Yellow onceThat's the thing isn't it? Just the thing. Anytime, anywhere, any small biting coincidence. Or just some conclusion after a long series of mistakes, and words you shouldn't have said. And I get to think about that through the incessant buzz of everything in every corner of this goddamn place while Mary turns on taps and turns off taps and pitter-patters around the wet floor square we call a bathroom. And I bite down on my tongue so I don't snap at her.I love her, sure. But god, god, sometimes. Sometimes I hate her."Mary."She doesn't answer, she's turning on taps. She's picking things up and putting them down and focusing very hard on the mirror."Mary.""What?"I close my eyes and grit my teeth. She walks by me, past the bed, and I watch her while she peers through the blinds. There are flies. Fly paper strips doing nothing to stop them. Traps never seem to work. I've never seen a mouse in a mouse trap other than on the TV. I've seen mice walk right round it and back into its
Was it easyI used to believe that the world was small, that it was mine, and everyone else was a character in a play, and when I died I'd be born, my life a foetus dream, that would just carry on. I used to believe and that was enough. That people were honest.I thought that things were easy.Now I believe in science, and ghosts, and sometimes my gut, but I don't believe in much.I was afraid of death, shouting, flapping wings, creaks and the shadows on my walls. I'm afraid it'll all get broken. I'm afraid of truth and lies. I'm afraid I understand too well and too little.Of how little I can believe in.The dusty light in the morning, stretching over our bed. And how it all gets when I focus.To our place that was my place, to the morning with the dusty light, under white sheet tents where it's warm. Belong in the nook, the other side of the rest of the world. I belong in the bubble.I can't do most things.When I learnt about the universe and my place in it, my slow evolution, and how many thin
Silver BoxPragmatic disposition of a sun-kissed machine,Tendrils of humanityCreepAnd uncertainty slinks,With indecision, paranoia,The green of a developed mind.Contradictions in a silver box,Should've stayed in the shade.Cut with a knife the right side of your box,Slide your skull thinking-cap back onAnd leave you in systematic bliss,For you to process,Clearly and cleanly,Sterilely,That your heart is just a pump,A muscle,Like your polished smile,Permit you gently to sidestepThe density, vast idiocy,Of the intricate mind,Allow you Yes No answers.Sucked dry-fly, pale fishTamed and regulated with ill-bred consent,Easily easily pleased.
Sweet NothingsThe sweet nothings are nothing,Kisses empty red,Empty black room,Bare lightbulb on bare floorboards,Flies on fly-paper strips,Stuck and mad,A maddening, timeless death.The knot will not stay tied,No bullet will please,No razor no blade no fall,No level of sex,celibacy or otherwise.Shooting partridges,To pass endless time.How sad to be invincible.Perfect mind, perfect soul,Easy perfect thoughts,Sick, sad and desperate as they are.