And so

And so it comes, once more, in a whirldwind thrash and a sprinting dash. And I don't know what I'm talking about anymore as the darkness descends behind sharp shrewd eyes. I was captured in still, stoic movement. I was liquid amongst shapes and sounds and everything else was not. And I'm sick of the trickling in the cold stiff air. And I'm disgusted at being used as a scratching post, getting this whim and that urge out in subconcious light. And I wait for neon glows among others. And I wait to here the chattering babble of the morning song, the friendly call. And I take my turn, not living, not dying, just inanimately passing through time. And once more she holds the blade glistening slick to my jugular. And she reaches into my veins and pumps her poison straight in. Beating my heart in irregular time. Struggling to keep her stone ice grip on my lost-passion limbs. And there is nothing while I wait. There is nothing while I breathe. There is nothing left to lose. But nothing ready to be gained.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Fucking

Waiting. Waiting to find out. She's waiting to find out. Will he fuck her? Has he fucked her? What the fuck's all this fucking stuff about fucking anyway? Does he make love to her? Does he make lurrrvvve? Or does he screw her? Bang her? Take her roughly from behind? Will he fucking bang her fucking brains out?

Will he tell her that he flicks her nipples? Dampens them with his tongue? Will he tell her he loves to ram his tongue inside her? His fingers? His dick? Will he tell her everything? Will he tell her nothing? Will he fuck her?

The beginning of the end of the beginning

You know you'll end up with a knife to your throat, just as she lays one to her own. Smoothing and grazing translucent skin, waiting, itching to make that first cut. And she hammers you down with every glance, every word, every sigh. You know you'll end up weeping on the floor, as she does every day, with her legs gathered by her arms, her fragile armour against the silence and emptiness. And she causes a tear with every thought, every annoyance, every insult. And you know you'll end up as broken as her, picking up the pieces every morning, to be left in a heap again every night. And she breaks a piece off with every word unsaid, every kiss unreturned, every gaze not met.

And you know she'll self-destruct, and take you with her.

She waits

How do I tell you that I'm lost when you're not here

Left staring into the distance, eyes fixed and unfocussed

Checking for contact, here, there and everywhere

Waiting for the moment my heart will lift once more.


How do I tell you that things aren't ok without you

Even if things aren't ok with us, i'm still consoled

Flying high when you're near, sinking low when you're far

Always waiting, waiting to catch your eye.


How do I tell you that in one blissful moment

You become everything to me, all at once

Such a rush, such a buzz, such beauty all around

Waiting for the feeling to never end.


How do I tell you I want to grasp on tight

As we freefall through this life, together

We can be separately failing, but jointly succeeding

Always waiting, waiting to tell you I love you.

Blame it on the black star

He says hey baby doll, why do your eyes look so dead?
Stone cold, full of pain would surely be better.
Full of joy an unreachable goal.
He says sweetheart when did you last sleep? Eat? Brush your hair?
She says, hey cutie pie 3 maybe 4 days. I'm living on my broken nails.
Chewed to the quick. And further still. Bleeding, infected.
And still I can't stop cutting my teeth on them.
She says hey baby boy, I wanna sleep.
I wanna sleep and not wake up tomorrow.
This perpetual nightmare's too much.
She says.
She says.
She says.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Holes

She can pick holes in anything, she can.  Her jumper is unravelling inch by inch, leaving the woollen thread trailing behind her, limp and lifeless.  His socks need darning, after she takes her claws to them and pulls out weave and waft.  She can pick holes in anything.  She can leave herself wondering which way is up, which is down.  She prefers horizontal. And comotose. Comotose is the best, for her.

Or horizontal, and do what she does best.

So upside-down, topsy-turvy, she sits and picks.  She can't stop herself. Bared nails digging into the soil, burrowing a hole for her blue-tinged dead-weight body. Cover herself over and rot for the worms.  Where's the right and wrong for her these days? In this mixed-up life, with a mixed-up head, and nothing but razor-talons to do what she does.

And do what she does best.

She stops for a minute to darn his socks.  Patch up the mess she started.  He says "hey baby, give me your sticky saliva on my dick".  She spits at him. Arches her back, swipes at his arms with her nails, draws legions of blood in one blink-missed moment. Hisses and spits venom in his face. Or where.

Where she does it best.

She can't escape the reality

Her name is pain and suffering. Her name is death and destruction. Her name is carnage and chaos.

She smells of metholated spirits and of single socks. She smells of rain on hot stone. And of sleepless dyslexia. She smells of impurities washed away by tears.

She is hopelessly despairing. She is hopefully destroying. She wants to be good. She doesn't want to cause a fuss.

She is crying gentle tears into her pit of oblivion. She is weeping for those she is destroying. Don't try to tell her she plays no part in this. She isn't listening any more.

She knows what she should do. She always knows. She knows that she is too selfish, too full of cowardice, too vain.

You tell her. You tell her from me that she is worth more than this. You tell her from me that this will come to no good. No good, she isn't listening. She isn't listening any more.

She can't escape the reality. The scars on others' wrists. The bathtubs full of watered down blood. The handprints left as a final alarm. The gun against innocent, unwitting heads. She tells herself it isn't her fault. She isn't listening. She's not listening to herself. Not any more.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

The Masquerade

I'd rather be alone
Sitting in melancholic silence
Repeating those lines over again
Than singing them in my head
With jarring discord
Sitting with my slipping masquerade.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

The Beginning

He takes her. Takes her to his place. Takes her roughly. Lays her down on cold sheets. Soft sheets. Satin sheets. He hitches up her legs and tells her. Tells her this. Tells her that. Tells her everything she wants to hear. Needs to hear in order to. In order to loosen off those muscles. He kisses downy hairs. Small of her back. Breathes in her scent. Holds himself back. Back from diving in mouth first. Instead he tickles her soft smooth skin.

She squirms. She moans. She's ready. And he holds back. He likes where he has her. Quivering under. Shivering from. Waiting for. Waiting for the rest.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Fine

Yes, yes, everything’s fine.

Smelling of roses.

Fine and dandy.

Wonderfully fantastic.

Except.

Except the fact that you make me sick.

To my back teeth, to my eye teeth.

Sick to my stomach.

Putrid, rancid bile inducing fakery.

Projectile-vomit staining jokery.

Vile, retching, gagging unawareness and selfishness.

When it’s only for my benefit you know it’s called hiding.

And you wouldn’t know it if I slapped your face with my contempt.

But you know, other than that.

I’m doing just fine.