bed/rooms. temple of the person(al).
messy floors in order of a jackson pollock on crack, cd collections of when music was rad, then we look over at our slippers: our we slowly becoming our dad. an empty space on the other side of the bed: the dent disappeared. the new wife is a bottle of gin and a meal of beer. books on self help thrown into the fireplace (along with pictures of jane). stains on the ivory. yellow and faded whites.
knifes should not be kept in the bed/room (they.are.though).
dull lighting. bland shadows. the mirror is smashed in the tip outside, the mirror don't lie, it's a reflection of life and it tells men they are fuckup guys.
introverted emotions. extroverted commotions. misunderstanding. alpha male landing.
july feels like september which feels like december. time does fly and drag at the same time.
a drag from cigarettes with a candle to mask to smell of fag: a closet open, throwing up a clothing trap.
scribbles of paper, poetry. jane is poetry. the angry note of: "all these characters are fictional, any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental... apart from jane... fuck jane" the rest is empty. expressionless as the mirror.
the temple is falling apart.
some cut their ears off for art.
in the bed/room we part with the feeling of wondering what it feels like. to break away from anomie and inner penitentiary lives. a fire? suffocation? alcohol poisoning infection from mould? slitting of wrists before we get old? a cluedo of the bed/room.
in bed/rooms we have narrow vision: night-thinkers. curiosity kills.
i met my gold/digger on a train to new orleans.
she glanced over, we made eye contact, she took me.
beautiful was probably an understatement, a hardbody as patrick would say.
"Hey Antonia" I would then say.
<?> was the response.
the atoms were filled to the brim with beauty, but something was missing. the electrons?
she responded, i missed it.
i replied, she twists it.
"you are crafted by the gods or some other pretentious bullshit. but you are empty, so i will never die for you. Antonia."
<?> was the response.
she spoke once more.
alien voice. foreign to my ears.
this was not my gold/digger, but she could've fooled my tears.
&the tail stops, so does the panting, the eyes immortalised in that naïve stare. I stand there with the pistol in my right hand, looking at what was once a dog. was it once my dog? does it matter?
I become God. Dog becomes sheep. And, the universe doesn't even blink.
so I light another fag and toss my empty Crayola Crayon Cigarette Case into the puddle beside me. I guess that's some sort of metaphor. who knows, who cares(?)
Her hair falls, the spring rain
Over her chest, rising
Like the hills of the world
Bright in the summer of her smiling face
She sees all the world like the clouds in the sky
Feels it with fingers like beams of the sun
Her laughter comes rolling
The wind in the trees
Her heart flows, all loving
Like salt to the oceans
I feel in the water the touch of her hands
The birds say she loves me
They sing in her voices
She hushes, with nature to watch the stars rise
I’ll tell her I love her
Through the world she’ll hear me
She sleeps now, like mountains
Our love will move on
It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.
Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.
Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.
The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.
This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,
and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.
I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.
The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.
I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.
The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.
Chained to these walls
I can see only the shadows
The fire gives light to these dark silhouettes
I call them by their names
Puppets, people, or books.
They're my company and must be real.
I perceive only what I see.
Silhouettes and shadows that are real to me.
I force myself to turn
My shackles are tight
I embrace the company of my companions
Puppets, people, and books.
I know them by no other name.
Friendship when school ends is like the leaves of a tree:
Spring begins, trees filled with healthy green leaves,
As does friendships within the year.
Summer is the end.
You fill the leaves with hope,
You love these leaves,
You've always intended to keep contact,
But inevitably, Time does change.
And Autumn comes,
And these leaves that previously you had so dearly loved
Start to fade away.
You didn't intend on this,
You were so eager to keep in touch,
But people change, as do leaves.
The once vibrant green you had known and loved
Transform into an ugly unfamiliar brown,
As you desperately cling to these leaves,
Hoping for them to stay this beautiful green you once knew.
Soon you are just standing around these empty trees
That were once so familiar to you,
But now around you all these dead leaves.
Then it's Winter,
And these leaves slowly fade away
Behind blankets of white,
Never to be seen again.
And you just stand there, surrounded by nothingness.
Cold and alone.