Nap Time

Finally, it is nap time and I wake up with my nose smashed into metal. At least the bodies aren’t here this time. Oh, it is happening again. Something weird is growing in here somewhere and I can feel it trying to scratch its way out. I’m not quite sure what will happen when it does, or if there’s anything I can or should be doing to stop it. I’m on autopilot again. This black tar-like feeling is spreading in me and I am constantly on edge, fear chewing away at me. I am so fucked. Everything is perfect right now and I’m paralysed by fear: I am slowly being forced to walk blindfolded off the plank and who knows what lurks beneath. Will she be there to steer the wheel this time? She know the rocky planes off the paths better than I do. Or will I be left powerless and lonely to keep myself awake while this dull sleep washes over me? My lips and fingers are so dry, shrivelled to perfection by sleepless nights. I feel slightly sick all the time and the pain behind my eyes pushes the lids shut. But I cannot sleep now, oh no. I cannot sleep ever, not with this fucking HD screen stuck on channel suffering 24/7. I have grown morbid again: guts and violence seem to temporarily lift me out off the torpor. Disgust is the most awake I’ve felt recently. Irreverence is my comfort blanket.

Choke.

I can smell the lethargy in the air as the rain comes down.
Who told you you could write all over my skin?

Territorial disputes.

Casually manhandling death and the rain
don’t stop, the rain           don’t stop.
Biting breasts under neon colours.
Stuffing your face and drowning in the barrel-
Drowning in the rain of your pain.

Contempt for conformity. Body builders of human agony.
The vivid dreams stopped months ago.
Flashes of blood running down my neck.

This winding road is damned and this skin is too tight.
Grinning mouths with men hanging at the corners.
Unsteady flooring and gums aching.

I’m heady from the drinks, the want and the sweat.
This tube smells of metal, blood and piss.
There’s a nightmare pulsing in between my legs.
Laughing hyenas pull at my clothes.           I give in.

Vaccinate me for control.

Chapped lips in the cold. Stomach acid scratches at my soul.
Flashing streetlights, cars, dancing on my window.
Magnetic network of obligations and purpose.

Buzzing in the world and screeching in my ears.
Monotone high pitched frequencies and I’m going mad, I’m going       mad.

The itch, the itch the pulse           in the eye,

the everlasting night, the bite,

the blood.

I’m a mess of filaments,

my nerves are barbwire.

Your fingers feel like bombs.

Psychosis, migraines, want.           A hollowed out gut.

Out of body,

overlooking this city.

You stand next to me, naked and shivering.
My cigarette shakes at the lips.

It falls and I          let          myself                               fall.

Why the “Mercury” Thing.

I’ve now been writing on this blog for more than a month, so I suppose it’s about time I explain the meaning behind it’s name. It’s really quite random: it comes from a dream I had a few months ago, that I came to interpret as a metaphor for the duality of my existence (yay to over analysing everything).

So, I was slightly manic, I guess, or at least excessively high spirited, and I had this kind of weird dream (as happens often) that I was this beautiful, goddess-like, amber curled creature dressed in silver, floating above pools of mercury right next to the blazing hot sun, bubbling with purpose and a secret. Pretty cool huh?

Except that all of a sudden, I was sinking into that same surface, watching the godlike me floating away and contemplating me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I was immobilised and uncomfortably warm: I wasn’t burning (as you would kind of expect, seen as I was pretty much chilling in a pool of corrosive substance right next to the goddamn sun). No, I was just uncomfortably warm. And I knew I was stuck there: never to drown and never to be free.

While the other me floated away towards bliss and immensity, towards a world of hope and possibility, I was signed up for eternal apathy and discomfort, and completely incapable of helping myself.

In the morning confusion that followed I also wrote this poem about my ‘mercurial’ (and grandiose) persona, so I might as well put it in as well!

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I dropped the thermometer:

What a thrill to chase
Little bubbles everywhere.
Acrid shiny silvers –
They are drops of mirrors.

Look there: it is me!
It is my reflection I see,
Blazing sunlight and glee:

My volatile moods,
Etched with smiles and deadly fumes,
On my ever-changing moons.

An eternal river,
I gurgle with promise
In the soil, the air, the water –
Breathtaking and flawless.

My shiny surface
Draws you in closer.
I’m your road to gold,
the gods’ messenger.

But my scalding skin
You cannot touch
You greedy treasure scavenger.

You’re too avid and bitter
With your truths and reason –
Your reality addiction!

In the gaping darkness
I will eat you whole
Like a death trap –
A black hole.

I’m liquid metal,
Quicksilver.
I will melt your brain,
Destroy your swollen liver.

Only the mad can dip their toes
In these pools of chaos and clatter.
I’ll be the gloss on your top hat

If you’ll be my mad hatter.

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 #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.