably vanished from the dream version of love. Maybe it's the new dream version, maybe the strange part of strangeness is being defined and it is not what it was. Maybe it is for good reason that dreams are forgotten and are supposed to be. Everyone is a stranger until they're not.

Maybe the dreams are better at picking out perfectness, or a near perfect wantingness that must exist but won't, because the controllable dreaming is insistent on having to do with unattainability. Maybe one is supposed to have it easy. Maybe dreams aren't that cracked up to be, or they see through a person with much clarity, unclouded with awake feelings. Maybe awake feelings are as absurd as life itself.

And day-long naps have time enough to reach a universe where things are done and not thought. Where one soft love-center candy of life is not covered by concrete textured layer of insecurity and what-ifs. There is no plastic wrapper of  'why the hell at all' and 'that's just not me' and a dozen cellotape layers of 'I don't knows'.

Or the dream just was. And there was happiness. And now there is thought.

Love.

The body cannot contain it. Slips out. It flows.
In throes. Blows low, it slows.
And gushes out.
Now. On the brow. Corner of the eye.
Toe curling, soul stirring, bony.
Hard, simmering soft, brushes against, purring past.
Like the song that played last.

Unanswering, hidden sneeze fills up invisible room.
Dances in disguise.
Releases. Relocates. Recites.
Unheard. Speaks in black and blue.
Exists. Slowly simpers, learns, lingers..
Mirrors the night. One hair at a time.
It listens quietly. It rhymes.

It settles in the corner. Of my sight.
Middle of the unmade mind.
Leans against a quiet heart, it knows.
The history of a sigh, the life of a lie.
By drums, by bells, by blowing shells.
A poem sits by the door.
Leaves cover a wild garden. An old tree silently grows.

Unhurried feet. Absent feet. Imaginary feet.
A welcome mat seat. An irregular beat.

A-muse-douche.

Much men. Very odd. Such sublime. Wow.
I think Doge would be a good listener. Those eyes.

Complexity derives a certain life from unfiltered feelings. Ego in absentia, superego and id throwing punches at 4 in the night (morning?). There's a part which feels authentic to touch. A soft feather or a sharp knife point. Such delirium, much rollercoaster. While we think deferring gratification/ pleasure in small things exercises the will, 4 o' clock nonfood food is flying around one's head, with broken wings and a Cumberbatchy voice. Saying things which it is not saying.

The next morning at 11:28 it rests on the roof, in the sun, happy with wrecking. Eaten up, it grows on the back of the mind. Sun-soaked and dripping with amusement. It'll settle on the soon to be choked up part of the throat. The part which is happily married to tear ducts for the past almost 22 years. The brain is adamant on infallible reason and dictates severe hard conclusive thoughts to be thingificated.

When the little whispering fairy wafts around, as midnight flies past with amazing rapidity and settles in a nook in the ear, makes itself comfortable, sends along feels of a certain kind. Be amused. Be a muse. See one. See more? See one and feel one. Be it. Be affected, be broken, be yourself.

Muses are imperatively slick with wrongness. A dully sharp wrongness, shifting in the sunlight, pastel shimmery, dark glimmery something right underneath the surface of a placid lake with smooth pebbles, resting with the sun glinting off, reflected in the receding waves, moving about as if writhing in sleep. Flips around in the afternoon sun. Muses are amphibious. They recline against a tree, they don't look at you. You look at the existence of it and write a poem with your nails on a tree bark on the other side of the lake.

Dusty earth whips up tiny storms which cloud up the mind, settle with surprising rapidity, bring the world one little cloud at a time, transferring, transporting, tranforming the mindscape, bringing in the dust of a certain one. Recesses of the mind are not open to brooms or soap or a rough, rough washcloth. Dust settles for eternity, that certain kind, one layer after another, sedimentises.

One often digs up old broken pieces from a hundred years ago but a sudden sandstorm topples over mountains of soft earth, makes it level, makes one see the top layer. It rains and there are roses and they wilt under the strong suspicious, atrocious sun the next day and the mind lays barren until it rains one night at 4 (morning?).

Thinner layers, fewer roses. Much manure, many flowers, lush grass, a gazebo and a lemonade in the dying sun of late evening. Sprinklers are put in place for when there is no rain. It's green and sometimes insects with golden brown wings sprout from the earth and fly off into the distance.

Muses are stranded at different parts of the city, they walk towards an unlit corner and disappear.

The sky is a photograph.

The kite flew loose
Suddenly
It fell away
Unresisting
Featherly, fartherly
Plink, unlinked
It said its byes
Hid its lies

You cut it loose
It flew. Away.
Unnoosed.

Wastingly, witheringly

You run to it
Or you don't
Stay. Sky. See.
Stare. Wondering.
Undone, it flew.
You cut it loose
And stayed. Wondering.

Stuck in a treebranch
Hidden in shadows
On a tin roof
Catneighbour
On sunny afternoon
Faded, dry
Torn, forlorn
An empty string
Fell to the floor

Footsteps
Fell over the door

You went to sleep
Unwondering.

Darkness
Cold darkness
Cut off night
A story, a kite.
Out of sight

Light.

