postentious
tap a heartbeat on the pillow and curl up as if in my mother still
I dream of a big house alone by a calm shore. It's night and I can see the stars as clear as cocaine crystals on black rubber boots. I walk along the shore and see the house. One light is on, high up in one of the towers atop the house. I look at the shiloute of the rambling house against the night sky - I can see towers and arches and a gateway in the high wall around it. I can hear tired laughter spilling outside, like wine on carpet. Inside, amidst the unconciousness and the fallen plaster, I can see two people dancing. They're the only ones left - everyone else is in a stupor from what they want. Crystals crunch under my bare feet as I turn away from them and climb the stairs. The old stairs creak and croak under my light weight. I feel smooth wood smooth under my bare feet. at the top of the stairs is a passageway, a long, dark corridor with doors to rooms leading off it. Someone has spray painted "Fuck the Man" over the old, faded oil painting of a happy looking fucker in armour which hangs at the end of the corridor. I can see the words, flickering in the flickering light of an oil lamp which has been set down. In each of the rooms is a different paradise. Outside, I left the gate open as I passed through and it is creaking. I can hear it, even now, asleep in this house at the top of the stairs; I can hear the gate creak in the night air as perhaps a breeze catches.
If you step from the ledge into your downfall and hope the upward shift
In your fortunes and dreams will warm you higher.
It won't.
And all they know is that
If you take away money and ego, what else is there that matters?
They all dream of dominance, like satelites. And we.
My beautiful boys.
We won't know what freezing is, or
The relativivity of down is
a step and it's teatime in heaven
Much later
so in 2 years.
All the things I could tell you about. All of those things. I wrote a book, 70 odd thousand words, and the whole reason I wrote it was just for one line a dad says to his son
"Oh, if you only knew what we used to be";
Then I made a back up of the final.doc and that was that. It's probably on a hard drive on an old PC in another city somewhere.
what else? I don't drink anymore and I still love it best of all when I'm all alone.
But what else is there to say? And what else is there to do? If you try and embrace a dream, you just crash through the edges.
still thinking
When I was little, I was obsessed by the fact that I was an alien sent down to spy on earth. I figured out that my wiring had gone wrong, and that's the only reason I doubted that I might not be alien. I thought there would be a team of concerned aliens worried about the botch job that they'd made on me, and that they'd apologise for the disastorous spinning consequences had had, such as lack of self belief, yada3, when I was rescued and woke up on the space ship Maybe they left before me. It leaves out family though.
Would it be good to wake up alone and memless on a beach somewhere at night? Wouldn't it?
I was in the north of a southern country and I had spent two nights sleeping rough, one behind a service station and another in a doorway. I always wanted to sleep rough in a strange city in a doorway. Someone spat on me, but that's life. It was as if I were alive. You have to be trusting to sleep in public, and I'm not, but two nights with little sleep makes your choices blurry. Still, I heard myself whisper "everybody hates a toursit", thanks, Jarvis, before I went to sleep. I went to a park and had a cigarette when I woke up, and I was really, really thirsty. I remember thinking "am I not faking yet". That was when I thought I knew stuff, like what absolute and relative were, and how I could tell if I were real. Now I know third conditionals, and If clauses. Some other times, I like to remember what it was like in 1994 reading pages on the Internet late at night, wondering what was happening, now, now, then, in San Fransisco. Thinking about it, I get the same sort of feeling.
The other day, I was in a cafe. I was having a coffee and watching the windows mist up and people rush by in the rain, and there was a glitterball in the cafe, and it lit up above the door, and I watched it go round and round, and I looked at the cresent my coffee cup had made on the table, and I wondered where the sugar had come from, like there were tentacles crossing the whole world, and one stretched thousands of miles, from the sugar farm, to this organic cafe. I didn't even want to think about the drugs I'd just taken. It made me feel small, and I thought, "if I feel so small, why do my problems feel so big". But they do, so sorry, God.
there was a time that I could smile with the sunrise, though now I sleep till alarmed, I don't mind. I don't mind one bit. It means I'm getting older, the sand is slipping.
they were the days when time was in the fog so today was night and yesterday was tomorrow, or. Swirly, and lost and dry in the wet skin, I walked through the city at night, thinking I was a ship, watching the neon and the vomit and furtive. I wished I was already in the sea, walking till the water laps my face. I can see signs and shops shut and slogans of joy. The red neon of brake and the fragmentaion of rain, the way the tar looks hot, not just wet, and I walk through the town, no sky no soil, oh. She sometimes comes to me at times like, these. But she didn;t then she sent me a whisper to say she might, but good night, so it was ok. I was counting the cities of chewinggum on the floor, imagining junk under beds and glare from lack lamp shade and all teh lustre, slee seeping. she said shed. try and just listen not think but i thought she said she's going to keep. the tramp with the tedious issues, the man and the can, I thought of miles and wanted to just go up straight through the clouds to some where I hoped could call me home. It was getting late, and i had plans, blades pills bottles rope in a bag by my bed with some money to get a train to the hill. I think most of my favourite place is a warm beach and a latte night.
26.9
you only lived when I asked about grey
and all the grey things and ticks you
came from yesterday to taunt me of tom
orrorw. I sense you in the wet fog pan
ting nearby ready to redden teeth like
almonds
you, in that private moment after wet
from inside dreams
no halo or
no silence or spoken
no
This is a song. It came into my head at about 6 this morning, and it was better before I wrote it down
Falling
She said she was
happy
That was enough for me
Then I thought of
elevation
and dreamt
of treachery
Oh, so I'm falling.
Falling fast and free.
Oh, so I'm falling
Falling far from thee
After dark comes
mourning
and when its light
I see
Suggestions
of possesion
make a mockery
of free
oh, so now I'm falling.
to see how low I'll go
Oh, so now I'm falling
So I'll learn how much to know
She went to the river
To see the water flow
Underneath the surface
Is where the darkness grows
But in the dark
definition
The highs out reach the lows
Oh, so I am falling.
And falling with elan
Oh, so I am falling
So see where I will land.
What do you
think?
..still happy...
I spent four years in the place I hated with shops and ands and streets with names of trees, and I was sometimes happy, and sometimes, of course, sad, and mostly, still, nothing. And the stars went round and I went up and down and stared out at dreary views from towerblocks, and always tried to sit next to the radiator, and I wonderered. I wondered about God, and identity and change and time. And I had friends and money and time and all I knew was I filled my skin, but I was not one. Maybe my eyes were round the wrong way, and I had to imagine rather than see, and I wondered about perception, time, and trust. After 4 years, I was happy to leave. I put some books in a box, and left anything that didn't fit, and got in the car. Time bends so that sometimes its fast, and sometimes its slow. I must have laid underneath the stars and sang, or thought or dreamt or cried, but I can't remember. I wrote nasty, horrible poems that I didn't know I could.
