Post # 7 Nighttime Frenzy

The outside air is sharp and crazed:
The breeze, the fever, my head in a haze;
How did you resist the deep dare of the dark?
From your window, the sky suggests safety and light,
My guts din and dance in a chaos of sparks
And I run as a child, with no aim, in delight!

Joy, frost, ducklings and breeze
In our hair, with seduction and laughter
I tease you away from this bleak pallid world,
Towards cosmic, magic, rhapsodic symmetry;
Souls and bodies embraced in deranged symphony
All those secrets and certainties fiercely unfurled!

Forever unsleeping we’ll live, you and I,
We’ve no need for the slumber and the idleness, you and I;
Don’t they see, don’t they feel, the bustling euphoria?
Oh, my fingers could dance this dance forever, my mind
So many worlds and ways and wills could wander.
Thick brows, dark eyes, framed in curls of amber

Unruly as my soul, ostensibly beam at me
And this beauty I now grasp, won’t relinquish or enrich me.
I shiver in the cold, at the promise of spring…
Up the tree all the stars, share our frantic delight
Of the books and the feels that still keep me up at night;
And I’m sheltered from the morals and manners they sing:

‘Now stop it Mercury, you’re insanity is gushing
From the core of your reckless wickedness, and burning;
We’ve no heart for this blame, we’ve no time for your pain.
You’re talking too fast, you’re delirious, you’re rabid
you consider yourself clever but you’re merely big mouthed!’

And the squeamishness and guilt and the fear creep back in:
I am meat, dust, and disgust, yet again.


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Post # 6 Maybe I Should Just be Your Friend

Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. I must have misinterpreted something, it’s too confusing to be true. Maybe I’m just an antisocial idiot, with a fancy for big words: an arrogant existentialist with a chip on my shoulder. I love myself, wretched, damned and attractive, love how big and important this unbearableness feels. What if simplicity isn’t too dumb for me? I love myself too much, I hold myself too high – am I unbearable, insufferable and vile?

I’ll just let my devious thoughts all go to hell, I’ll talk to you. Goodness knows, we might even be friends! Rejoice together, appreciate all things, the small and the big ones. Give labels and names to everything we know. For certain. Nothing will be heavy anymore. I won’t feel nauseous at the words slipping off my tongue, at the people slipping into me.

No more thumping in my ears, no more hating. Things will all be yes or no. We can talk about anything and everything, set up a firm set of morals and make them true. We can be righteous, kind and strong – certainty will prevail all! Maybe I won’t even feel …

… that scratching feel inside my gut,
saying that it makes no sense at all!

Post # 5 Ghost in Raval

It was scabby
Ugly and terrified
With skin like red velvet.
It crawled, hung, stuck to the floor
the paws red and abused.

The phantom walked past quietly
calm, distant, confused…
It was too heavy
And he held it
He grabbed it

By the paws, the scabby paws
By it’s weakness.
Not a sound did it utter,
Not a wimper:
A silent submission.

And I don’t know what won,
Which remote song of humanity sung
Of emptiness more ghastly than fear,
Hanging limply and calmly,
Like a shrivelled christmas turkey.

Post #4 Manic Confusion

Faces, sweat, tiny little squares.
It all fades and flashes
And you’re so warm,
so genuine…

A toothache and desperate desire.
My knees tremble
With hunger, fear and life;
With lust…of what?

And to think that just this morning,
my alarm clock was destruction!


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Rather confusing drunken/manic slurs from the past:

I feel things, hard. Not just about myself about everyone, about the world. I feel their pain, their sorrow and it hurts. The insignificance we dwell in is overwhelming and at times I feel like I can’t bare it. I feel the pleasure as well, the joyful silliness, the heart aching bliss of affection and tenderness. And it’s ecstatic but just as overwhelming, it doesn’t make any sense, is it weakening me or waking me? I can never find the right words.

My feelings are too unrefined and chaotic, and all I do is obsess, obsess, obsess… These human words and etiquettes make me feel so stuck. Stuck in inexplainable concepts and superficial dilemmas. Why does language make us special? All it does is make people feel like they should be able to communicate accurately, when they can’t. It makes me feel inept, and confused.

If only I could put my thoughts into words, so even I could understand them. I wish I didn’t seem so banal, normal and common, whenever I try. I want to be special and everyone wants to be special, and it makes me so un-special. I feel myself nagging at myself, wanting to be something, to do something, to make my life “worth living”. I’m so confused. I hate myself because it’s so normal to be confused.

I want to saviour sadness, not be miserable. I want to travel and learn and taste those moments, when you’re so full of life you could eat up the beauty of it all with a single hungry look. When everything is possible and even time and space feel like paper chains. When you sit in a bar with friends or strangers drinking belgian beer and you feel that glow, that light, when your face aches from laughter and companionship and silliness.

When you want to shout at everyone, how can you not feel this, why are we not all dancing and prancing about like lunatics? When nothing else is important, and the world loves you and your exams the next day fade away and your dreams fade away and your nightmares fade away. When you’re robbed of all you have, stripped of every care, and you still feel that tingle, and you’re alive, you’re everywhere, you’re infinite.

Yet all I find comfort in lately is mindless sex, violence, exhibitionism, stupidness, music, abstract thought and nonsense. I can’t feel, I’m trying to feel… Do I not want to feel? I can’t even remember what I just thought, or even if I did, and even if I did, it would take more than a lifetime to decipher.

Yes doctor, my “feelings” are slowly numbing out, my “passions” are slowly fading away. Yes, teacher, you’re clever and have purpose and the word surely must need your theories on middle eastern development and you where beautifully there when the room was spotty and your hair curled perfectly behind your ear, and I could feel your barely resentful thigh in between my clumsy legs…

I feel stale, human, rotting…

And I listen to Chopin’s Nocturne number 8 in D flat, and I feel that oh so common emptiness.