The Inner Beast

The Inner Peace. Quite the same thing. It's like misheard lyrics of the heart. Or the mind. Like some quietened down roaring which is like wheels lurching to a stop. Maybe it's such a shame when words are to be typed when there's quiet and it's not the noise that is being put down on paper. Laziness. Smarts. Who knows. When one is assaulted with loud noise for unbearable amounts of time, it is still hard to realise on one's own how much that affects the functioning of a mind, but the mind noises are always there. Sometimes rushing through, colliding thoughts and haphazard movements. Probably stimuli driven. The ugliness and wrongness that goes around creates a strange dissonance which probably just goes away when one's in a space that is largely self-created and acceptable and welcome. Welcoming and welcome. Being with people one welcomes and is welcomed by. However that looks, it feels like a welcome.

Soft light, familiar sounds, dogbarks from far away, road traffic but so much lesser than daynoise, keyboard tiptaps, router blinkings, familiar curtains, famliar other cloths, familiar shawls, even new familiar shawls, outofreach blankets, a waiting phone, a waited phone, slightly long don'tneedtocutthemyet nails, background noise music, elbows on thighs, cracking knuckles, blowable hairstrand, bitable lip, scratchable back, needless fireworks, senseless celebration, why.

Familiar shawls, long shawls. "This is my Papa's shawl. He got it from when he was chief guest somewhere." "Why do you have it?" "Because I am.. his chief guest?"

Reading Freud's Dream and Delusion in Jenson's Gradiva. Pompeii. I happened to attend a talk on it at the JLF. Accidentally, largely. It felt too much to travel to another venue after beer and pasta. And there was Mary Beard, talk of normal sized bedpan thingies and spaces being markets/bars/temples. But no one said a word about a woman with an attractive gait, Bertgang. I like it though, also the idea of Wilhelm Jenson being respected, but not one of the best of any sort. Also, ruminating on JLF, quite a few things stick. Such as who are you writing for. It was said: one wants, through words, to not stroke but poke.

But even when one pokes, one had to know who it is one is packing a powerful poke for. Sometimes one doesn't know anything, and there is nothing to know. One doesn't care to care, because one is one.

Does the bricklayer imagine for the future inside a small room or a giant hall? That one built. Does the bricklayer appreciate the vastness of the sky or is that only for those who are strangers to it. After all one doesn't wonder about the paintveins on one's ceiling, was the painter thinking about.. something. Or nothing.

Sweetheart.

Rain-wet earth
Darkened roads
Grey sun
The hills rise from the green
My baby lives on a screen.
Sees cross country
Big university, small room
Won't be close
Anytime soon
Not nearer than
In my pocket, next to my pillow
Carried around, kept
On buses,
Moving on railway tracks
Rain-wet earth
Darkened roads
Grey sun
Won't see me anytime soon
Tells me to have fun.

Tears taste like coconut water.
 
- Written on 8th September, 2013. Thought it should go up. This is just precious. I don't even remember what the coconutty tears were for. Or who. Or maybe I do and I don't.

Being in one.

Like a clapboard noises out, a guillotine blade falls, flash goes off, shutter comes down, sun comes up and in sometime it makes your head spin and it's hot and dreary.

As if one willfully surrenders to be in a room perpetually in the moment. Makes it their own and then every other day bang on walls, break things, write profanities, talk to oneself. One made it for two. Is left singularly solo. One doesn't realise it's made for one. Was for one. Meant to be for one.

The food will run out, and they'll eat the other's time. Crunch up words and wave sleepily to ideas that go to a distant unnamed place. The farm. Where the parents put your rabbits when you were 7.

Shot up to black, occasionally sparkly space which could be either what they tell you or someone just punched a few holes in your paperbag which you wear on your head as a necessary precaution. Not to offend.

Paint walls with a childish landscape only to realise its wallness.

Lick on a cardboard ice cream.

Step over to avoid a dry puddle.

Feel a stair where there wasn't any. You haven't reached.

Mistakenly dip a paintbrush in chocolate milk.

Write this because you want to write this.

It's thoughtmurder. Thoughtdeath. Inward terrorism. Cornsyrup utopia. Autotune. Autopilot.

Make a gash. Sing. Dry up.

Unapproved Guest Post

What Anonymous said about the previous post 'Sleep Gum' and because Anonymous doesn't write as much as I want them to - which is pretty much never. Because Anonymous is really only the one person who well, reads this blog. And because Anonymous didn't know this was going to happen. And because this need to be better preserved. 
And because it's beautiful. For the love of words, the mind and the poetry of it.

You know what, I don't like your blog.
I don't like it when you write a post.
But I just have to read it.
And after reading it, I dislike it.
The reason for it is that, your writing scares me.
Its almost repulsive.
It's like my thoughts.
It's like I am telling myself about myself, if you catch my drift.
It's like you invaded my mind and extracted my thoughts and put them on paper, and not the casual thoughts, but those thoughts which make me feel very strongly about something.
And that scares me, that someone can know what I know and feel about something.
Then I find solace in the fact that it is just coincidence.
And that the things you write about are not the things which are as important to me as other issues.
I hope you never write about those things.
I might not be able to take it.
Your writing scares me.
It's like walking into a mirror show in the circus.
And the mirrors don't distort the reality here, they amplify with.
With vague familiar feelings.
Your writing comforts me.
Because I will never be able to reach into my mind and bring these thoughts out.
Ignore this message.
Thank you, Anonymous. I hear you. And I understand.