Here We Almost Are
I am your echo.
I cling to your bathroom sink after you brush your teeth.
I’m hung up on the hairs you leave caught your towel.
When there’s only a spoonful of cereal left in the bowl, I’m the one who eats it.
If you fall asleep before the movie ends, I watch the credits.
Sometimes, late at night, you get a phone call, and there’s nobody there, on the other end of the line.
That’s me. Listening to you breathe. Listening to your eyelids flicker against the presence of night.
I’m the foot fetishist who collects up the toenail clippings you were just going to throw away.
I’m the doctor who keeps every malfunctioning organ that must be withdrawn from your otherwise perfect form.
I’m with you. Without out.
But never quite there.
Coming Up For A Breath Of Your Air
We were attracted to each other, like magnets that wanted to get drunk and fuck in a cheap motel room.
We didn’t even want to pay for the bed. We just looked for a nice, quiet place, and kicked the door in. We made a mess, and started a fire to clean it up.
Leave no traces, only ashes.
We got drunk. Stoned. Lost. We got up to our asses in cool ocean water, and we watched the sun go down over the burnt out ruins of what might’ve once been Paris.
Picturesque ruins. Like something you’d see in a comic book.
She lived on smoke and shat diamonds, as far as I was concerned. She was like a cancer that’d laced itself into my system, and was now busy burrowing into the deepest parts of me. More like an infusion than an invasion.
You & I, we’re something else, and something else again. Forgotten fragments. Slippery segments. You know worms don’t really multiply when you cut them in two. They just twitch for a while, before the lights go out.
Imagine that. Feeling. Sensation. And then gone. What’s that like? Is there a heaven for worms out there? Do they have some place to go when it gets cold, and their little hearts stop beating?
I think these thoughts, as she lowers me into my grave.
She seals my coffin with a kiss.
Stuff and Stuff
Normally, I try to stay busy.
I like to get up early in the morning, and start my day. I feel like I’ve got lots to do. I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life, but it’s a steady process.
I’ve got a job that I work. I go there, I do tasks, and every two weeks I get a pay-check.
When I’m not there, I’m usually at home. For the past 12 years, whenever I’ve been at home, I’ve felt a pressure. A pressure to do something, or to be someone. Write a book. A movie. A blog entry. Prove to the universe that I exist outside of my everyday job which anybody could do.
Up every morning, and writing. When I was younger, I had to write every day to prove to myself that I was a writer. To develop the stamina, and skills. Now, I’ve written thing. Books. I know I’m a writer, a real writer, in any sense of the word. Though I don’t get paid for it, yet.
But now it’s December. December, 2013.
Work gets harder, and the days get shorter. Xmas shoppers are like a plague, from unhappy parents to crying children. They all want what they want, and they resent anything that gets in their way, like logic, or the truth. “We don’t sell that.” But I want it!
So, this month of the year, I try to take it a bit easier. I try to relax on my days off, and just have a good time. I work on projects when I can, but I accept that I need a lot of rest, and plenty of time to just goof off, watching cartoons and action scenes.
It feels cold outside, the cool air sneaking in through the window-glass, and wrapping itself around my legs. Like an icy scarf, or a chill snake slowly wrapping itself about me, tighter and tighter.
Maybe I’ll do something today.
Maybe I won’t.
I guess we’ll just have to see.
Mouth these words with me:
I won’t ask for more until I’ve swallowed what I got.
Plagued by erratic economies. You struggle to keep your bills paid, your head sinks for a few moments under delicious waters. Yeah, you’re slipping below the waves of sweet syrup. Heavy stuff, but you still sink. Lower and lower.
Sink lower. I’ll come with.
I want you to illustrate me. To film me. To record me. To push me forward and out, into the, y’know, beyond. I want you to animate me in your personal style. Something psychedelic, like those visions I had when I was little.
Remember when you were little, and you saw some crazy shit, that nobody could ever explain? I do. I remember it like I was there. I remember when I was really little and I had these great big dreams that seemed far more intense than regular reality.
Now? Fuck, man. Every day is like a solid stone, colliding with a bone.
I dunno. I want to reach out. I want to open hailing frequencies, but these damn monkey hands can’t work the controls. So I shriek and bang my skull on the screen.
Eventually, something gives way.
Quicksilver sensations, as I slide in past the screen. There’s a sound like a modem being dragged behind a truck that’s driving towards an infinite horizon. I’m devoured by the other world, a thin screen enveloping me like a hyper-texture amoeba. Smooth. Reflective. It takes me down.
I come out the other side.
Might As Well Face It; You’re Addicted To Lies
It is morning, and I am in mourning.
The night has died, and it has taken all of its darkness with it.
Now all I got is all my favourite songs, and a pair of headphones. I got voices in my ears, warning me not to love, and not to be afraid to love. I got two pockets full of love-notes I planned to give out to strangers, but why bother?
Yeah, that’d be fun, right? Get a card, and write down your feelings.
"I just saw you walking by, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful you are." Just hand it to her, and walk away. She’ll get the point. Don’t be creepy. Don’t try to sleaze a kiss out of it all. Just do your damage and get out.
"Come find me. I’m out feeding birds."
What’d you need? What’d you want? What do you require to make it through from this day to the next?
I am alone on this island nation. I am writing down my messages and sticking them in bottles, and tossing them off into the distance.
When the fuck are you going to find me?
She hits me with a kiss, with a fist.
She hits record.
"Is this thing on?"
Yeah, she wanders into our relationship like a drunk, looking for a fight. She scrunches her hands up into little balls of knuckled rage. She grinds her teeth down to little broken points, and she spits out white grains of sand across the morning.
She comes in burnt. She comes in broken. She asks me to make love to her, but I have to find the masking tape first. I have to wrap her up like a mislaid Xmas gift. I have to secure all her rattling cogs and spigots.
Find Me: For I am hungry. For I am lost. For I am a foursome in a single body. I am that genius who’d ruin the world for science. I am that impetuous voice of youth, burning against the black. I am that invisible female, unknown and unseen, working in the background. I am that scarred and hideous monster, hiding a tired heart behind lumps of concrete and aggression.
Is this thing on?
Or are we just talking in the dark, mistaking our echoes for conversation? Are we here? Are we one? Are we a group? Is this more like masturbation, or making love with a stranger?
Let me just tell you now: It’s gonna be another one of those days. We can fight it, we can kick against us, but let me just inform you of these simple facts:
We’re gonna be beautiful when we grow up into the sky, like flowers and fireworks. We’ll grow apart, disperse, and then flicker back to the earth in form of seeds and loose change.