Thursday, May 28, 2009

hats, cats and places to hide.

Somebody asked me today, if I believed in God. It’s funny how its trendy to hate god at the moment. All my friends are so wrapped up in their own atheism that I don’t think the question of his existence has ever been positioned to me. I guess they just assumed I was happily sitting in the boat with them. I looked down at my feet; I looked at the ground around them, and then slowly climbed back to stare vacantly and the negative space made by the person’s neck and shoulders. As if the question was so personal that I couldn’t bring myself look them in the eye, as if they had just pulled down my pants in the middle of the street.
I felt how a prostitute must feel when they are finished with a tick, a mix of pride and shame.

I rested on that I don’t believe in organized religion and that no man or no mans book can tell me anymore about god than I can tell myself. That god wont talk to me because im sure he is pretty busy at the moment with his own drama, and although im sure he listens cant be bothered by my little things.
I think that god is like a working parent. They love you, and care for you. But they just can’t be there all the time; you have to grow up by yourself.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

they were always to cool to run my race..

Have you ever read one of those stories? One of those poems? The sad ones. You know what I’m talking about. The ones that make you regret and wonder what you’ve done with your life.
I don’t like them. Never have, never will. I write them though. They just happen. I can’t help it… I hate it when they come out. They’re terribly sad. What’s worse is I don’t have anything to be sad about.

Well, no. I do have things, but they’re not that bad. I want to quit writing the ones that scream “Woe is me!” That’s not what I want to be, That’s not who I am. I want to make people laugh, Not cry. Not think. Not sigh…
I can’t keep them hidden though. I can’t write them and lock them away. They are part of me, no matter what I say. It’s lying to pass them over.Maybe I write them because I haven’t found myself.When I do, I hope I’m happy.
It is difficult to make out the words because it’s not you and me, it’s just me. It is about my mind drawn in a blue sky, and my window sill blistering because of it. It is about staring down ten stories and seeing animal eyes painted on the pavement, bleeding and crying and moaning like something inside me, like the reek of greenhouses and cow shit inside my room.

Even if I close my eyes, I picture spring devouring crows’ feet and pickled eggs sticking to my window, where those branches scrape like an old friend, except trees don’t grow this high, so it’s all in my mind, you see. It is about this pen and this paper andten stories I can’t stare down.
I am beyond finding rainbows out here, in the sludge of yesterday’s rain, where every stone bench, and even the green of the grass, is covered in pigeon shit. This town is like a crowd, like a monster from the worst parts of us, in time to place you at the head and me at the foot gazing up from the tower to the sun-burnt sky.
Must there be a mutual understanding that I will never see you again, if we are part of the same body of wistful thinking that we can do something significant here? Your palms are thirty, forty, six hundred and twenty two meters away, but I can feel them resting against the hollow of your neck stretching for anybody else against you,And I am counting the stars on the other side of the world or something like it, knowing full well that half of them probably died millions of years ago, with your lips against the white of my knuckles.
And I don’t even bother to remove the staples from the pre-recycling curling inward like clustered fetuses because I’m secretly screaming at them never to let go. I wish I could call sunsets black or white and leave it at that, but these fingers against my temple are not my own, leaking out my ideas and dreams. My tongue never bites back, but every muscle in my body recoils against the slap of a door closing or a shoulder turning the blind eye or deaf ear, or cocked in your throat,
Do you know the hardest— battle we fight is barely tasting the edge of tomorrow, and having to go it alone. And Remember, in elementary school when it was safe to give Valentine’s cards with “I love you” and “Won’t you be my Valentine?” to other boys because they didn’t have cooties?

