I close my two eyes I can’t see anything I need a hand from my pineal gland to give me some vision projections hit the back of my eyelids showing me images conjured by myself I am the artist and the audience finally a filmmaker but I have no editor every edition is a suicide cut the assembly footage with no assembly different stories with the same outcome being stuck in a homicide rut different possibilities creating a medley of my own creations hunting me with the faces of others plastered on in this world my mind is God isolating flaws and fears always feeling the end is near when there was no beginning to moving pictures with no plot just mapping out my mind rot showing me my insecurities and anxieties leaving me insecure and anxious I’m starting to hate the author of these stories but the more I hate him the more they get gory.
A twitch of the toes, A pop of the lips, A flick of an eyelid: I watch as electricity sleeps.
‘Hey there, Mr Conductor. Y’know I can’t resist you.’
Sunday schmaltz - sorry. Soap suds and rubber gloves have that effect. My right hand is wielding a *** scrubber but my brain thinks it’s holding a pen. Let’s call this dishwater doggerel and be done with it. :)
should any women try to form a cosy partnership with him she'll put a cleaving wedge in between them it is quite plain that she won't tolerate that kind of thing going on apparently she's got to be the only paradise bird he'll ever see a few of his prospective consorts were told to scram and not to be tempting him with their eyelash batting scams a casual observer might well say she's pretty **** good at vamoosing the rivals away
I wake up. Quiet. The sheets beside me are cold. The sun shines trough the dewy windows. I look down at my brown knees. The nail polish on my toes is falling off. I close my eyes for a second and open them again. I leave my bed and look myself in the mirror. My eyes are as blue as the ocean, and I’ve got freckles on my nose. My lips are dry, so I wet them with my tongue. I can feel the warmth from the sun on my thighs. It’s silent. My mother enters the room. “Who?” she asks. “I don’t know” I answer. She leaves. I look at myself in the mirror again. I look pretty, with my tan skin as a contrast to my blue eyes. An eyelash has fallen off and landed on my cheek, but I don’t remove it. I look away, at the sun. It shines again today. I miss the ocean.