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.

Sleep gum.

Nightmares stick to you. To the farthest reaches of the mind. The unfamiliar, shaky, scary, fall of a ladder, tremble of the ground beneath your feet, metalclanging feeling of dread bringing you down to your side. Unfeelingly because eyes wide awake, it's only a dull pain in the strangest parts of the mind, a stretched throat phantomy and real while the imaginary slivers of scare stick to your lovely smooth surface. Hitting on nightly peace with a shrill, convoluted behaviour which runs away shouting silently while the thought of it hasn't formed yet.

And you lie there wondering what realness caused disabling self harming shit scaring, dull paining strangeness. Which sticks to you like gum and you need something to wipe off the residue, after pulling it off, squeezing it off, trying not to pay attention to a sticky blob. Someone's words might stick to it. Some might just make the surface smooth again. But which are which and where are they. Look. Try. Talk. Desperately. And get nothing back because it's gum. It dries off. It's gum. Sometimes it hardens up into ugliness. But it's gum. It's on your mind.

Not anyone else's. It is your mind. Only yours. However much you wish it wasn't. Didn't have to be. That cannot be. Because it's only yours. Unlike other things you're in love with. Leaving permanent indelible marks on places which feel familiar but they shake you up like a ghost under your bed or a bad dream's end.

Dinner Tables

Something about dinners and tables and the things between them. Electric, crisp, heavy, dollopy, dangerous things. Thoughts and tinkerings. And shifting silences.

Off handed things and deliberate things. Good natured. Angry. Slamming, seering, selfish things. And mildly masterful things. Thinly veiled things and out in the open, opening out things.

Three serial killers with different first and last names and a psychologist with dinner around a table. So it must be that kind of a dinner.

Or the fact that I haven't been part of a regular dinner around the dinner table for years. It's a different habitat. Occasional ones are occasionally nice. There's a different dinner time family on a little screen on the bed mostly.

And some when asked where they live will exclaim the internet is their home and an orange traffic cone their dinnertime bell. Which leads to a room majorly disconnected from other rooms. And rooms with other people in them eating dinner with dinnertime families disconnected and it goes on and on.

Debra is mostly left stalking people who are allowed to love. However, for the non specialist.. I do not care.

In a flash moment of feedback I've been told I write and then it's over without me telling the reader what I'm writing about. Yes, I'll take a side of fries, thank you. And mustard. Mustard.

Florp.

I like staring for vulgarly long durations at the background in pictures. Tiny slivers of stories behind people. Textures and colours, leaves and lonely people. Inspirations lies in pixels. And grass is greener in the rains.

I saw a madman with his mouth open, staring at a treetop, sitting in a temple yard. Not in a picture.

I saw three birds. Triplets. Run amock, fly around, nest on a branch and disappear.

I heard tiny yellow leaves stuck on a car windowpane, talking to the grey. They said they'll be swept away.

Photographs at right angles, white on glass, sharp, delectable.

I felt eyes shoot through souls and then get tired because they were unseeing. Lifted up where a murmur from seven decades ago trembles across murky streams. Chiaroscuro of windswept dreams.

There are wonderful shocks at button presses now. Uneven pillows are soft.

There's a dull ache in the thigh. Simple pleasures in the sky. The bigger drops find the barest of spots.

Cold and blue and shriekingly true. Quietly dripping down, endless prickling. Things are quiet.

Old songs play by the dozen, machines get warmer while I disappear and then there's black on white pixels and there's inspiration, in a dark window, staring in.