Saturday, May 16, 2009

of john tuverly and timothy golding and men who dwell by railway tracks

when i was seven years old, i used to love to watch my mother cook on the hot plate. i think is because i liked the way that she always had it up on full go, which caused the rings to glow the most amazing warm orange colour. i can remember sitting on the hard flat floor, my skin sticking to the lineo and stareing up in aww at it, wishing i could just hold it in my hands for a evening my curiosity got the better of me, while my mother stood there, waiting for the water to boil so she could cook the frozen peas, i decided i was going to touch it. i had mulled over the idea for some time but had never been able to pluck up the corage to do it. i always knew in the back of my mind it would be painful. but how could i not. so as my mother stood there watching me, with an amost excited grin on her face, i reached out. i was never a short child so i didnt have to strain to reach it, but in my mind it was as if it was the most unachieveable feet, like climbing to the top of a mountain. and then, i screamed. my fingers throbed and ached and stung all at once. my mother waiting, had already began running the cold water in the sink, and stuffed my hand under it. she was laughing rather lightly in my ear, as i screamed and cryed and winged. i asked her later why she had let me do it. why she had just stood there when she knew how much it would hurt. she told me that unless i had done it and felt the pain of it, i would have never learned to do it again. she said something never judgeing a book by its cover, even though the glowing red looked warm and pretty it was really painful and distructive. i took this advice to far, everytime i got that glowing awww feeling, i ran away and his my hands in my pockets, in fear of getting burned again.i realise now that people are not like hotplates. you cant avoid being burned by them all your life, the best you can do is hope with all that you have that they stove is up high enough to really hurt you. but even if it is all you can do is run your fingers under the cold water, and try again.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

for anyone whos ever told a lie, and enjoyed it

when you dont wanna feel, death can seem like a dream. but seeing death, really seeing it, makes dreaming about it fucking ridiculous. maybe theres a moment growing up when something peels back, maybe we look for secrets because we cant believe our own minds. though i missed you, even without really knowing you, life would be better without me. a thought is a hard thing to control.

all i know is that i began to feel again. crazy, sane, whatever i was, i knew there was only one way back into the world. i began to talk, to tell you my stories and my adventures. i realise that being crazy dosnt mean your broken its just you or me applified. ive been up and ive been down, ive been good and ive commited every sin. but ive come along way to see you.

to the old, i really miss you, you know that? i really do. i miss our words, our jokes, our secrets. i miss our fabrications and our lies. because in time those things will make me stronger, just at moment every time i think of them it makes me wanna scream.
tears are just the antidote for laughter
i keep fucking picking my nails, there isnt going to be anything left of them soon.

and im pouring my secrets into shot glasses and dumping them down the drain. because there is nothing better than a broken heart to dull your senes, not even alcohol cant do what that dose.

its funny because i have no reason to be sad. [you know except for feeling completely alone] i have things to make me happy. but they never seem to last. its like im dumping myself down the toilet. i dont even know what im talking about anymore.
its just an endless spiral downward. and i would like the feeling to die now. please. this train of thought is falling off the track and its about to crash, and did you know blood it blue untill its oxiginated. and i want something but i dont really know what.


Tuesday, May 5, 2009

JOY joy joy in the rain.

It has been another awkward day, from wakeing, to eating, to sitting here typeing. to say that i hadnt forgotton about my little blog would be lieing quite a bit. ive been looking around and im starting to think the world is running out of things to tell me. good news is hard to come by. some boys from school died in a car crash, they were two years yonger then me and in their grad year this year. it made me think of my old imaginary friend Elroy and what ever happened to him.

i mean what happens to them when you no longer have the imagination to let them live. where do they go back to? is there an agency for then? a boarding house? and how can we be so crule? he was the cowboy when i was the indian, he would hide when i wished to seek. all that is left of Elroy is memory, which seems not even strong enough to allow him to live. how could i let this happen to my best friend, my only friend. he knew me better than i did myself. he knew every move, was there for every blow, for every last bruise they gave me he was there to suck the bad blood out. and i just let it happen. i just left him to rot in the back of my mind.

in the end im glad im not somebodies imaginary friend. the thought of liveing on the lonieness of others in a terrifying idea. Elroy made me happy, but i wonder if he ever held back, kept me from feeling truley whole just so i didnt make him dissapear too soon. i think all that matters is that i loved him and he loved me. and for something that only exsisted in my head ive never met anyone as real. i miss him now i think of it. i tried talking to him today but felt like an idiot. i guess thats sosiety right.